Slipping, Spiraling, and Returning

2 min

At the start of this year, I made a commitment: an hour-long walk every single day. Preferably in the morning—first thing. Wake up, make my bed, brush my teeth, put on my shoes, and step outside. No overthinking. Just movement. Just breath. Just presence. I told myself I’d take a different path each time, giving myself permission to wander, to notice, to simply be in the world before the world started demanding anything of me.

And for the most part, I did.

It became a ritual I looked forward to—moving my body before the day began, filling my lungs with crisp air, clearing out mental clutter. I started noticing the small things: the way the morning light hits a particular building just right, the delicate frost forming on parked cars, the warmth of a stranger’s smile—because a smile, after all, is a form of charity, a quiet offering to both the giver and the receiver.

But then the cold crept in.

The African in me does not do well in anything below 30 degrees. And if you live in New York—or anywhere with real winters—you know how biting the air can be. How the mere thought of stepping outside feels unbearable. Slowly, my routine started slipping. Some mornings, I stayed curled in bed, convincing myself I’d walk later (spoiler: I didn’t). The desire was there, but the motivation wavered.

Coincidentally, this is the time of year when many people fall off their New Year’s resolutions. We start strong, riding the wave of fresh intentions, and then… life happens. The weather changes. The excitement fades. The habit that once felt effortless now requires negotiation. And suddenly, I found myself not walking, but instead thinking about walking—moving from action back into contemplation.

I lingered there for a while, caught between knowing what I wanted to do and struggling to do it. But habits, like seasons, are about returning. So this morning, I pushed myself to walk again. The air was cold, but not unbearable. And as I moved, I spotted something on the sidewalk—words written in chalk, surrounded by little hand-drawn flowers:

"30 days until SPRING!"

I smiled. A small reminder from the universe that the seasons always change. That warmth is on its way. That whatever I lost in the cold, I can find again in the thaw.

So, if you’ve fallen off a habit, if your resolutions have slipped, if you’re stuck in contemplation instead of action—be gentle with yourself. Slipping is not failing. You are not back at zero. Keep coming back, as many times as you need.

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