Praise for the Long, Cold Walk

Winter is here. I'll be walking outdoors, and maybe you should too.

January floods us with the promise of new beginnings. Resolutions abound—10,000 steps a day, clean eating, daily workouts. The desire for self-improvement is strong, the commitment fresh. But there’s a quiet irony in setting these lofty goals at the very moment when the world around us seems determined to make things harder. January 1 is, after all, one of the roughest times to start a new, healthy routine. The sidewalks are slick with ice, the air is so cold it stings your lungs, and that early morning walk that seemed so appealing when you were daydreaming about it in July suddenly feels more like an obstacle than a goal. And yet, there is something powerful in facing this challenge head-on, in pushing through the discomfort and the cold. Winter, like the year ahead, asks us not for perfection, but for persistence. It doesn’t care if we meet every goal right away. What matters is that we show up, step outside, and take the first step forward, even if it’s slow and careful. After all, in the quiet of winter, there is a lesson to be learned: the journey toward self-improvement doesn’t have to be easy. It just has to be started.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

It took awhile, but I have learned to love the long, cold walk. I might even say that I look forward to it.

There is a peculiar stillness to the world in winter, a calmness that seeps into everything. It isn’t the silence of the deep night, nor the eerie quiet before a storm. It’s the silence of space, the absence of the usual clamor of life, as if the earth itself is holding its breath. To step into that space—brave the cold and the bite of the air, wrap yourself in layers against the chill—is to discover a peace that cannot be found in the bustling world of warmer months.

Last year I read Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey, a book that delves into the lives of artists, writers, and thinkers, exploring the routines that sustained their creative brilliance. Among the peculiarities and idiosyncrasies Currey uncovered, one recurring theme captivated me: the ritual of walking. These walks, often solitary but sometimes shared, seemed more than just a habit—they were a lifeline, a quiet space where inspiration and solace intertwined. Through bustling streets or under a canopy of winter skies, the act of walking appeared to transcend reason, an unspoken but essential thread running through the lives of so many creatives. It was profound, almost mystical, in the way these walks connected them to their work - and in some ways, to one another - a ritual as inexplicable as it was indispensable. And perhaps there’s something we, too, can learn from these great minds—the wisdom of stepping away, embracing stillness in motion, and letting the simple act of walking guide us toward clarity and creativity.

Maybe it is because there is something about the rhythm of walking, particularly in the colder months, that seems to strip away the noise and allow space for quiet contemplation. In winter, when the world slows down and the world feels like it’s holding its breath, these walks become not just a means of moving through the world but a way of grounding oneself in it.

Photo by Summer C on Unsplash

Winter is a season of contradictions. It is harsh and unforgiving, but in that very harshness, it holds an unexpected tenderness. The cold makes each breath feel like an act of defiance, yet it also makes each exhale feel like hope. The wind bites at your cheeks, but in return, it clears your mind, sweeping away the dust of daily life and leaving only the present moment behind.

And so, I find myself drawn to winter walks. To the sound of crunching snow beneath my boots, to the crispness of the air that tingles in my lungs, to the way the world slows down when you step out into its winter embrace. There is no rush in winter. There is no hurry. The days are shorter, the light more delicate, and every step feels like a meditation, a careful consideration of time itself.

Photo by sq lim on Unsplash

And perhaps, in the end, that is what makes winter walks so beautiful—the simple act of choosing to face the cold, to embrace the challenges, to walk through the quiet, and to emerge on the other side, a little wiser, a little more alive.