Snowshoes, Uneven Ground, and Learning as I Go

The Many Lessons a Single Hour Illustrated for Me

That first step felt awkward. The ground was uneven. I couldn’t see what was supporting me, but I could feel it. A single hour on snowshoes became a reminder of what it can be like to learn how to walk again after loss.

This weekend, I tried something new.
I went walking in snowshoes.

Before we even started, I was bundled in layers. Snow pants. Thermal pants. Sweater. Hooded jacket. Hat. Gloves. So many layers that bending over felt almost impossible. Putting on the snowshoes was awkward. Tightening the straps was harder than I expected. I couldn’t get them right, and I had to ask for help. That felt uncomfortable. I like knowing what I’m doing. I like feeling capable and taking care of myself. But there I was, standing in the cold, needing help just to get started.

Once we began walking, the awkwardness didn’t disappear. Snowshoes feel strange. My steps were so much wider than regular hiking. My body moved differently. We walked in a single file line through the woods in Northwest Indiana, following a narrow path that wound through trees, up small hills, and back down again. I didn’t choose the path. I just followed it. Step over step. Step over step. 

At times, it felt scary. The ground was uneven. The hills were steeper than they looked. I was hyper aware of where I placed my feet. Thankfully, there were spikes on the underside of the snowshoes. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them. They gave me traction, and where I should have slipped, I didn’t. They didn’t take away the fear, but they helped me keep moving.

The air was crisp and cold at first. As we walked, my body warmed up. I started to loosen my coat. I took off my gloves for a bit and let the cool air in. Somewhere along the way, the cold turned into energy. What had felt stiff at the beginning began to feel more natural.

Afterward, it struck me how many lessons that single hour held.

For widows who are early in grief, life can feel just like that first part of the walk. Everything is heavy. You are wrapped in layers you didn’t ask for. Simple things take effort. You may feel clumsy in your own body and unsure of every step. You may need help just to begin, and that can feel painful and exposing.

Becoming a widow means learning how to move in a world you did not choose. The terrain is unfamiliar. The path feels narrow. You can only see what is directly in front of you. Following the path is enough for now.

For widows who are further along, the walk may feel different. The ground is still uneven, but you know how to place your feet. You’ve learned which supports help you keep your balance. You recognize the effort it takes, and you trust yourself more than you once did.

You may even notice moments of warmth. Times when you loosen the layers. Times when your breath comes easier. Times when life feels a little more alive again, even with the grief still present.

That hour in the woods was both awkward and magical. Widowhood can be like that too. It can be frightening and meaningful at the same time. You can feel unsure and capable in the same moment.

I’m learning that a single hour, a single step, a single shared moment can hold more than we expect. Sometimes, it holds just enough to help us keep going.

I don’t know where you are in your grief. You might be very early, or you might be further along. Wherever you are, this walk can feel awkward and lonely. Please know, you don’t have to take every step by yourself. You are welcome to join me for a free conversation where you can share your story and speak your grief out loud. We will simply talk together and walk together for a moment. Sometimes that is enough to help you keep going. Follow this link to schedule a free Holding the Ember conversation.