Suddenly, I know what it means not to be able to function without my exercise

It took coronavirus to get me walking.

I’ve always disliked exercise. I’d watch enviously as joggers ran by my window, friends power walked pushing strollers with happily cooing babies, sisters woke up early to hit the gym while the rest of the world slept.

I’d heard runners claim that without the movement, without that time to “get things out of their system,” they wouldn’t be able to make it through the day. I wished that could be me. I wished I’d been born with an innate desire to move.

I was convinced I was doomed to a stagnant life of trying and pausing, trying and stopping, trying and giving up.

And then coronavirus happened. Almost overnight, walks became my respite. With the kids home every hour of every day, and my role as mother stretching thin and weary, I needed a few minutes out of the house each evening.

I relish the movement and the wind. I take deep breaths and push myself to walk faster still. I’ve been scheduling my walks for right around sunset. I push the baby’s bedtime off if it means she can sit quietly in the stroller while I forge ahead, walking to nowhere in particular, the music streaming through my earphones blocking out the world around me and allowing the world within to be heard and examined amid the chaos.

Suddenly, I know what it means not to be able to function without my exercise.