It starts the same way most mornings do, a screen lights up before the sun does. The phone vibrates; the mind scrolls before the body even stirs. Somewhere between unread emails and meeting reminders, we convince ourselves we’re running the world. But really, the world is running us. The clock ticks, louder now. Coffee becomes a ritual of survival, not pleasure. Our hearts beat to the rhythm of urgency, our thoughts flicker faster than our breaths.
By 10 a.m., we’ve lived a thousand small lives; replied, reacted, refreshed and repeated. We are wired for movement, overstimulated, endlessly switched on. The dopamine feels good for a second, the notification, the “seen,” the completed task, until the quiet between those moments feels unbearable. Silence starts to sound suspicious. Stillness feels lazy. Rest feels like something we must earn.
It’s only out there, away from the screens and schedules, that the ticking finally begins to fade. Out there, I am free. The first few steps on the trail are always noisy, thoughts still racing ahead, planning, remembering, worrying. But nature has its own patience. Step by step, breath finds rhythm, shoulders drop, senses return home. The forest doesn’t ask us to perform. The mountain doesn’t care who we are on LinkedIn. The only algorithm that matters here is the quiet balance of wind, heartbeat, and earth.
Somewhere between the climb and the stillness, something inside begins to unknot. The soft crackle of leaves becomes noticeable again, as do the quiet conversations weaving through the group, laughter that isn’t forced, presence that isn’t performed. The mind stops refreshing. For the first time all week, we’re not running behind time, we’re walking with it.
Maybe that’s what slowing down really means. Not quitting the world but remembering how to inhabit it again. To let silence become a friend. To let the body feel safe outside of productivity. To remember that peace isn’t passive, it’s a practice. When we hike, we aren’t escaping our busy lives; we’re remembering how to live them. The mountain doesn’t give us something new, it returns what we’ve lost: our rhythm, our breath, our ability to just be.
So, this weekend, when you catch yourself checking the clock too often, remember: the art of slowing down isn’t about doing less. It’s about being here more and see you on the trails🧘🏾♀️!
Lily Waithaka | The Storyteller 🧘🏾♀️
Lily Waithaka is a writer and creative voice at Outdoorer, where she curates a reflective series on belonging, community, and the quiet lessons the outdoors continues to teach us. Her work weaves together story and stillness, reminding readers that healing often begins in connection and with nature. Through her reflections, she explores what it means to belong, to the land, to each other, and to ourselves. Each trail and story is a return.