Body of Work: Choosing the Way, Not Just the Destination

As a tween and teen growing up in Boston, Massachusetts, walking was a means to an end. I walked because I didn’t have a ride, because the subway didn’t go where I wanted to go, because that’s how you move through a city. Later, I used to joke that I wanted to “pay for my exercise,” so if I could drive, I did — even when it would have been faster to walk. I joined a gym and got cardio on a treadmill. Back then, I cared much more about arriving than about how I got there; walking was just the in‑between.

I have no idea how much I walked before I got an iPhone. Way back in the 20th century, I didn’t keep track of mileage or steps. I knew that Charles Street to Washington Street required trekking up a big hill, and that the street names between Arlington and Mass Ave were alphabetical A–G (Arlington, Berkeley, Clarendon, etc.). City blocks stitched my days together without my naming them as “exercise.” Walking was simply how I moved through the world — and I didn’t yet realize that how I moved would one day matter as much to me as where I was going.

Running – as I learned as a novice runner in my 40s – was different. Running came with numbers: miles, splits, the push to go a little farther or faster each time. Progress was something I measured and documented. Walking never felt that way for me. My walking has been much more meditative and wellness‑focused: time to think, to notice, to let my nervous system downshift. I don’t check my pace on a walk; I check in with myself and catch up with friends by phone.

Not everyone experiences walking that way. I remember walking with a girlfriend and her six‑year‑old daughter one California afternoon, just looping through a cute neighborhood after lunch. “I’m bored,” she said. “We’re not doing anything.” She was eager to get home to watch TV, which made me laugh because that really was “not doing anything.” To her, our walk was a non‑activity, an empty space between real life and real fun. I understood that more than I wanted to admit. There’ve been seasons when I treated walking as the “nothing” between my real commitments. I have my own version of that voice when I slow down in my work; some part of me still believes that if I’m not “running,” I’m not really doing anything.

The pandemic shifted some of that. During Covid, walking was one of the few things that felt both safe and spacious. In the rain, humidity, heat, or cold, I walked with my phone, taking calls with colleagues and friends as we each circled our own neighborhoods. I walked to run errands, heading to the post office and local CVS, briefly socializing – while masked – with people who didn’t live in my own home. On Saturday mornings I started meeting up with groups of other walkers, sometimes on the National Mall, sometimes in a nearby parking lot. I noticed how much calmer I felt after even just half an hour outside, how conversations loosened as our feet moved. In those months, walking was not just transportation or exercise; it was a lifeline. It was one of the few ways I could feel connected to others and to my own body at the same time.

Living in the suburbs now, I drive most of the time. If I’m not intentional, days and even weeks can go by with only short walks between the car and a building. Unlike in a city, I don’t automatically rack up miles just by existing. Walking requires a decision: I have to choose to leave the car in the driveway, choose to step outside, choose to make time. I miss the freedom of walking, the casual noticing that comes with covering ground at a human speed. I see things better when I’m walking – the shape of leaves on trees, flyers on lampposts, faces of dog walkers, runners, and teens en route to school. Driving flattens all of those details into a blur. More and more, I’m aware that I’m not simply choosing between walking and driving; I’m choosing between different ways of being in my own life. The destination is the same either way; what changes is the way I get there.

As I think about this season of life and leadership, a few lessons from walking are starting to surface:

Pace matters. Running trained me to care about faster and farther. Walking reminds me that not everything needs to be optimized. Some seasons call for a sprint; others call for the kind of pace where you can still look around, ask questions, and adjust together. In leadership and facilitation, I’m noticing where I’m still trying to “run” every process when what’s really called for is a walk – steady, sustained, and attentive. The way we move the work forward is part of the work.

Who I walk with changes what’s possible. There are walks I take alone for exercise and sanity, and walks I take with a colleague where the conversation goes somewhere it never would have across a table. Side‑by‑side feels different from face‑to‑face. It somehow seems less transactional. There’s less pressure to perform, more space to think aloud; I notice people share more nuance and uncertainty when we’re looking in the same direction instead of directly at each other.

Walking is about how I move through my world, not just how I arrive. In my youth, walking often meant I couldn’t get a ride. Now, at midlife, walking feels more like a way of claiming my own rhythm and attention. It’s a small but real act of agency to park farther away, to take the slower route, to leave a little earlier so I can arrive having seen something besides the inside of a windshield. In leadership, I can’t always change the destination, but I can help choose the way we get there — the pace, the pauses, and what we notice along the path.

If you facilitate learning or lead others, you might consider …

• Where are you still trying to run when this season actually calls for a walk?

• How does your default pace shape the way people move with you – students, colleagues, staff?

• What decisions or ideas might become clearer if you changed the way you approached them — took them for a walk instead of keeping them at your desk?