Finding Joy in the Slow Lane: A Journey from Running to Walking
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Chapter 1: Embracing Walking
Wednesdays have become synonymous with walking for me. I kick off the day by dressing up, spending 5–10 minutes in meditation, and then heading out with my dog, Kiki. She could easily nap all day if left to her own devices, but the moment I mention "walk," she's ready to go.
Kiki and I established our Wednesday routine a couple of months ago as part of my goal to incorporate more consistent walking into my week. While it’s not the only day we walk together, it’s a guaranteed slot in our schedule. Most days, she gets her exercise accompanying her dad to work.
During the pandemic, I started using walking as a form of exercise for the first time. Before that, I was a dedicated long-distance runner and never understood why anyone would choose to walk when running was an option. Looking back, that mindset seems quite narrow.
Running allowed me to burn more calories in less time, which was a significant draw for me during my six-year battle with an eating disorder. It also provided a way to avoid confronting my feelings, as running kept my mind preoccupied. I often pushed my body to its limits, neglecting its genuine needs and staying trapped in my thoughts.
Eventually, this relentless pace took a toll on my body, forcing me to cut back from running daily to just a few times a week. As my knee arthritis worsened due to insufficient muscle support from my running routine, I found myself facing my greatest fear: taking a break from running.
Who was I without running? That was a question I dreaded, as it had been my lifeline, my reason for getting out of bed each day. To cope with my disorder's demands, I began weight training, spending nearly every day at the gym.
Living on the Portland State campus, with the university’s recreational center as my playground, I continued my cycle of overtraining. I still ran even when it was unwise, ignoring pain signals out of fear of what slowing down might mean.
I feared my body changing and worried that the people I cared about would reject me if it did. My entire life, I had been taught to believe that my body was my most valuable asset.
To diversify my exercise and reduce impact, I turned to swimming and later found solace in yoga, initially favoring more intense styles until I realized they were too taxing.
Ultimately, my body reached its breaking point and demanded I slow down. I began to explore gentler forms of movement, such as restorative yoga. If you had asked me about restorative yoga back then, I would have dismissed it as a waste of time, comparing it unfavorably to walking.
For three years, I struggled to find a healthy relationship with exercise. I still yearned for running, even when it caused pain, but I gradually developed a genuine affection for yoga through consistent practice.
Eventually, I discovered that I actually needed those slower, restorative classes. The tranquility and insight yoga offered, alongside the journey towards body acceptance, kept me returning to my mat.
In 2020, as the world shut down and the U.S. entered a strict quarantine, I began walking more and finally grasped why so many people found joy in it.
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Walking vs Running: Finding Balance
I've learned that when the emphasis is not on calories burned, walking can be truly delightful. It allows for a greater appreciation of the surroundings and a chance to savor these moments.
As the world rushes by, walking grants me the opportunity to observe life passing at a more tranquil pace. Mindful walks, in particular, are soothing and help harmonize our entire being. No matter where you are or what you're wearing, going for a mindful walk is almost always accessible.
Walking is also a great way to connect with others. It makes for an ideal date or catch-up session with friends, providing fresh air and a chance to enjoy nature without distractions.
When I used to run with friends—those willing to keep pace with me—it was challenging to engage in meaningful conversations. Between gasping for breath and maintaining speed, discussing deeper issues was often sidelined. All I could focus on was pushing through.
I'll admit, I miss aspects of running—not the struggle itself, but the post-run euphoria that followed completing something I thought impossible. Running wasn’t solely a negative coping mechanism; it had many redeeming qualities that made it difficult to let go.
I miss the runner's high—the exhilaration, the sense of achievement, and the community of fellow runners. I miss the therapeutic nature of crisp autumn air and the comforting rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement.
Sometimes, I appreciated the distraction running provided. When it wasn’t a harmful strategy, it served as a form of therapy, silencing the chaos of everyday life. Much like my yoga practice, it was a refuge I could turn to, regardless of my emotional state.
Angry, fatigued, or sad—every feeling found a place when I laced up my running shoes. Running felt spiritual, reminding me of my connection to something greater than my immediate struggles, instilling a sense of strength and confidence.
Though I've found other activities that evoke similar feelings, nothing quite compares to running. If you’re a runner, you understand the unique bond we share.
The Hard Truth: Facing the Possibility of Never Running Again
I hesitate to claim I've fully recovered from my eating disorder, as I believe recovery is an ongoing journey. However, I can assert that after seven years, my disorder no longer holds the same power over me.
My perspective has shifted significantly, particularly regarding how I view myself. I recognize that exercising to alter my body is a futile pursuit that leaves little room for anything beyond obsessive thoughts about maintaining a specific image.
I prefer to exercise for the joy it brings me rather than as a form of punishment. I've learned to appreciate movement in all its forms, understanding that not everyone is as fortunate as I am to engage in even simple activities like walking.
Despite this newfound mindset and the personal growth I've experienced, damage from my eating disorder and possibly other factors has complicated my relationship with running.
The last time I ran was during a brief game of kickball with friends. I felt great while playing, but afterward, I was limping to the car due to pain in my left hip and leg. That night, I couldn't walk at all, leading to a visit to the emergency room the following day.
For the past few months, I've been grappling with Deep Gluteal Syndrome. If you’re unfamiliar with it, imagine a persistent burning and aching sensation deep in your lower back and glutes. This condition has resulted in a hip impingement and sciatic-like symptoms extending down both legs.
I've never encountered such excruciating cramps and discomfort in my legs and feet, making my work as a yoga instructor challenging at times. Whether sitting or standing at my desk, finding a comfortable position has been elusive, impacting my ability to focus.
These symptoms, compounded by my ongoing knee pain, have led me to fear that I may never run again. To say I feel defeated would be an understatement. Yet, I strive to remain hopeful, taking proactive steps toward healing.
Our bodies are remarkable, and mine is no exception. It's possible that with time, I could regain the ability to run and participate in activities I love. Over the years, I've developed a closer relationship with my body, and I notice small improvements each day.
However, I've learned not to cling to expectations and have come to terms with the possibility that running may remain a thing of the past.
Finding Peace in the Present Moment
Each time I see a runner pass by during my walks, I feel a pang of grief for the running I’ve lost. I long for the mornings of waking up, sipping coffee, and jogging along the river.
At times, I feel the urge to join them, to ignore my body’s warning signs as I once did. And on days when I feel no pain, I catch myself thinking, maybe it's all in my head. I’m fine; a run won’t hurt me. I’m healed!
I yearn to experience that vibrant aliveness again, which I once believed only running could provide.
But then, I take a moment to pause and remind myself that I am alive. It’s a Wednesday morning; the world is still and calm, and I’m walking with Kiki beside the beautiful river. I can feel the crisp autumn air and hear the gentle sound of my feet on the pavement.
I may not be gasping for breath with a racing heart, but my breathing is steady and calm. I feel grounded and centered. Closing my eyes, I express gratitude for this moment.
Because right here, right now, I am alive.
Thanks for reading.
The sweetest part of my walks is my dog, Kiki.