Over the last fifteen years, I’ve lost weight. A lot of weight. Over one-hundred pounds of me has slowly melted away with only one or two minor setbacks along the way.
My success came through the usual means, eating less and moving more. I became a runner, because that’s what serious-minded cardio lovers do, right? There were 5Ks, 10Ks, and even a half marathon that took place over the years. I did it all and became obsessed with how far I could push myself while simultaneously avoiding a crippling injury. Don’t worry, that’s as far as I’ll go with the humble bragging. This piece isn’t about how many miles I run each day or week. It’s quite the opposite, actually. I’m still working toward my ideal body weight, eating well, and moving more… only nowadays I find myself not running. Somewhere along the way I said goodbye to that world, left the house, and just started walking.
Walking is fantastic. It’s the cheapest therapy I’ve ever come across. Walking gives me time to think and decompress at the end of the day (something essential for an introvert like me). It’s much more sustainable as a form of daily exercise too. My joints are rarely left sore and achy after a long walk. I can even find the energy for a short walk when I’m somewhat sleep starved.
So yeah, I’m a walker now. I’m in no hurry to return to running and that’s ok. As I near 40 years on this planet, I find that I care less and less about appearing tough or projecting this image to the world of me being a badass. I’m fine with slowing things down, treading lightly. And if I burn fewer calories, so what?