Over the past two years I’ve watched my body change in ways that haven’t been easy to accept. The number on the scale has slowly crept upward, almost back to where it was during late pregnancy. And yesterday, as I started down the sidewalk, I noticed something I hadn’t let myself see before — the extra weight I carry now, the folds of skin along my back shifting as I walked.

It startled me.

When I was younger, before babies and the years that followed, my body simply worked. I rarely thought about it.

And I’ll be honest — I was sort of proud of how my body bounced back after my first son. Not to the body I had in my twenties, but to something I recognized. Something familiar.

After the twins, though, I felt like my body broke. I was hovering at the edge of overweight, but I was managing. Then my boys hit elementary age, and the stress of everything just consumed me. The weight crept on. My body got larger. And I stopped looking too closely.

And now something else was compounding the problem — age. I was in my upper forties, and my body was changing in ways that had nothing to do with choices or willpower. Hormones shifting. Metabolism slowing. A whole new set of rules I didn’t ask for and didn’t understand.

Now I realized I would have to treat it differently.

Still, I set out around the block. I crossed the main street and followed the path toward the small park, past the rocky trail that leads to the bike obstacle course.

But very quickly something felt wrong.

I was out of breath and even my back felt exhausted.

Not from running hard or pushing myself — just a walk. A brisk walk. And I was already struggling. I was walking at what felt like a healthy, determined pace — the kind that says I’m exercising today — and my body was already fighting me.

I felt alarmed.

Then sad.

Then frustrated.

Was this really where I was now?

I passed mothers and grandparents pushing strollers. One of those bike-strollers where the toddler pedals and the parent does all the actual work.

When my boys were little, our days revolved around walks just like this. We went to the park almost every afternoon. Life moved at the pace of toddlers — stroller rides, playground stops, loops around the block.

And somewhere along the way, those daily walks had disappeared.

My boys are older now. We don’t need the stroller anymore. And standing there on the path, catching my breath, I realized how much I missed those days.

I kept walking.

By the time I crossed the bike park and stepped onto the track around the big field, I was almost crying. At one point I caught myself talking out loud.

“You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”

I had to reevaluate my athletic abilities.

I was way off the mark!

Technically I had a gym membership — I’d signed up because my kids’ swim classes were there — but standing on that path, I knew the gym wasn’t what I needed.

What I needed was this.

The ordinary walk. Fresh air. A reason to step away from my desk and move my body every day.

So I made a simple plan: fifteen more minutes. I’d pass the field and keep going to the soccer fields. That was enough for now.

A few drops of rain landed on my arm and I looked up at the sky.

“Well, great,” I muttered. God, what am I supposed to do now?

But I kept walking.

I passed a man mowing the grass on a riding lawn mower. I rounded the farthest corner of the soccer field and stepped onto a stretch of path shaded by tall trees. For a second I imagined I was somewhere else entirely — walking through a forest, far from the neighborhood.

Then the path curved again, leading back toward the houses and the street that would eventually take me home.

A few more sprinkles landed on my head.

The clouds moved on.

I made it all the way back around the soccer fields.

And then it happened.

I took a deep breath and my body finally relaxed on the exhale. The tightness in my chest loosened. My stride settled into something steady.

I was still working, but I wasn’t struggling anymore.

As I crossed back through the field toward home, I thought about those stroller walks. The daily loop. The rhythm we used to have.

Maybe I didn’t need a gym. Maybe I just needed to walk again.

I made it home. Sweaty, a little sore, but I made it.

Tomorrow I’ll try again. Same path. Same loop around the soccer fields. Nothing dramatic — just showing up.

That feels like something I can do.