Wow - I can’t believe it is August already. One year ago this month, the person I’d shared my life and multiple houses with since 1999, moved out. A year by myself on this farm. A year to get to know myself. A year of quiet to recognize some patterns. Gonna share one here that I found quite surprising….
Since the summer of 2020, I’ve tracked my steps religiously. Every single day. Rain or shine, you could catch me checking my phone or watch, making damn sure I hit my target before the day’s end. I’d even post on social media about it. Needing that external validation that I was ok - that I was doing ‘good’. In hindsight, I would have been a little snarky if I were my friend - ha! I would have scoffed something like “Gah - she’s so proud of her damn steps!” - but really, I was just surviving.
Even in the last year, I’d get a little panicky if I went on a hike without my phone…as if the walk didn’t “count” unless the phone said it did…..It was an obsession…until I didn’t need that stability anymore.
I was letting go.
Somewhere in the waning chaos I’d normalized, I stopped clinging to the little rush of relief by checking that daily tally. And honestly that realization revealed something bigger …. I realized that it was never really about the steps. It was about stability. Something I could be in complete control of when everything else in my life - relationships, identity, literal foundations (hello, old farmhouse) - was shifting beneath my feet.
Initially, I started tracking my steps back when I was preparing for major surgery. I’d hoped this would allow me to be more healthy going into surgery so that I would also have an easier recovery. At first, it was practical. Then within the span of a year after my surgery, so many things shifted in ways I had a hard time wrapping my head around. My partner was becoming unrecognizable - evolving and growing in ways I couldn’t comprehend. My life as I had known was falling apart. I celebrated two decades at my former job and left, vowing to never work under fluorescent lights ever again…and through it all, step counts were clean. Predictable. They didn’t ask questions or open emotional doors. They just said, you accomplished something today, even if I felt like I was falling apart. Those steps became my emotional spreadsheet. My way of proving I was still going somewhere, even if deep down I felt stuck. And maybe that’s exactly what I needed then.
Eventually, I dabbled in gardening (turns out green thumbs take time, and mine were… not there yet - they may never get there).
I took on a few dog-walking gigs.
That’s when things started to click.
Fast forward to 2024.
My 24-year relationship ended.
Tails and Trails was born.
I had just spent everything I had on a structural facelift for my 120-year-old farmhouse.
But up until then, I needed to count something. Anything.
Because reality? Was grim.
And those steps were my life preserver.
Now, I hike for a living….Most days I’m on the trails with incredible humans and dogs who don’t care about numbers, just smells, squirrels, and shady patches of dirt. I move my body in ways that feel natural, not calculating how far I should go, just knowing when we’ve gone far enough (usually when a 100-pound dog flops down mid-trail). Navigating roots (and snakes), sweating in the humidity, breathing under wide open skies and big tree canopies. I come home tired in the best kind of way… sun-kissed with dirty shoes and a clear head.
I trust myself more than I used to. I trust my rhythms. I‘m learning that rest is part of the process. These days, I find myself at the lake or pool 3–4 afternoons a week after work and most weekends. I am even planning my first (very short) beach trip in almost a decade! I take long strolls down the dirt road with my dogs. I soak in long baths. I float in the pool in silence. I like writing here (hi). And I say no to plans just because I’d rather stay in my hammock all evening until bedtime.
Being healthy does require movement but all movement doesn’t look like hustle and I am just learning this…. Sometimes it looks like ease. Sometimes it looks like stillness. Sometimes it’s letting go… shedding a version of myself I no longer need. The one who needed constant reassurance, constant proof she was doing okay. I love her for surviving, but I don’t need her anymore.
I’m okay now. And I’m not constantly checking some app to convince myself that’s true anymore. Now, I make sure my phone is on me so I can snap little moments like these…Here is a little peek into my world recently…
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