One Step at a Time
Anyone who knows me knows that I used to go all in.
When I was in my late teens, I knew I couldn’t book hotel rooms yet, but I could book Megabus tickets—so my cousin and I planned a whole road trip using just those. We’d sleep on the bus overnight, driving from city to city, hopping off and sneaking into the ‘public’ restroom of some Holiday-Inn-esque hotel to wash our faces and brush our teeth (potentially sneaking a muffin from continental breakfast) before romping around town, only to do it again the next night.
When I first decided what to major in, I wanted to be both an eye doctor and a poet. So sure, a double major in pre-med and creative writing sounded about right.
After graduation, I dyed my hair purple that night and hopped on yet another Megabus just after midnight—this time to Georgia, with grand plans to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail.
I remember being on a trip with my friend Carla, so determined to summit Telescope Peak in Death Valley that I ignored the weather and my better judgment (plus the many hikers passing me on their way down, warning me to turn back). I pushed on. I came close. But with visibility only a few feet in front of me, my legs barely holding me up, and freezing hands, I finally turned around.
I changed my major probably ten times.
I only hiked about 100 miles of the Appalachian Trail.
And those used to feel like my biggest failures.
I was so hard on myself (in many ways, I still am). But I’m learning to go a little easier. I’m learning that I don’t need to go all in.
When I was about 20, I started therapy. I had known for a long time that I struggled mentally, but it wasn’t until I truly couldn’t hold on alone that I reached out. That therapist encouraged me to focus on one important goal—I chose the Appalachian Trail. So I poured all my spare time—beyond classes, beyond working nearly full-time at Marco’s Pizza, spending time with my nephews, family, friends, boys (a whole other layer to the story of “going all in”)—into making this dream happen.
Around day 7 or 8, I developed such severe knee pain that walking downhill became excruciating. To make up for how slow I was downhill, I pushed myself harder going up—beyond my limit. Eventually, my glute on the opposite side of my injured knee seized in a muscle spasm so intense I yelled in pain and couldn’t keep going. I was too embarrassed to ask for help, but the friend I was hiking with had no shame—thankfully. Two women passing by, one a retired nurse, helped us reach the next campsite and drove us into town the next morning.
I sobbed for hours—outside a CVS, in a motel bed, in a chair at the small-town library looking for a way out of this “failure.”
My parents drove down in one fell swoop from Ohio, scooped my, what felt like, melted-ice-cream-cone-on-the-side-of-the-street body, and brought me home. I spent days face-down in bed. So many tears. I remember being told to get over it. I really thought my life had lost its purpose.
So I mustered the energy to plan a cross-country road trip with another friend. I figured—if I can’t walk, I’ll drive. I’ll still see beauty. Anything to get me out of that bed.
We drove West. Over the years, I drove West again and again, drove East, South. Spent seasons in different parts of the country. Running on adrenaline, on the hunger for experience. Always chasing more. Never quite catching up with myself. Running from being face-down in bed. Running from failure. I ran.
I rarely gave myself space to slow down and truly listen to what my inner voice—the heartbeat of the universe—was saying. Sometimes I heard it. I’m still learning to listen.
I promise, your dreams are worth pursuing. But they aren’t worth destroying yourself over. They aren’t worth always feeling “behind.”
I felt behind on the Appalachian Trail because I could only start after graduation—a “late” start, according to thru-hiker logic. So I had hiked longer days than I was ready for. While I’d always been a hiker, there’s no real way to prepare for 10+ mile days, back-to-back, with 30-50 pounds on your back, when most of your life at the time was spent sitting in a classroom.
Rather than easing in, I went all in.
So now? I’m taking it slow.
And it’s beautiful.
Ryan and I have been talking about hiking the Buckeye Trail. It’s not as majestic as the Appalachian Trail, but it winds a little under 1,500 miles around our home state of Ohio. This year, we’ve started. But we aren’t running away from our lives—we’re integrating the experience into our lives. A few miles a week. A few hours on a weeknight, a few more on the weekend. Maybe long weekends once the summer comes.
We’re about 8 miles in. And honestly, we’ve even doubled back on ourselves, hiking in-and-out since we haven’t felt like doing a two-car set up. So everything we’ve done so far, we’ve done twice. Now that’s really taking it slow. We want to drive together—chatting, listening to music, or just sitting in silence on the way to the trailhead. Walking with our dog, Piper. Spending time with one another, slowly chewing away at this goal.
I couldn’t be more grateful for the ability to slow down.
To not rush.
To take life slow is a gift.
We aren’t racing. We aren’t failing if we do or don’t check certain boxes. What I used to think of as my biggest failures were really my greatest teachers (as most people say—yes, I know. But they’re cliches for a reason).
To tie this into yoga: this week we’re reflecting on the yama Brahmacharya. It’s been translated as “right use of energy,” “non-excess,” “celibacy,” or literally as “walking with God.”
Tread lightly on this Earth. Take only what you need. While we give of ourselves in service to others, we are sacred. Our energy is limited. Our breaths are limited by whatever plan God or the universe has for us. So every step is a part of that plan.
Walk with God.
Walk with the divine.
See the divine in everything—especially in the difficult.
The challenges? What are they here to teach us? What is the voice of the universe speaking?
A few months ago, standing in one of the longest lines I’ve ever seen at the post office, the woman behind me laughed and said, “God has a funny way of giving us what we ask for.” She elaborated to say she’d been praying for patience—and there she was, given the opportunity to practice it. We don’t get handed the quality—we’re given the conditions to grow it.
So all those “failures”—what was I asking for?
And what was I given?
Perhaps… a lesson to tread more lightly. To slow down.
And so here I am, walking a long trail—mostly literally—one mile at a time.
And I couldn’t be more grateful for each step.
Where in your own life can you take it slower and enjoy the ride?
25 Minute Meditation on Simplicity & Presence
Embrace the beauty of simplicity with this 25-minute Anapana (breath awareness) meditation, inspired by the yogic principle of Brahmacharya. In a world that constantly pulls us in many directions, this practice invites us to slow down, conserve our energy, and find the divine in the simplest moments.
The first half of this meditation offers gentle guidance, leading you into a space of presence and stillness. The second half allows for silent meditation, giving you the space to deepen your connection to the breath and simply be. Let this be a reminder: You don’t need to do more, push harder, or deplete yourself to find peace.
Everything you need is already here, in this breath. Take a deep breath, and let’s begin.
