Walking out My Grief

"I chose to walk because that’s how I remember my mum. She was a walker. The egg factory years were far behind her by the time we came along, but by then striding everywhere with fury and purpose had become muscle memory, and the defining memory I have of my childhood involves run-walking several paces behind her down the main road every week on the way back from the shops. She made no concession for dawdlers. My dad worked abroad at that point, so everything was on her. If she didn’t do things, they didn’t get done. She’d have dozens of carrier bag handles digging into her wrists, but she refused to let them – or us – slow her down. My mum, the 5ft-nothing terminator.

So this is what I do. I wake up early, I pull on my boots and off I set. Out of my house, up a hill, through the woods, over a bridge and on my way. I’ve made friends with public footpaths, with the grinding monotony of stile and field. I’ve misread maps and got lost, snagging my leg on barbed wire fences and rebirthing myself through tightly brambled knots to get back on track. I’ve been pelted with rain and lost all feeling in my fingers. I’ve seen my muttered curses leave my body in clouds of breath. My feet, without question, are an unrecognisable mess. They’re swollen and purple and missing some skin. All baths, to some extent, now feel like they’re made of boiling vinegar. But I keep walking."

- Stuart S.

Read more about Stuart's journey of grief and walking.