Skip to main content

🧘‍♀️ This One Walk Fixed My Overthinking Brain (No, Not a Gym Walk)

    ✍️ By Subhasri Devaraj

Image by Author

Let’s cut the fluff.

No breathing apps.
No Himalayan retreats.
Just me. Walking. Like a confused monk in pajamas.

But here’s the twist —
I wasn’t walking for steps. I was walking for silence.

🚨 The Problem: You Feel Disconnected, Don’t You?

You scroll. You swipe.
You check your phone even when it didn’t buzz.
You don’t even finish songs anymore.
You start movies, you skim books, you click away from your own life.

Somewhere between work, WhatsApp, and “wait, what did I open this app for?”, you lost that tiny, magical thread that makes you feel… alive.

🧘‍♂️ The Unexpected Fix: Walking Without a Goal (Yes, Really)

Not walking for fitness.
Not walking to call your ex.
Not walking to pick up groceries.

Just… walking.
With your senses fully ON.

It’s called walking meditation.
Zen monks do it. Now normal people do it too — because it freaking works.

☀️ What You Actually Do:

  • You pick a lane, terrace, room, or garden.

  • You walk slowly. Like “old uncle on chai break” slow.

  • You don’t scroll.

  • You focus on the sound of your foot touching the floor.

  • You feel the breeze, the breath, the sun on your face.

  • That’s it.

No guru.
No incense.
No internet.

Just you + your body + this moment

💥 Why It Works (Even If You’re Skeptical)

This kind of walk:

  • Slaps your nervous system with calm

  • Quiets mental tabs you didn’t know were open

  • Feels like a detox for your attention span

And bonus?
You feel like the main character again.
Even in pyjamas.

⚡Want to Try It Today?

Call it your “mental reset lap.”

👉 Do it barefoot on your terrace.
👉 Do it while the tea brews.
👉 Do it in silence — or with wind and birds as background music.

One rule only:
No screen. No destination. Just sensation.

✨ Extra Twist (Never Seen Before):

Try this:
Start your walk with one question — “What does the air feel like today?”

Not deep. Not spiritual. Just… curious.

It pulls your brain out of the past and drags it into now.
Suddenly you're not thinking about deadlines or old texts.
You're feeling wind. Smelling leaves. Hearing a dog sneeze.

Simple? Yes.
Stupidly powerful? Also yes.


🎯 Real Talk:

You don’t need a therapist for everything.
Sometimes, your body knows what to do.
It just needs you to shut up and walk with it.

So the next time you feel like you’re floating outside your own life?

Come back.
One slow step at a time.

💬 Tell me in the comments:
Have you ever tried walking without your phone, just for you?

Or DM me the weirdest thing your brain said during a walk. I’ll go first:

“What if clouds are just sky sheep?”

Created with love and calm by Subhasri Devaraj
#ZenWalk #WalkingMeditation #SlowLiving #MindfulMovement #HowToFeelAliveAgain #PoetryInMotion #TheHeartlogue #BreakTheAlgorithm


🧠 Disclaimer:
✋ No AI Here:
This blog post was written 100% by me, Subhasri Devaraj, without the use of AI writing tools.
Every word is real, personal, and written from scratch — just like a proper conversation over filter coffee. ☕
No bots. No auto-generated fluff. Just me, talking to you

⚠️ No content here is copied or auto-published. I don't post anything I wouldn’t say to a friend.

📌 Copyright © 2025 — Subhasri Devaraj | The Heartlogue
All rights reserved. Please do not copy, republish, or reprint without permission.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Holmes Never Left

  ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj She didn’t believe in coincidences, which is exactly why she went alone. The Sherlock Holmes Museum had always seemed kitschy in pictures—pipes, deerstalkers, wax figures frozen mid-puzzle. But as Anika stepped inside, everything felt... off-script. The air was colder than London’s July deserved. Her emerald chiffon saree rustled as if it too sensed something unspoken. Near the fireplace, a magnifying glass lay on a velvet cloth—no display tag, no protective case. Just waiting. She picked it up. The museum remained quiet, too quiet. As she looked through the lens, the world tilted. The modern clutter dissolved. Warm gaslight replaced LEDs. The parquet floor shimmered like it had just been polished. And the sound—horse hooves on cobblestone, a steam whistle slicing through fog. She blinked. Still in the museum. But now the fire was crackling. And then she saw it: carved faintly into the stone above the mantle—her name. Anika. It wasn't graffiti. It was...

The Mirror We Don't Want to See

  ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image Created by Author You know that moment when you catch yourself doing the exact thing you just rolled your eyes at someone else for doing? Yeah, that moment. The one that makes you want to crawl under a rock and pretend it never happened. I had mine at Starbucks last Tuesday. There I was, standing behind this woman who was taking FOREVER to order. She's asking about every single drink modification, questioning the barista about oat milk versus almond milk, wanting to know if the caramel drizzle is "too sweet." I'm checking my watch, tapping my foot, thinking "Lady, it's coffee, not rocket science." My turn comes up. And what do I do? "Hi, um... what's the difference between your cold brew and iced coffee? And is the vanilla syrup sugar-free? Oh, and do you have any pastries that aren't too dry?" The universe has a sick sense of humor. We're All Walking Contradictions Here's the thing nobody talks a...

She Didn’t Sit There to Relax

    ✍️  By Subhasri Devaraj Image cretaed BY Subhasri Devaraj (Author) The swing groaned softly under her weight—not in welcome, but in quiet protest. Kavitha didn’t sit because she wanted rest. She sat because there was nowhere else to go. The sunlight creeping across the marble tiles didn’t comfort her; it just reminded her the day had started without asking permission. The brass lamp still flickered from the early puja, but it didn’t feel sacred this morning. Just routine. She held a glass of tea she didn’t want—too strong, too sweet, just like yesterday’s. Her saree clung to her in the humidity, stiff with starch and obligation. Outside, life roared—a pressure cooker whistle, motorbikes in the street, a baby crying in the neighbor’s flat. But inside, Kavitha felt like a ghost moving through a museum of her own choices. She caught sight of the brass statue on the shelf—Lakshmi, maybe Saraswati. She couldn’t remember. They all looked the same now. She took a sip of her ...