How Walking Saved My Marriage
Over the course of 773,770 steps, I learned to walk with, not away from, my problems.
Maridav, YuriArcurs people images.com | Canva At first, I tried to outwalk my anger. Maybe if I walked fast enough, I could leave it behind. Maybe if I walked fast enough to somewhere beautiful, I could leave it behind, bury it for good, and return home a better, calmer, more merciful version of myself.
What was I angry about? In a word, everything.
For months, I’d been dreaming about warm, lingering evenings when I wouldn’t have to hunch my shoulders against the drizzle and the cold.
When these evenings finally arrived, it seemed they’d done so just to spite me. Flowers unfurled and brilliant colors assaulted me everywhere I turned. While my own small world seemed to be crumbling to dust, the world beyond was impervious to my pain.
On our kids’ last day of school, my partner and I were embroiled in an argument, one of many that had been descending with increasing frequency and fury.
We’d almost made it through the weekend but had spiraled into conflict just as we were sitting down for Sunday dinner. I didn’t understand what was happening, wasn’t giving him the grace he needed, and was too focused on all the ways I wanted him to change.
I didn’t realize my partner was wrestling with his own demons, teetering on the verge of collapse. I felt like I had two husbands: the one I’d known and loved for 18 years and this other man who looked at me with hard eyes and spat venom-laced words in my face.
I felt angry, but I was also grieving, even if I wasn’t quite yet sure what I’d lost. It seemed that on the eve of our 15th wedding anniversary, we’d arrived at the beginning of the end. There was talk of the D word, of things being over, of what to do next. In the strained silences between our fierce words, I thought about all the memories we’d made, all the traditions we’d carried forward, all the things that would no longer be the same: Family cheers, Sunday sundaes, annual trips to the pumpkin farm.
In the short term, I wondered what would come of the summer I’d spent months painstakingly piecing together — not just the complicated daily camp itineraries, but also our long-anticipated family reunion, our annual camping trip, our weekend on the coast.
On the first official weekend of summer, after more heated words, I slipped out of our house, alone, at the time I’d normally be prepping dinner. I told the kids to make spaghetti carbonara, the one meal they knew how to cook.
The sun was obnoxiously benevolent. It did not beat down on me in rage, as it soon would; neither did it skittishly elude me, as it would not so long after that. Instead, it was rich and buttery, oozing between tree branches and winking from dew-jeweled grasses. I walked to "our meadow," the stretch of grass leading up to a reservoir that my family liked to think of as "ours." We shared it, of course, with fellow parkgoers, but we believed ourselves to be the meadow’s most faithful visitors, its most devoted fans.
During Covid, we spent nearly every weekend there that the weather allowed. Sometimes, on colder days, we just passed through. Other times, we laid out sweatshirts and sat for a while. I strung together daisies and made my children crowns. Once, during a rare snowfall in winter, we carted toboggans there and slid down the frozen blades of grass, once nearly careening into the iron gates encircling the reservoir.
It was strange, to be by myself in "our meadow," and even more because it was teeming with couples and children. It didn’t offer quite the solitary solace I’d envisioned. I’d planned to gaze out at the city skyline while feeling good and sorry for myself, but this, I found, was difficult to do amidst the cacophony of shrieking children and the hum of adult chatter. I stood up with a sigh and kept walking. I’d left the house in anger, but now I felt sad and very much alone.
I took a dirt path I’d never taken before, trying to find comfort in the rustle of trees and ferns. Dusk settled, not in any particular hurry, but the arrival of night was as inevitable as my return home. For now, at least, I had nowhere else to go. Once back, I found myself again flooded with fury. The house was a wreck. I found congealed pasta everywhere — stuck to the counter, to the pot, to various plates. A block of unwrapped cheese lay sweating on the stove, formerly frozen peas rolled underfoot, and dishes exploded from the sink.
I could walk away from the mess of my life, but sooner or later, I’d have to walk back.
In late June, two things happened. One seemed like not that big a deal. My job announced that we were going to do a summer walking challenge. I’d never had a fitness tracker and never paid much attention to the Health app on my phone. But since I run three miles each morning and often walk on the weekends, I thought, sure, why not?
The second thing that happened was a very big deal indeed. While at work, my partner lost consciousness, fell out of his chair, and was carted by ambulance to the nearest hospital. The ER doctor couldn’t find anything explicitly wrong and surmised it was probably stress-related. He was approved for 14 weeks off under the FMLA, and his company’s reaction made it clear that his job security was tenuous, at best. Our already shaky future began to tremble even more mightily under the added weight of financial duress and health concerns.
We put the kids on a plane to visit their grandmother, my mother-in-law — the first square in the patchwork quilt of childcare, camps, and trips that I pieced together to keep our children occupied during 10 weeks when I thought we’d both be working. My partner and I had planned to enjoy a rare week to ourselves, but with all the turmoil, that was no longer the inviting prospect it had once seemed.
Instead, I booked a last-minute flight to San Francisco. I wanted to escape to the warm wood floors of my childhood home. I wanted my mommy. I wanted to take refuge in a house that was familiar but orderly, a space where I could hear myself think, where everything had its proper place, where the surfaces were noodle-free.
I worked during the day, but in my free time, I walked. I walked with my mother, and my sister, and sometimes alone. The city’s infamous summer fog had already settled in and made itself comfortable, sealing the city in a palpable, cloying cloak of gray.
So much for my warm summer evenings.
