Feet to Pavement: Moving Through Life Challenges

As I think back on every hardship, loss, transition, bout with defeat, sleepless night, and season of turmoil, one thing has remained constant. 

Movement.

Specifically—putting my feet to pavement. 

It has taken different forms over the decades. But no matter what shape it’s taken, it has always held the same purpose: grounding me when I felt unmoored, clearing the fog when my thoughts were too loud, giving me a rhythm when life felt chaotic. 

In early adulthood, grief introduced me to running. I’d lace up shoes after dark and run through quiet neighborhoods—not for fitness or progress, but because it was the only way I knew to release the unfamiliar rage and sorrow I didn’t yet know how to name.

In college, I’d run at odd hours—early morning, late at night—trying to hush the racing thoughts in my mind. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t for show. It was survival.

And now, in this middle season of life, it’s less about speed and more about presence. Walking, often alone, sometimes with a friend. Early morning steps before the house wakes. A mid-day walk between sessions. Movement that is less about escaping and more about arriving.

Feet to pavement. 

Over time, I’ve come to understand the deeper wisdom that movement teaches:

• The mind can be challenged by challenging the body.

• Rest is not weakness, but a cue we must learn to hear.

• Motivation isn’t a prerequisite for self-care.

• Small, consistent rituals can hold us in the darkest seasons.

I’ve never quite mastered avoiding shin splints—but I have learned how to listen more kindly to my body. I know now that I don’t have to want to move in order to benefit from it. That discomfort doesn’t have to dictate whether I show up for myself.

Movement has never fixed my pain, but it has always accompanied me through it.

In this life, where so much feels uncertain, this practice of putting feet to pavement remains sacred. A steady beat beneath the noise. A reminder that I can still move forward, one step at a time.

Is there a movement ritual that has helped anchor you during difficult times? What does your body ask for when the world feels too loud?

Try This: Take a 10-minute walk today—not to get anywhere, but simply to arrive in yourself. Pay attention to the rhythm of your steps. The sounds. The feel of the ground. Let it be enough.