When I was 11 years old, I started to go on long walks. Not dog walks, not walks around the block. Very long walks.
I would spend summer days walking across the city, up through the hills, across the Berkeley campus. 8, 10, 12 miles. I walked with others sometimes, but mostly, by myself.
I didn’t have earphones or podcasts, just me. Looking and thinking.
When I turned 13, I started to run.
I ran my first half marathon with my brother in the summer of 8th grade. A year later I ran my first marathon.
As I progressed through puberty, into high school, through cliques and insecurities, AP tests and college admissions, the miles grew longer.
I craved the time alone, with nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other.
A decade later and 18 marathons under my belt, little had changed.
I moved in with my grandmother in summer of 2020 as COVID began. I’d have dinner with her, then quietly, secretly, escape into the depths of the night.
I’d walk miles to the ocean, along the water, turning back only when my feet couldn’t take any more.
I never thought much about these walks or what they meant. I don’t think they meant anything, really.
But I did know that on these long treks, I felt good.
I felt confident, accomplished, independent, and dignified. I felt me.
I dreamed and created. Big visions. BIG thoughts. They all came from these long solo adventures.
And this year, things changed.
I stopped having the same impulsive desires to go out, go far, off on my own.
What happened?
I met someone.
I fell in love.
Yes, that’s it.
Blehh, I typed that line 4 times and deleted it each time.
I fell in love.
How can it be so simple? So cliche, basic? Me, not me.
But that’s all I can say. It’s everything, that’s it. And it’s okay. More than okay. It’s wonderful.
My want to get outside and move hasn’t gone away. I still run, explore, dream and imagine. I’m still me.
But when I look back on the past year, for the first time since I was a young teenager, I haven’t felt the craving to be alone.
I no longer have thoughts at the dinner table of slipping on my tennis shoes and sneaking out the back door. I no longer have visions of myself pacing through the coastal fog, late in the night on a dark steep hill.
And it makes me wonder if maybe those long, lonely walks did mean something after all.
Was I indulging my own self-pity? Or giving myself a safe place to be me?
Where have those feelings and moments gone?
Are they parts of me, buried within? Or layers I’ve now shed?
Today, we walk together.
We moved to a new city, got a place together.
We’ve taken in the sweet neighborhoods and parks and views and dogs. Tasted the almond croissants and extra hot flat whites. Seen sunsets and drank beers. We’ve paced up the biggest hills, out of breath but not energy. Paused to look out on the water, imaging life before, and life after.
For now, today, I feel safe, loved, lucky.
Beautiful!