#183

Forced Perspective: The lessons we walk past

Over the last few weeks, I lost something I never thought I’d lose. It was so embedded in my life that I’d stopped noticing it altogether. It was a constant companion, so reliable and ordinary that I built my identity around it without even realising.

Walking.

The simple, taken-for-granted act of walking. Not long nature hikes or ambitious treks, but the everyday steps that allow me to live my one wild and precious life.

Walking to the bathroom from bed.

Walking to the car from the house.

Walking from the kitchen to the dinner table.

Walking upstairs.

Walking downstairs.

For weeks, an injury took that away. And with it went a part of me I didn’t even know I’d been relying on.

If I were asked to pick a handful of everyday physical superpowers to carry me through life, walking would be among them, right alongside sleeping and seeing. But in truth, I never considered it a superpower until I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t something I meditated on or wrote about in gratitude lists. It was just there—until it wasn’t.

This injury forced me into a perspective I didn’t choose, but one that I now can’t unsee. It’s as though my life slowed down enough for me to notice how much I was rushing past. Every step I couldn’t take became a mirror reflecting all the small things I’d overlooked.

We rarely pause to think about what keeps life moving. And yet, everything—absolutely everything—requires maintenance. It doesn’t matter if it’s a house, a garden, a relationship, a business, a culture, a car, or even your nervous system. It all needs care, attention, and intention.

Walking is no different. Muscles, joints, balance, coordination—they’re all quietly working together, day in and day out, without fanfare. Until they don’t.

It’s humbling to lose something so fundamental, even temporarily. It’s a stark reminder that we’re not invincible, that the things we lean on the hardest often bear the weight of neglect.

I’ve been lucky. My injury isn’t permanent, and I’m already on the road to recovery. But the experience has left a lasting mark—not just in my body, but in my mindset.

I had to lose walking to be reminded of how much I value it. Now, I find myself thinking differently about other parts of my life that I’ve taken for granted. What else am I neglecting because I assume it will always be there?

We can’t maintain everything perfectly. Life is messy and full of distractions. But we can start by noticing. By taking stock of the small, silent miracles that get us through each day.

A Call to Maintenance

So, what about you? What are the simple things in your life that require maintenance?

A friendship you’ve let drift because it feels too familiar to lose.

A skill you’ve stopped practicing because you think it’s “good enough.”

Your body, your health, your mind—the tools that carry you through the world.

Don’t wait for a forced perspective to remind you of their value.

Do the maintenance work now, before you have to.

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Cheers

Pete