The Walking Cure

Walking sadness away, one step at a time

During a debilitating period of depression a few years ago, I discovered the therapeutic nature of walking. I’d walked places before, of course, but it always had a purpose, a predetermined cause. This walking was performed solely for the sake of movement, of being outside of my home and my head. The metaphor this presented - ‘putting one foot in front of the other’ - was not lost on me.

I tried not to dwell on the embarrassing cliche of having a breakdown in the months leading up to my 40th birthday. But I wasn’t depressed about getting older; rather, I was depressed that it had taken me so long to begin to shrug off the weight of others’ expectations of me. Dozens of hours of therapy had made me question everything I thought I knew about myself, which was useful and good but also painful and exhausting. It was an archaeological dig where, instead of excavating clay pots and animal bones, the goal was to unearth flaws and old wounds and examine them in excruciating detail. It was not easy work and required a lot of processing afterward.

On good days I could walk anywhere, exploring new routes and spaces. On bad days (of which there were many), I stuck to the trails I knew well at a large local park, finding safety and comfort in routine as I tried to untangle the spidery mess of cobwebs in my head. Being able to go into autopilot mode was a balm, muscle memory creating the blankness I needed for my soul to breathe. Sometimes I ended up back at my car looking dumbly at my watch in the fading light, realising that nearly two hours had elapsed and I didn’t remember any of it. 

One day, while sitting on the bench by my front door shaking dirt from my boots and stiffness from my legs, I noticed an ache of contentment settle over my body and a brief spark of joy enter my heart. Instead of returning to my bedroom, where I’d been cocooning myself for weeks, I read a book on the sofa, chatting softly to my children as they returned from school. A hot mug of tea became a pleasant ritual again, not merely sustenance. Like Neil Armstrong setting foot on the surface of the moon, could this one small step be indicative of a much larger leap? Gently does it, I told myself. Don’t rush this.

Winter morphed into spring. As the days grew longer and brighter, so did my desire to be in the world. Buds of hope pushed forth from my barren branches, colouring the inner and outer worlds that had been in darkness for so long.

I noticed birdsong again, and rows of daffodils at the path’s edge. I smiled at dogs chasing balls and toddlers careening with joy into their mothers’ arms. I laid on the damp grass and turned my face to the sky, allowing the strengthening sun to warm my face. Busy ants crawled over my hands on their way to someplace else. Tiny twigs tangled themselves in my hair. I had become part of the land’s ecosystem, an organism dying and then blooming in rhythm with its seasons. All I had to do was wait for summer to arrive.

On a beautiful June morning, as I strode across a meadow bursting with life, I spotted something unusual on the horizon. It was happiness, pulsing yellow, pink and orange. I scooped it from the sky and cupped it gently in my hands, such a fragile treasure. There you are, I whispered. I’ve been waiting for you.

Like the circular routes I knew so well, I had returned to myself, at last.