Messy and moving
on showing up daily, whatever the weather
It’s that time of year again. When I start to resent my daily dog walks just a little.
It usually hits after that lift of January ending and February landing. When you realise it was nothing but an arbitrary date. When February feels like a month of Tuesdays, and there’s still far too many wet days ahead, and spring is not yet close enough to touch.
By now, it’s been six months of wet fields, rain that hits you sideways, and thick mud that finds its way to invade every possible space.
Each walk is the kind that requires a shower on your return, an extremely hot cup of tea (there is no other kind), and a questionable assessment of our wrongly titled ‘waterproofs’.
Somewhere about now, the romance wears off. But it was during a brief hiatus in my daily walks recently (a small injury that forced me to surrender to the fact that I couldn’t head out on our usual stomps) that made me long for them… regardless of the weather. And whilst I expected the restlessness and the guilt, what surprised me was far more than just the cabin fever, or the loss of my daily excuse to leave the house, which, as someone who works from home, is no small thing.
It was that my body felt… unmoored.
As though something subtle but substantial had been removed from my day.
As though a quiet anchor I hadn’t realised I relied quite that heavily upon had slipped.
I’ve walked with Buckley (my shadow in cockapoo form) almost every day for nearly nine years. And whilst that might be more than a little obvious, considering I’m parent to a dog, what once was a mere daily ‘dog walk’ has really cemented itself in my days as everything… my walk ‘with’ my dog.
Not for productivity. Not for mindfulness. Not to hit my steps. I walk with him because he needs walking. But also because I need walking, too.
Some days it’s the same routes. Some weeks, it’s just the same fields on repeat.
Different seasons. Different weather. Different internal states.
Some days I start the walk wired and restless.
Mind whirring, never settled, full of loud, intrusive and reuminating thoughts that don’t know when to quit. Other days are flat, heavy, slow, getting out, and just doing the do. And some, more often when the sun remembers how to shine, are fuelled by optimism, hope, and pure in-the-moment-joy (especially when I pause to watch his sweet little face). In fact, if we don’t get our walk in at some point in the morning, I can’t quite settle. I’m twitchy, restless, unable to place my thoughts or my energy.
What I’ve learned, slowly, almost by accident, regardless of how life shows up, is that doing the same simple thing daily, regardless of mood or motivation, has been one of the most regulating practices in my life.
Even if it’s the same every day. Something always shifts, downregulates.
Some walks are fuelled by podcasts — borrowed voices, something to occupy my endlessly thinking mind while my body moves.
Some by playlists that soundtrack whole chapters of my life. Or albums full of nostalgia, from track one, no skipping a beat.
Some by phone calls with friends and family—talking, listening, co-regulating in real time.
And some by nothing at all.
Just birds, the low hum of the tractors (extra points on the days I get a wave from the farmer!), and my own thoughts whirring away—unchecked, unedited, finally given space to percolate.
Just me and my shadow, keeping pace. Side by side.
Buckly came into my life at a point when I needed a reason to get out of bed.
When panic attacks narrowed my world again.
When depression made everything feel everything. And nothing at all.
My black dog helping me walk the other black dog out. And he’s been there every time it’s returned. And all the days in between.
I almost didn’t get him. Worried that the panic attacks that once left me housebound would leave him stuck there, too. In reality, walking with him every day is one of the reasons I get out every day. Because he doesn’t care how I feel. I mean, he does, but he doesn’t judge!
He doesn’t care what season it is. He doesn’t care if it’s raining sideways. He doesn’t care if I’m in no mood to talk or if I’m feeling edgy.
He doesn’t care how I show up. He just cares that I do.
And in doing so, our walks have taught me how to embrace the seasons, both external and internal—even the cold, wet, relentless ones.
How to move with life instead of constantly trying to out-think it.
And how regulation isn’t always about fixing, soothing, or optimising; sometimes it’s simply about repetition, rhythm, and reliability.
We’ve walked through months where I was functioning but far from flourishing.
Through days when my energy was deep in my boots, and my thoughts were as thick and heavy as the mud we waded through.
Through days when I’ve been the messiest version of myself
Through every season, in all kinds of weather—showing up anyways.
And that, it turns out, matters more than you realise. Showing up for yourself regardless. Doing it without thinking. Letting done be better than perfection. Just putting one small step in front of the other, no matter your internal state.
We talk about regulation as something we actively need to book in, something we consciously do. Through tools, techniques, or practices—a regular class, a clearly named method. A moment of awareness. There’s a place for all of that, of course.
But I’ve come to believe that some of the steadiest forms of regulation happen quietly inside soft repetition.
Inside the gentle returning to the same small acts, today, and again tomorrow.
Showing up even when it feels flat or unremarkable. Keeping small promises to ourselves, without needing them to feel meaningful every time. Without fanfare, without outside rewards.
I honestly think that some of the best things we can do for our overwired, burnt-out minds and bodies are the simple daily chores that we do on autopilot or look upon as ‘boring’ or ‘mundane’. Folding laundry, boiling the kettle, wiping the same kitchen surface, chopping vegetables, stirring your porridge. Unglamorous, unamplified, but softly aware.
Because, before you know it, those small repetitions become something steady, a rhythm you learn to recognise. A routine you build around. A gentle step on a day that feels untethered.
The thing is, Buckley doesn’t need me to be calm, healed, or performative. He also doesn’t care if we do the same walk day in, day out. He just needs me to show up and walk alongside him, one foot in front of the other. Irrespective of whether our pace matches pace, or our rhythm matches rhythm.
And in meeting that need, day after day, my body has learned something important:
I can show up and just be, without needing to be regulated first. I can still arrive without feeling ready.
There’s something in that I keep coming back to. How simple it would be, how comforting it would be, if we could offer each other the same grace and turn up regardless, as the messy versions of ourselves. Whatever the weather. ✨