We tried to escape the fog in Marin County but to no avail. During a 10-mile hike on Mt. Tam that claimed to have sweeping views, we could see only a few feet in front of us. But still, we walked. I made peace with the fog and took comfort in its closeness.
My company had shipped me a step counter, which I’d extracted from the box and fastened to my jeans with some distaste. It was one more thing to keep track of, one more thing to do. The challenge was all in good fun, nothing I had to take too seriously, but maybe that was part of the problem. My life had suddenly turned serious, straining under the weight of mental health crises, family conflict, and financial stress.
We named our team "Chips and Walkamole," and I smiled in spite of myself. I wasn’t angry anymore, mostly exhausted. Not by walking. I was exhausted by Everything Else that kept tapping at my shoulders and tugging at the corners of my brain. But with each step, now faithfully tracked in the small black device at my hip, I resisted the temptation to swat Everything Else away.
I was no longer trying to walk away from my problems. I was trying to walk with them.
That first week, I logged 106,167 steps.
I hadn’t been walking for the steps, but it wasn’t without pride that I added the six-digit number to our team spreadsheet. The number felt gratifying, yes, and it also felt empowering. Somewhere, over the course of the last few months — the last year, really — I’d lost control. Or at least, I’d lost the illusion of control — over the health of my family, the health of my marriage, the health of my finances. Everything that once felt doable now seemed beyond my grasp.
But this walking challenge was something I could do. I could own it, and I could do it just for me.
During the week I spent in San Francisco, the physical distance between me and my partner gave us both a chance to clear our heads. Upon my return, I joined a recovery group, while my partner, temporarily freed from his emotionally exhausting job, focused on his own recovery.
Talk of the D word faded and talk of our shared future tentatively resumed. I’d spent most of June stewing in the backyard while trying to take advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. I was hoping my partner would notice my absence on the front porch, the shared space where we convened to unwind, but I was too intent on marinating in my own list of woes to try to bridge the gap.
Come July, the worst of the turbulence seemed to be behind us. I finally got my lingering evenings on the porch, and the warm, bright weather had lost interest in taunting me. The kids went to camp, as planned, and our summer trips proceeded as scheduled.
Through it all, I walked. Sometimes alone, sometimes with my family in tow.
Though my partner and I were careful to call any hikes "excursions," we fooled no one and the children protested furiously. My daughter insisted that hiking is not what normal families do. But once on the trail, they (mostly) ceased complaining. I could almost see their brain chemistry changing — the calm that descended at the first whiff of pines, the silent awe as they beheld the frothy churning of water tumbling into the water, or the rippling of mountains toward distant horizon lines.
At our family reunion in the Rocky Mountains, we experienced multiple microclimates in the course of a single hike. We started in a sun-drenched meadow, then picked our way up trails strewn with stones. The tips of the mountains pierced the clouds, where rain spit and the wind whipped, rendering the meadow’s innocent serenity a distant memory.
During subsequent weekend trips, we walked alongside various rivers to various waterfalls. Tall, silent trees clustered around us, sprinkling the path with sunlight. On beaches, we took off our shoes and walked, sometimes into the wind, clutching our hats and letting the water nip at our toes.
During the week, I walked to pick up my kids at their various camps, I walked to work happy hours, and I walked to my Tuesday night group meetings. When alone, I resisted the urge to listen to music or a podcast, trying to be merely present. Even if the rest of the day was crap, which it sometimes was, I could always put one foot in front of the other.
I had the power of my own two legs, the merciful shade of trees, and the steady rhythm of my hips.
On my solo urban walks, I noticed beautiful things I would have missed in a car, or even on a bike. On an uneven slab of sidewalk, someone had artfully arranged colorful glass beads to warn pedestrians to watch their step. A few blocks later, a dozen raccoons unhurriedly crossed in front of me to ascend a tree, peering at me curiously through their black-bespectacled eyes.
Twice, I heard people singing while watering their front yards. They smiled as I passed, but they didn’t stop singing.
The official walking challenge concluded on Labor Day weekend. Over the course of nine weeks, I logged a total of 773,770 steps and Team Chips and Walkamole declared victory.
My kids wanted to know what the prize was. I told them I was not sure there was one, which incensed them. Why would I try to win something if there wasn’t a prize? And, more importantly, did this mean we could all stop walking now?
I tried to explain to them that the ultimate victory was in the walking, not the steps. They rolled their eyes, my adolescent daughter once again expressing her fierce desire to be part of a "normal" family. She receded into her room before I could get on my soapbox about how human beings are built to walk, about how abnormal it is to sit all day.
I’ll admit, I feel a little lost without my trusty tracker. I’ve stopped wearing it because I don’t think I should need it to feel accomplished at the end of the day. Yes, for a time, it provided me with some added motivation when I needed it most. It nudged me to own something, to stop worrying about how to fix everyone else in my life, and to focus on my own healing.
After nearly 800,000 steps, I’ve arrived somewhere entirely new and nowhere in particular. There are still days (most days) when the house is a wreck, still, occasional exchanges that get heated, still moments when I see ominous futures unspooling in front of my eyes, and still times when I feel angry and afraid and very much alone.
But whatever the future holds, I plan to keep on walking.
Kerala Taylor is an award-winning writer and co-owner of a worker-owned marketing agency. Her weekly stories on Medium and Substack are dedicated to interrupting notions of what it means to be a mother, woman, worker, and wife.