Why Still Rolling Outdoors
My Story
I hike because I need to — to manage symptoms, steady my nervous system, and stay in conversation with a body that doesn't always meet me halfway.
I fish to unplug. I ride to feel alive. But somewhere between necessity and pleasure, something else rises: grief, anger, memory — not as narrative, but as sensation. For years, I thought I was broken. That my body was betraying me. That the past was permanent.
Outside, I don't just move my body. I move through the stories that kept me stuck. Nature doesn't demand performance. It doesn't care if you're slow, sick, or out of breath. It only asks that you show up. That truth cracked something open.
This writing emerged from those moments — when the only thing keeping me grounded was the texture of dirt underfoot, the weight of breath in my chest, or the wind pressing through trees.
The trail didn't ask me to be strong. Only present. And that was enough. Sometimes that presence looked like sitting by a creek for twenty minutes, accomplishing absolutely nothing except existing.
And honestly? That was revolutionary.
What This Journey Looks Like
This is where I document the real work of staying alive—not the highlight reel, but the ordinary moments that keep me grounded. The writing emerges from in-between spaces where healing isn't linear and progress isn't always visible.
Where sometimes victory is just showing up with a body that feels foreign, or finding your breath after it disappears.
This isn't about conquering mountains or finding your best self. It's about the smaller, harder work of staying in relationship with a life that doesn't always feel livable. Choosing motion when stillness feels like death, stillness when motion feels impossible.
Trail stories, fishing trips, motorcycle rides, moments of unexpected grace—all threads in the same fabric: learning to be present with what is, rather than waiting for what might be.
Why This Space Exists
Still Rolling Outdoors exists because the outdoors kept me going. Not through grand adventures or summit highs—but in quiet, unshareable moments of presence. Moments when I didn't know how to keep living, but showed up anyway.
This isn't about "getting better." It's about reclaiming motion. About choosing life—imperfectly, awkwardly, one shaky step at a time.
Still Rolling Outdoors wasn’t built from ambition. It was built from necessity, adaptation, and care. If you’d like to know how this archive came to be—what shaped it, what it’s meant to carry—you can read the story behind it.
👉 Read the full story and voice behind SRO
This Community Is For You If:
- You move through pain — emotional, physical, or both
- You're done with wellness as performance
- You want the outdoors to be an anchor, not a finish line
- You know presence is enough
- You've walked with dark thoughts — but still let nature remind you: you're here
What You'll Find Here
- Honest Essays — Reflections that hold space for grief, gratitude, and growth
- Real Days — Stories from adventures that don't go as planned (because most don't)
- Body Rituals — Gentle practices that root you in your body, without pressure to fix it
- Trail Textures — Sensory moments from the trail, for when words feel like too much
What This Is
Just breath. Wind. Footsteps. And whatever strength remains that day.
Still Rolling Outdoors isn't about looking strong. It's about not disappearing. About walking the edge between survival and aliveness — and choosing to keep going anyway.
Because some days, motion is the only language that makes sense. And we're still rolling.
Welcome. You belong here.
Support This Work
Still Rolling Outdoors is — and always will be — free to access.
This work is sustained by readers who believe in keeping healing resources free and accessible. No paywalls. No gatekeeping. Just breath, presence, and truth.
If this space helps you breathe easier, feel less alone, or remember your own pace, here’s how you can help keep it rolling:
→ Support Still Rolling Outdoors
Walking Beside, Not Ahead
These trails are stories, not instructions. I'm not here to tell you what you should do or how you ought to heal. You carry your own map. I carry mine.
We meet on the path, trade company, and keep moving in our own directions. If you find something here that makes your journey lighter, take it. If not, leave it on the trail for someone else.
*Still Rolling Outdoors is a blog of peer perspectives and reflections. Your healing journey is uniquely yours. Nothing here should be confused with medical or therapy advice. (More about this approach)*