Slow down - a message for trauma survivors and not only

WALK AND TALK

I talked about this topic in my walk-and-talk session while walking in the woods. Trauma survivors often struggle with slowing down, with stillness. Many avoid being alone, needing to be constantly on the move—going places, doing things. Others go in the opposite direction, withdrawing entirely. I am part of the first category. For me, walking wasn’t just walking—it was marching. I strode briskly with a purpose, checking my Steps app obsessively. If the number was under 10,000, I felt low. If it showed 20,000 or more, I was elated.

Once upon a time, I had the privilege of walking a beautiful four-legged friend named Winter, a gentle giant. When his parents weren’t home, I would take him on long walks, covering so many kilometers. With him, I experienced a rare and irreplaceable feeling—belonging, camaraderie, trust. His steps were bouncy, his spirit loving. Walking with him was different; it wasn’t about numbers or distance. It was about stories. With him, I noticed flowers, squirrels, puddles—things I’d usually rush past. I was no longer lost in my head.

WALKING OR MARCHING

Walking is just a word, but there are so many ways to walk, aren’t there? When I first heard about mindful walking, I barely understood it. I listened to Thich Nhat Hanh, watched YouTube videos, but I couldn’t feel it. My mind raced, and my legs followed suit. How do you interrupt this pattern? Do you change your mind first or slow your legs? Or perhaps the environment is the key—maybe walking somewhere new can transform your experience. Maybe that’s where mindful walking begins.

For me, it started with exhaustion. One day, I simply couldn’t push myself to reach 10,000 steps. So, I deleted the Steps app. That was months ago, and to my surprise, I don’t miss it. A part of me still can’t believe it, but I don’t.

Then, a few weeks ago, I took an unfamiliar turn on my walk and found myself in a woodland I had never seen before. That moment was the beginning of something new. Without effort, my feet slowed. The marching rhythm faded. I wasn’t chasing a number anymore—I was noticing. Buttercups, violets, ivy, nettle, birch trees. Everything transformed from vague scenery into something meaningful.

Stopping was added to the mix. I am not used to stopping much—stopping means being quiet, leaving the doors open to uncomfortable thoughts. So stopping was out of the question. But now, I am taking baby steps. I am stopping—listening to the birds, the wind—and trying to identify other sounds. I can’t differentiate between the birds; I have no clue who’s talking to me, but I notice the differences in tone, and for now, that’s enough. It’s okay. I am grateful.

I find myself saying thank you to the rabbits, the squirrels, and the nature surrounding me. I am still haunted in some ways, but I am slowing down and giving myself permission to rest. Rest—what a blessed word. Rest.

Everything starts with a turn and a new direction. You know it, and I know it—sometimes, that’s all it takes. A new direction, an opportunity, and suddenly, you step into a different reality. You are back in a world full of possibilities.

Until next time, be well!

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