How Simply Putting One Foot In Front of The Other Saved My Life

Walking my way to peace and acceptance

This year has been tough on everyone. It started going downhill for me in February this year, when we heard that my father’s melanoma has spread into his lungs and liver. It was terminal cancer. The week we heard the news was also the week the Coronavirus started becoming more than just a news report from China. Still, we had no idea what was coming.

I saw my father for the last time in the first week of March. I left him waving at the window from behind the Venetian blinds, to return to my family over 150 miles away. I remember holding back my tears because I didn’t want the cab driver to see me cry.

What followed was my father’s rapid descent and eventual passing. Six weeks of me at the end of a phone, getting daily updates from my mother, both of us grieving before he had even died.

It was also the time of lockdown, which meant I was unable to visit again, or even help. Living in London as I did, it was highly possible that I could pass on the virus and unwittingly kill my mother too. While it must have been so difficult for her, I also struggled. No hugs from friends, and no boozy nights out to dull the pain. All I had was my government’s edict that I could exercise every day, and so I did.

Each day, I walked. I walked my way through urban housing estates and the sounds of TVs baring through open windows. I tramped through lush woods and the sound of squirrels barking in the trees (I had to look that one up, I never knew squirrels barked). I forced myself to do circuit after circuit of the local rugby pitch, round and round until I had hypnotized myself into some kind of trance.

I walked to try to distract myself from thinking about my dying father, but of course it didn’t. I would look up at the canopy of trees and remember that he would never see a view like this again. At the times, the pain was excruciating. Still, I went on. I would put one foot in front of the other, big globs of snotty tears dribbling down my face, and somehow, eventually, I would find a place of calm, even if just for a moment.

Over time, walking brought me back to myself. To say it saved my life was no exaggeration. No click bait heading. There was a time, thankfully short, where my father’s death prompted a sort of existential crisis where I couldn’t see the point in living. It was just when I felt myself being slowly dragged into that pit of despair that I noticed that birds were nesting and the now familiar trees and bushes were covered in beautiful candy floss blossom. Nature reminded me that life goes on.

So I did too. Walking has been my sustenance over the past few months. It has calmed me, energized me, kept me fit and kept me sane. I’ve walked alone, with my daughters, my partner, and, just after my father’s death, with my mother, both of us clinging to each other as if we didn’t know what was around the corner.

Walking sounds so simple, but you can learn so much from it. There is a simple delight in walking the same route over and over again. In the past I would have scoffed and called it boring, but I have observed the landscape morph from spring to summer, watched the trees change color, and learned to distinguish one bird call from another. I have build up a relationship with my surroundings and you can only do that over time.

I often don’t feel like walking. I have chores to do, work to complete, or the weather looks daunting. Sometimes, I can’t be bothered to get dressed and I begrudge the effort. More than once, I’ve wondered if it would be mad to walk in my PJs. Yet, whenever I overcome these and get out walking, I never regret it.

Different times of the day have different flavors. A morning walk energizes me. A lunch-time stroll feels quite decadent, and an evening outing is a reward and demarcation of the working day and evening rest. I have found I prefer the latter as it gives me something to anticipate.

What I wear is important. I’ve thrown away trainers that rub, bras with straps that irritate and tops that ride up and annoy me. I’ve been ruthless and had to experiment until I found my favorite comfortable walking outfits.

I count my steps on my phone after the event. It keeps me feeling rewarded,but the step aren’t the goal. Grief can be exhausting and sometimes the tiredness hits. When it does, I allow myself to meander home. There is no need to “finish my lap” or “ do another 1k steps. “ This is my gift to myself; listening to my body, not my phone.

Walking alone

Before lockdown I would have walked with friends. It had become an occasional thing we did as a healthy alternative to nights out. Now, I mostly walk alone. I’m now used to my own company and found I like it. I love that time to just be, to think things through or do some creative planning with no interruptions. If I invite someone to join me on my walk, they are very lucky indeed.

I don’t need props

I think Challenges are great but I've realized I appreciate the pure simplicity of walking, whether it be for ten minutes or the morning. I don’t want to turn my walking into work, to transform it into yet another thing on my to-do list. That’s long enough already, thank you. This is my indulgence, and it feels good.

Walking feels good. Amen.