Wander Lost: When Was the Last Time You Just Went for a Walk?

There’s a path near my apartment that isn’t particularly beautiful. A bit scrubby. Uneven in parts. There are bins that don’t get emptied enough and a fence with a shoe stuck in it, for some reason. But when I walk it, something softens. My breath changes. The rhythm of my thoughts shifts. It doesn’t feel like exercise. It feels like exhaling.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how walking has become one of the last remaining ways to feel present. Not productive. Not busy. Not endlessly online. Just... here. One foot after another.

We don’t talk enough about walking as a form of queer self-care. Or as an antidote to overstimulation. For a while, I thought I was just weird for preferring walking meetings to desk ones. Or for suggesting a lap around the block instead of another coffee. But the more I lean into it, the more I realise I’m not alone. There are plenty of us choosing the slow path back to ourselves.

The Awe That Hides in the Ordinary

Researchers like Dacher Keltner have found that walking — especially when done slowly, with curiosity — can spark something surprisingly powerful: awe. Not the overwhelming kind you get from a waterfall or a grand speech, but the quiet kind. The kind that makes you stop mid-step just to watch how the light hits a leaf.

In his studies on "awe walks," Keltner found that people who took regular, intentional walks experienced reduced stress, improved wellbeing, and even a greater sense of connection to others. The magic wasn’t in the destination. It was in the noticing.

And it makes sense. When you're walking without a destination, without a podcast, without a photo to post later, you're forced to be in conversation with the world around you. You're not selling anything. You're not being measured. You're just... part of it.

Not Every Step Needs a Purpose

Arthur C. Brooks writes about how meaning stretches time. When we’re immersed in rich, emotionally engaging experiences, they linger. They feel longer, fuller, more alive. Routines, by contrast, flatten everything. Time becomes slippery. Days blur. You scroll. You reply. You refresh. Suddenly it’s Thursday again.

Walking interrupts that. Even a 20-minute loop around the block with your phone on silent can elongate a morning. It’s not magic. It’s just presence.

And yet, in a culture obsessed with steps, goals, calories, and content, walking just for walking’s sake feels almost rebellious. You’re not burning fat. You’re not monetising. You’re not becoming a better version of yourself. You’re just here.

Which, for a queer person in recovery, is saying something. Because I’ve spent years trying to optimise, correct, or escape myself. Through work. Through substances. Through curated chaos. Learning to walk slowly — without agenda, without performance — has helped me learn to stay.

Queer Solitude Isn’t the Same as Loneliness

There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. For a lot of LGBTQIA+ people, especially those living alone or outside traditional family structures, that distinction is critical.

Solitude, when chosen, can be sacred. It can be where we reconnect with who we are underneath the noise. It’s where we notice what we actually want. Where we learn our rhythms again.

For me, that often happens in motion. Sometimes on a walking meeting with a colleague who gets it. Sometimes on a meandering solo stroll with no headphones and no destination. Sometimes while scrolling through the Get Out calendar and seeing that the Nomads Outdoor group have another weekend walk in Melbourne, open to the community.

These aren’t big moments. But they’re anchoring ones. They remind me that even if I’m not “on” or surrounded by people, I’m still part of something.

Sobriety Quieted the Noise

I don’t want to make this article about sobriety. But I also can’t talk about why walking matters to me without acknowledging that part of the shift.

When I stopped drinking, everything got louder at first — the discomfort, the doubts, the feelings I’d been numbing. But then something else happened: silence. Stillness. Space.

Walking gave me a way to sit with that silence without needing to fix it. It became a kind of moving meditation. Not structured or formal. Just a place to go when I needed to remember that discomfort passes. That clarity returns. That peace isn’t always loud.

Community Doesn’t Always Mean Crowds

We often talk about queer community like it has to be this big, electric, all-in thing. Parties. Protests. Pride.

And sometimes it is. But sometimes, it’s just two people walking side by side. Or a few people meeting up in a park for a hike. Or someone texting, "Hey, want to go for a walk?"

That’s the kind of community I want Get Out to keep championing. Not just the big moments, but the quiet ones too. The rituals. The soft landings. The casual check-ins that turn into connection.

Groups like Nomads Outdoor Group in Melbourne are doing this so well. They’re proof that a walk can be more than a walk. It can be a reconnection. A beginning. A soft way in for someone who’s not ready for the bar scene, or who’s just moved to a new city, or who’s trying to rebuild after a rough patch.

You Don’t Have to Post It

One of the best things about walking is that no one expects anything from you while you’re doing it. You don’t have to reply. You don’t have to be interesting. You don’t have to post.

In fact, studies show that taking photos with the intention of sharing them can reduce your actual enjoyment of the moment. Walking — especially without your phone in your hand — gives you permission to just be where you are.

Maybe that’s why it’s become one of my favourite things to do. Especially when the world feels too loud or too fast or too filtered.

Final Thought: Let It Be Enough

Not every moment has to be life-changing. Not every day has to be productive. Not every friendship has to be epic. And not every walk has to lead somewhere new.

Sometimes, it’s enough to put one foot in front of the other and breathe in whatever the air smells like today. To listen to your thoughts without trying to fix them. To see something you hadn’t noticed before — a flower pushing through concrete, a dog in a backpack, a smile from a stranger.

If that’s all you get from your walk today, let it be enough.

Because it is.

Want to join a queer walking group near you? Check out the Nomads Outdoor walks on our Get Out calendar — or start your own casual stroll club and tell us about it. We’ll help spread the word.