How I’m Prepping for a Group Night Walk with Barry in Tow

I’ll be honest: after my first group night hike a few weeks ago, I fully intended to hang up my head torch for good. It was meant to be a one-time “face your fear and never speak of it again” sort of deal — the hiking equivalent of jumping out of a plane to prove you can, then promptly swearing off both parachutes and adrenaline for life.

But here I am, counting down to night hike number two. Voluntarily.

So what changed? Well not Barry,( my anxiety). He is still very much along for the ride, thank you. But something inside me softened — maybe shifted — and I’ve started to see these walks not as battles to survive, but as steps in my recovery. Literal steps. On trails. At night. With strangers-turned-friends who carry extra snacks and light the path when mine flickers.

Living with Barry means that everything new or vaguely unpredictable gets filtered through a mega-horn of what ifs. What if I trip? What if I slow everyone down? What if I can’t find my voice in a group of confident walkers? What if I panic halfway up a hill and have to roll back down in shame?

But also — what if it’s actually wonderful?

That second question is the one I’m trying to follow more these days. Not always with ease. Not always gracefully. But step by shaky step, I’m learning that I don’t have to wait until I’m “better” to do the things that make me feel alive. Walking, for me, isn’t just about fresh air and cute sheep. It’s a coping tool, a therapist, a reset button. It untangles the noise in my head in ways sitting still never could.

So prepping for this one. Last time, I was so anxious I almost didn’t go. My kit was… passable. My nerves were… explosive. But I went, and I got through it (with shaky painful legs, shallow breath, and some serious internal pep talks).

This time? I’m not just surviving it — I’m preparing for it. That might sound small, but it’s actually a pretty big deal.

I’m upgrading my kit because I want to feel safe. Because I deserve to feel safe. I’ve had the same head torch since the Stone Age (okay, fine — 2019), it’s been all though the army cadets with me, the Pennines but not its more like a polite suggestion of light than something designed to illuminate pitch-black woodland paths. So I’m finally, reluctantly, joyfully investing in a proper headlamp. Something bright enough to signal aliens if needed.

I’m also eyeing a hip bag. (A what bag? I know. I didn’t think I’d become a bum-bag person either.) But the idea of having water, snacks, tissues, and a calming stone within arm’s reach without having to wrangle with my rucksack every ten minutes? A dream.

However I do have a weird shame of spending money on myself when I’m used to scraping by — emotionally, financially, or both. The guilt is real, in fact I went to millers on Monday and ended up leaving the shop empty handed.

Buying gear always feels indulgent. Wasteful. I still get that old voice in my head saying, you don’t need this, just make do. But I’m slowly shifting that narrative. These aren’t luxury items — they’re tools. They help me show up. They help me participate in something that supports my healing.

So I’m learning to see this not as a spending spree, but as an investment in the next version of me. The one who walks farther, breathes easier, and maybe — just maybe — looks forward to group night walks. Trying not to be too hard on myself, I know I will get a new one before the next walk, because after all it’s a need end off.

One thing I wasn’t expecting after that first walk? The way the group held me — not physically (although someone did stop me from fulling into the brushes at one point, but I mean emotionally.

These people, some of whom I barely knew, cheered me on without fanfare. Quiet support. Encouraging messages. Kindness in headlights and shared pork pies. It’s been one of the most surprising and healing parts of this whole journey — finding a community that supports each other even when they don’t realise just how much they do.

I’d love to tell you that I’m cool as a cucumber this time around. I’m not. I’m still nervy. Still second-guessing my ability to show up and shine (or at least not stumble into a hedge).

But this time, I’m going with more than just fear. I’m going with a plan. With a brighter torch. With a hip bag. With the knowledge that I’ve done this before and came out stronger.

So here’s to hiking through the fear. To nervous laughter. To power snacks. To showing up — trembling, yes — but determined.

And if all else fails? There’s always the pork pies.