“Whoa! What’s the rush? Where do you need to be?” Whoever says this has already slowed me down.
Nowhere. The answer is almost always nowhere.
For someone who went long un-diagnosed for their ADHD, I think I’m pretty good at leaving the house on time. It’s uncommon that I feel pressed to rush. So I wonder at this fixation others have that “rushing” could be the only reason for a person to walk so fast.
Let me ask: How much concentration does it take you to pace out your breathing? How unconscious of it are you 95% of the time? That’s how my stride is to me. It’s my pace. It’s the sweet spot on my gearshift.
Often, my speediness comes up because someone I’m walking with has a pace—just as natural to them—that is slower. Their desire to fall into step together is a trait I would appreciate in any loved-one. But the jabs at my own pace—however playful—begin to sting.
If I’ve set off at a faster clip, you don’t have to tug my shirt or call ahead or ask one of these snarky questions to get me to slow down. It may take me a beat to realize the situation and adjust, but I will notice you, and I will come back, and I will do my best to be conscious of my pace, particularly when I know that something out of your control (like an injury) dictates your own.
With that disclaimer out of the way, I feel the need to stick up for this thing that comes so naturally to me. To point out the ways I find it different and wonderful, rather than inferior.
I grew up getting and feeling sick all the time. It wasn’t until after college that I started focusing on solving this and worked to get dramatically more athletic than I was as a child.
Health is something I didn’t understand in a meaningful way until that age. It’s something that, for many reasons, I still feel I have only a tenuous grasp on.
Because of that, I can’t express to you the gratitude I feel when I “have my health.” For me, moving quickly is a joyous expression of that. I love the feel of my hair bouncing when I walk. I love how the faster I walk, the more wind there is in my face. And I love the gentle burn in my hips and knees as I do so. These body parts used to give me nothing but pain, but I nurtured them until they could handle miles and miles of fast, hard walking.*
Slow walking has a meditative reputation. It is “taking it all in” and “smelling the roses.” But does someone who isn’t “taking it all in” notice the softness of their hair skimming the back of their neck as it swishes from side to side?
I promise, too, that I smell the roses.
Walking fast does not preclude the enjoyment of the journey. The journey can still be everything. Just like it can still be everything even if you can’t walk at all.
When I walk fast in a forest, it is because I am so hungry for fresh air that I want to vacuum it up with my body. It’s because I like how my feet fall unevenly on the trail in pace with my quickening breath. It’s because I like the dappled sunlight dancing on my face.
When I walk fast in a city, it is out of a similar enthusiasm to consume life. I go farther. I see more. The alertness demanded by weaving through a crowd pushes all other thoughts to the outskirts. It clears my monkey-mind just as effectively as slow-walking might do for others.
“Walking fast does not preclude the enjoyment of the journey. The journey can still be everything. Just like it can still be everything even if you can’t walk at all.”
Because fast-walking is my natural state, it has a rhythm to it, a rhythm I lose when I consciously alter my pace.
I understand the beauty of moving in step with someone. I love to hold my boyfriend’s hand and look down and see our feet go left, right, left, right, left…
But I love moving in time with myself too. It’s a different kind of peace, no less valid. My heart, and my feet, and my lungs, and my thoughts… all moving together to some fun beat I’m sensing in the air.