Treating The Road Like An Exit

LWhen my mind becomes too loud, I walk. Not for fitness, not for productivity, not to reach a destination—but to escape the noise inside my head. I treat the road like an exit sign, glowing quietly when everything else feels like it’s closing in. Walking is the only time my thoughts slow enough for me to breathe without feeling guilty for it.

There’s something grounding about putting one foot in front of the other. It gives my body a simple job when my mind is tangled in questions it can’t answer. As the pavement stretches ahead of me, I let my thoughts spill out without trying to fix them. I don’t journal them. I don’t analyze them. I just let them exist, floating beside me as I move forward. Sometimes that’s the only form of peace I can manage.

When depression tightens its grip, staying still feels dangerous. My thoughts turn inward, sharp and relentless, replaying memories, doubts, and worst-case scenarios on a loop. Walking interrupts that cycle. The rhythm of my steps becomes a quiet anchor, pulling me back into my body when my mind wants to disappear into itself. Each step feels like a small act of resistance against the weight I carry.

On days when Bipolar II brings restless energy or racing ideas, walking helps drain the excess without judgment. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I don’t have to be “on.” The road doesn’t ask why I’m there or where I’m going. It simply accepts me as I am—messy thoughts, heavy heart, uneven pace. Some days I walk fast, like I’m outrunning something. Other days I move slowly, barely lifting my feet, but I keep going anyway.

There are moments when the world feels strangely quiet while I walk. The sound of traffic, the rustle of leaves, distant voices—all of it blends into a background hum that reminds me I’m still part of something outside my head. Even when I feel disconnected from people, the act of walking through the world helps me remember that I still exist in it. I am here. I am moving. I am not stuck, even if it feels that way inside.

I don’t pretend that walking fixes everything. It doesn’t erase my disorders or magically clear my thoughts. But it creates space. Space between me and the torment. Space to survive the moment without giving in to it. Sometimes that space is the difference between feeling trapped and feeling like I have a choice.

Treating the road like an exit doesn’t mean I’m running away from life. It means I’m choosing to stay. Each walk is a quiet promise to myself: *I will keep going, even if all I can do today is move forward one step at a time.* And for now, that’s enough.