a walking post that never Quite got walking.

When did I lose it? That magic ability to pack a day bag, grab a flask of tea, maybe a half-squished sandwich, and just… Go?

Once upon a time, the path would call and I’d follow – into the woods, up hills, over stiles with questionable structural integrity. But these days, that once – reliable path seems to stop dead at the front door.

Don’t get me wrong – the intention is there. Oh, the plans I make. I sit with maps like some kind of caffeine – fuelled explorer: “Ah yes, I’ll take this trail, rest here for a snack, maybe hug a tree, contemplate the meaning of life while eating a KitKat. Perfect”

“maps are my love language, following them, however it does require emotional negotiation.

I go to bed with the giddy anticipation of a child before a school trip.

Then I wake up.

I make coffee. I stare at the door. And berry turns up.
(Barry is my anxiety, by the way) He doesn’t knock; he just appears like a fart in a lift.

Barry whispers things like, “what if it rains? What if your shoes come undone and you trip and fall dramatically into a puddle in front of a dog walker named Sharon who silently judges you?”

Once Barry gets going, depression flops in like she’s booked a long weekend at the Travelodge. She unpacks, turns on Netflix, and settles in with a face that says, “we’re not going anywhere today, Hun.”

“Barry my anxiety, says stay in. the woods say come out. I’m somewhere in the between, in a hoodie and slippers arguing with both,”

I sit. All day. Staring out of the window, lothing (yes lothing – it’s like loathing, but with a side of heavy signs and occasional snacks) myself for not doing the very thing I said I’d do. For not being that person who just goes anymore.

But here’s the thing – some days, putting on socks is a triumph. Making the map in the first place? That’s movement. Drinking the coffee? Still counts. And writing this? That’s proof I’m still here, still trying.

Because I haven’t lost it entirely. I just misplaced it.  Like when you can’t find your keys and they’re in your hand. The path is still out there. My boots are still by the door. Barry and depression don’t get the final say – even if they do have season tickets to my living room.

So, if you’re reading this and thinking, “same” just know, we’ll get out there again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But someday, we’ll lace up, step out, and meet each other on the trail – awkward, proud, and slightly out of breath.

I’ll bring the KitKats.