The trick is to tell it well.
How to do that? Heck if I know! But I do know it when I see it:
As the days turned to weeks, everyone in London learned to live with it [the air raids by the Germans in 1940]. They learned to live with the dread and the fear, the sleepless nights and their churning, sour stomachs. They learned to get up and run to the flimsy corrugated-steel Anderson shelter in the dark without tripping and falling. They learned to live with the glow from fires burning in the East End and to live with the smell--the stench of thick, black smoke and an underlying scent of things best not discussed. Many people, more than 170,000 by some accounts learned to live underground in at least eighty different Tube stations, sleeping on the floor, cooking over small grills and using buckets for toilets.
They became used to seeing the endless processions of people dressed in black, coming to or from the constant funerals and memorial services.
They learned to read the morning papers without weeping.
Notice the details. Notice the evocation of all the senses. Notice the rhythm of these three paragraphs.
And that final line is just brilliant.
This is a great example of how to tell rather than show.
If you're a writer, no matter where you are in your career, you probably keep a reader's journal of some sort where you write down the lines, paragraphs and maybe even whole pages of work that gets it right. I keep a journal like that. These three paragraphs are the most recent entry.
And if you want to read the book they're from, I found it in the first book in the series by Susan Elia Macneal Mr Churchill's Secretary.