One quiet and cold early November morning 12 years ago, I woke up slowly. I made spicy chai tea, wiped a skin of frost from the window, and realized that an essential component of who I was as a kid was no longer a part of who I was as an adult. I was happy, but I wasn’t whole.

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.

You know that feeling when you have something in your heart that you can’t resolve or sort out? Or that morning when you just want a hug and someone to share thrilling news with? Friends (community) + Walking (movement) = A Powerful Force.

My 61-year-old body is different from my 35-year-old body. I never used to feel wobbly with heights, but I am now (despite the fact that I am getting my pilot’s license). Has my inner ear changed? My vision? Well, whatever it is, my new reality is such that a narrow path, a steep cliff to one side, and rumbly scree everywhere put doubt right in front of me on this day. Doubt is clever. Doubt can be convincing.

I was born with clubfoot, a condition that causes the foot to be turned inward and twisted. It is a common birth defect, affecting about 1 in 1,000 babies. I learned to walk with two casts on and a bar between the casts. I don’t remember any of it, but somehow, I think this experience may have pointed me towards my love and gratitude for walking.