Walking has always been one of the softest ways I return to myself. I do not need a perfect trail or a stunning view. I just need movement. I need the sound of my feet on the ground. I need air touching my skin. I need the reminder that I exist in a body that wants to keep going.
Right now, in San Antonio, my walking path is the stretch around my house. When it is not unbearably hot, I step off the pavement and walk straight into the grass. I love the feeling of being surrounded by something lush. Trees leaning into the sky. Grass thick and bright. Little pockets of green that feel like a soft place for the mind to land. Nature has always soothed me like that. It slows my thoughts. It pulls me out of overwhelm and back into the present moment.
I walk when my mind feels heavy. I walk when my emotions feel tangled. I walk when I need clarity because walking never fails to give it to me. Sometimes during the walk. Sometimes after. Always right on time.
But then there is my permanent home: El Paso.
There, nature speaks a different language.
El Paso does not give you lush grass or big trees with wide shadows. El Paso gives you desert. Brown earth baked under the sun. Cacti standing like warriors. Trees that look like they are made of bones. At first, I did not love it. I wanted green. I wanted softness. I wanted what I was used to.
The desert felt too hard.
Too dry.
Too unforgiving.
But that changed when I stopped resisting it.
When I leaned in.
When I let the land teach me something.
Because here is the truth I had to learn:
The desert looks hard on the outside, but inside it is tender.
A cactus may look spiked and armored, but if you cut it open, it is soft. Gooey. Full of water. Full of life. The flowers that bloom from a cactus are some of the most vibrant and striking flowers I have ever seen. They come from a place that looks like it should not be able to grow anything beautiful at all.
And that changed the way I saw myself.
Because I have become hard too.
Life made me that way.
Trauma made me that way.
Experience made me that way.
I learned to protect myself with sharp edges.
I learned to survive by being strong, guarded, and resilient.
But inside?
Inside I am soft.
Inside I am tender.
Inside I am gooey like a cactus.
And that softness deserves protection.
It deserves space.
It deserves to bloom.
So whether I am walking through the lush greens of San Antonio or the desert edges of El Paso, the land mirrors something back to me. It reminds me that clarity is always available. It reminds me that all landscapes, even the hardest ones, hold beauty if you open yourself to them. It reminds me that softness can grow in the most unexpected places.
My walking path is not just a place.
It is a lesson.
A grounding ritual.
A way back to myself.
A reminder that I can bloom too, even with my scars.
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