I’ve always been a speedy walker.
Growing up in Arizona and Michigan, my friends laughed at the long hikes I’d take in my neighborhood in the extreme heat and cold. So, when I started college in Manhattan in 2013, I fit right into the swiftness of the city.
I felt proud when my parents first came to visit and commented on how well I matched everyone’s pace. Like many New Yorkers, I came to look down on slow striders and openly complained about them.
Then I got sick
Tourists, in particular, were a frequent target — I could almost always tell when someone was from out of town strictly by their steps. To me, it was a sign that they didn’t fully respect our fast-moving culture. I felt a responsibility to zigzag ahead when people weren’t going fast enough, following the unspoken law of the land. With the very young, older people or anyone with a clear physical impairment, I cut some slack. But I found it embarrassing when my peers couldn’t keep up.
That all changed earlier this year when I was diagnosed with a cardiac problem that kept me on near-bedrest for almost two months. Even though I was healthy and only 29, I couldn’t do anything that would raise my heart rate, including taking stairs or even walking more than a few steps at a time. For the first time, I was the one going at a glacial pace. “Don’t worry about others. Go at the pace you need,” my fiancé said as he strode slowly alongside me, helping me with daily tasks like carrying groceries or picking up medication.
But I couldn’t shake the rude looks from others and the annoyance of being constantly cut off when I went outside. I learned to contort my body, almost subconsciously, to let people pass whenever I heard them approaching behind me.
I knew that when people looked at me, they probably wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. I wished I could wear a sign on my face saying, “You don’t know what I’m experiencing right now.”
I became less judgmental
As I continued my bedrest, only leaving the house a few minutes a day, I finally saw other slow walkers differently. I noticed the concessions that certain older people made on the street, constantly pulling off to the side to let others go by. I watched young children walking home with their parents from school, taking their time as they took in the novelty of the world around them. Friends and couples were strolling and talking, not in any hurry to reach their destination. They gave me comfort, like it was fine to move through life on my own terms and not feel pressured to keep up with anyone else.
The hardest part of my condition was realizing how inaccessible daily life could be. When I needed to take a train, I had to find stations with an elevator or escalator, which was more challenging than I realized. Simple things like working out to release stress were no longer possible. I often found myself going crazy at home, bored and angry that I couldn’t access the outside world like everyone else.
I don’t feel like fast walking anymore
These days, my condition has mostly improved, so I’m moving again — albeit not as briskly as normal. Whenever I see slow amblers now, I feel a sense of solidarity. Of course, not everyone who walks slowly does so for a hidden medical reason. But aside from the few times when I will need to be in an extreme rush, I don’t feel the same pull to hurry just for the sake of it anymore.
Weeks ago, when I finally went on a Central Park walk with my friends for the first time in months, I apologized for being so slow. “It’s actually better we’re not going super fast,” one said, pointing out the beautiful trees that had just started to bloom. “We’d rather take it all in.”
