A Promise I Made to Myself
Winter has her own voice, and walking in it feels like choosing to listen, even when I would rather stay comfortable. Cold waits at the door, patient and unimpressed. Darkness lingers longer than I would like. My mind gets busy right away, offering thoughtful reasons to stay inside. Some of them are persuasive. I put on my coat, hat, mittens, walking skirt, and two pairs of socks anyway. That choice feels small and ordinary, which is exactly why it matters. It is not brave. It is simply me keeping a promise I made to myself.
The first stretch is never graceful. My breath turns sharp. My skin wakes up fast. My body has notes. Many uncomfortable notes. I move anyway. After a few minutes, things soften. Muscles warm and remember their job. My shoulders drop, as if they have been holding more than I realized. A rhythm shows up without being invited, and the walk begins to feel possible. Winter has a way of stripping things down. It takes away the extra and leaves me with what is necessary.
There is a quiet to winter that I did not always understand. Sound does not echo the way it does in other seasons. It settles. Footsteps feel close. A car passes, and then it is gone. Trees stand still, unbothered by my small drama. The air feels steady and neutral. Walking in this quiet gives my thoughts fewer places to scatter, and that feels kind. It lets me arrive where I am.
Cold walking teaches steadiness in a plain, honest way. Each walk is a chance to follow through without witnesses. Discomfort shows up, but it stays within reason. I learn I do not have to rush it or turn it into a story. Health stops feeling like something I manage and starts feeling like something I tend. Over time, the walk becomes a gentle agreement with myself, built on trust rather than grit. Discipline grows quietly. Confidence tags along. Somewhere along the way, I start to believe I am worth the effort.
Some days, the dark feels heavier and the cold feels less friendly. Black ice catches the light and asks for attention. Those walks slow me down and ask me to be present. Winter wants preparation and consistency, and it humbles me when I forget. What it gives back feels simple and real. A steadier mind. A calmer nervous system. Legs that work. Sleep that comes easier. A quiet pride that does not need to be named.
I have learned to make room for practical kindness. Bright colors and reflective strips help me feel safer, and that matters. Warm hands make the walk easier. I rely on rechargeable hand warmers and feel no need to explain myself. When my fingers stay warm, my body relaxes and my stride smooths out. Same with my neck; a warm neck is essential. Knowing there is a mug waiting at home helps, too. Tea or broth feels like a soft landing, a reminder that care continues after the walk ends. These choices are simple, but they shape the experience.
Each walk sends a message back to me. My well-being matters. Steadiness matters. Care does not have to look impressive to work. Winter always offers reasons to stay inside, so on those mornings I go later when the sun is up and the day is warmer. Walking teaches without lectures. Resolve builds slowly. Satisfaction comes from doing the small thing I said I would do. Fidelity, I am learning, is quiet and human, and it often shows up looking a lot like kindness. I love this practice and I intend to be wildly faithful to it.
Libby DeLana is an executive creative director with an explorer’s heart. She writes about walking, cold water, and the small rituals that make a life feel awake. Her books, Do Walk and Cold Joy, are companions for anyone who likes a little adventure in their days. You can find her on Instagram @thismorningwalk, @thiscoldjoy, and @parkhere. You can find Cold Joy at thiscoldjoy.com.