In this journey, I have shed many things that defined me. It has been scary. And hard. And sad. And wobbly. But I had my walking practice. Or it had me. Held me. Loved me. Honored the space I needed. I walked and walked and walked into the arms of the earth and into me. This me.

It’s winter. Not just any kind of winter, but January, a month that stings all the way through. 5 am is harder today than it was yesterday. My muscles are strung tightly, and my eyes are still filled with sleep. Silenced by the snow,  the world can only gesture a “good morning,” which it does with a single brown bird.

As a child, I was quite free-range. Then, like many adults, I lost touch with it. My life back then was wonderful and average. I was happy, but I wasn’t whole. But if I didn’t do something, I knew the part of me that was missing would be gone forever.

November is the month that I started my walking practice. November 3rd, to be exact. My dad’s birthday. I always try to take a very special walk on that day and ask my dad for advice. He always shows up.

Written by Guest Author, Shannon Miller // Walking wasn’t proof of life for you, it was proof of living. There was no duress to your outings. No sense of obligation. You often walked with coffee in your hand and took your time unfurling the thin blue dog poop bag. For you, walking was the entry point to life, not the escape.