The Wisdom of Slowness

I used to blast through trails.

Not because I loved speed.
Because stopping felt like failure.
Like if I slowed down, I'd have to feel everything
I was using motion to outrun.

Pain. Grief. The weight of a body
that didn't work the way it used to.

So I'd push. Hard. Fast.
Miles logged. Elevation gained.
Proof I was still capable.
Still strong. Still worth something.

Then one day, my body said no.

Not gently. Not gradually.
Just: You're done. Sit down.
And I couldn't argue.

The first slow hike felt like punishment.
Every step measured. Every rest deliberate.
Watching people pass me on the trail,
their easy stride a reminder of what I'd lost.

I hated it.

But somewhere around mile two,
something shifted.

I noticed things I'd been missing for years.
The way moss grows on the north side of trees.
The sound wind makes moving through different kinds of leaves.
The exact moment the trail opens from forest to ridge.

Not because I was trying to notice.
Because I was finally moving slow enough
to actually be present for them.

Slowness wasn't the punishment.
The punishment was all those years
racing past my own life.

I'm still learning this.
Still fighting the reflex to go faster,
to prove something to no one in particular.

But some days now, I choose slow.
Not because my body forces it.
Because I've learned there's a kind of wisdom
that only reveals itself at walking pace.

The way your breath settles into rhythm.
The moment your shoulders finally drop.
The shift from enduring to inhabiting.

The world doesn't need me to hurry.
The trail doesn't judge my pace.
The only timeline that matters
is the one my body sets.

And some days?
Slow is the only speed that lets me arrive
as myself, not just as someone
who made it to the end.

* * *

→ Related: The Stillness Between the Steps
→ Also: Notes from the Edge

If this landed:

Start with Layer One when building from ground zero
Try a micro-ritual for a 2-5 minute reset
Explore Field Notes for trail reflections

Peer reflection, not therapy advice. Your healing journey is uniquely yours.