The New Year Walk | A Ritual of Reflection, Release & Return

Walking Through Change, Grief, and Growth

The turning of the year has always invited reflection, but not in a loud or performative way. For me, it arrives quietly, asking for presence rather than resolution. Over time, I’ve found a deeply personal way to honor that transition, one that continues to shape me, stretch me, break me open, and gently stitch me back together again.

Everyone marks the New Year differently.

For me, it is through walking.

What began unintentionally has become one of the most meaningful rituals of my life, a ceremony of reflection, release, and return.

Walking as Grounding

Walking has always been my steady ground.

Whether it was neighborhood walks, mountain trails, or walking barefoot just to feel the earth beneath me, movement has been where I process emotion, find clarity, and stay anchored when life feels overwhelming.

When I first moved to California, walking helped me manage my health and navigate a major weight-loss transition. Later, it became playful, mud runs, endurance events, movement for the sake of movement.

Eventually, it became something deeper.

A moving meditation. A way to honor both physical and emotional well-being. A way to come home to myself.

By 2020, walking had woven itself into my daily rhythm. Long weekend walks brought peace and clarity, and somewhere along the way, this ritual was born.

Year One (2020): The First Walk

At the end of 2020, I needed closure.

Space to reflect.

Time to process.

A way to reset.

I decided to walk the year out, literally.

There was no race, no medal, no audience. I set a bold intention, one hundred miles in thirty hours, not because I needed to reach it, but because I needed to follow through.

I started just before 7 p.m. on December 30 and walked until nearly midnight on December 31.

I didn’t reach one hundred miles. I reached 66.11.

And the distance quickly became the least important part.

Physically, I felt steady. Emotionally and mentally, something shifted. I was present, peaceful, grounded, alone but not lonely.

That was the moment I knew this ritual belonged to me.

Year Two (2021): Love, Loss, and Awakening

The following year, I walked again. Twenty-four hours. No distance goal.

2021 was heavy. It brought unexpected loss, profound grief, and alongside it, moments of joy and love.

That walk became a spiritual cleanse. I honored everything, the heartbreak, the beauty, the moments that stopped me in my tracks. It gave me a renewed perspective and helped me continue moving forward.

One lesson followed me every step of the way.

There is nothing more powerful in this life than love and kindness.

Year Three (2022): The Year My Son Joined Me

Year three was special.

I considered not doing the walk that year. It had been emotionally challenging, and I had slowed down significantly while processing multiple layers of emotion.

Then my son asked if he could join me.

When your teenage son voluntarily signs up to walk for twenty-four hours in the rain with you, you say yes.

We started together at midnight, walking in conversation and silence, eventually finding our own rhythms. My daughter became our pit crew and later surprised me by joining for the final lap as the rain intensified.

My son walked nearly thirty miles in pouring rain without complaint and finished ahead of me.

We laughed all the way home, soaked, tired, and full.

It was cleansing.

It was bonding.

It was unforgettable.

Year Four (2023): Awe, Gratitude, and Growth

Year four arrived quietly and powerfully.

Once again, my son chose to walk. This experience was deeply emotional, a reminder of how far I had come and how transformational the ritual had become.

Watching him choose intention and growth filled me with a pride I still struggle to put into words.

I knew then this tradition was here to stay.

Year Five (2024): The Walk of Letting Go

Year five marked a turning point.

It was my final New Year walk in the place I once called home, during a year full of transitions. Watching my children step into their own lives brought both pride and deep emotion.

We set an intention of one hundred thousand steps and simply walked.

We listened to our bodies. Talked about life. Noticed familiar trees and quiet paths.

Nature met us along the way.

That walk held everything I needed to release.

It was emotional.

Therapeutic.

Necessary.

Year Six: The Walk Ahead

This year, I wasn’t sure the walk would happen.

Life was shifting. Logistics were messy. I had moved from a place where walking felt safe and familiar, and the new surroundings did not yet feel the same.

Then an email arrived from one of my favorite places, and the path unfolded.

This became a destination walk. A solo walk. A much-needed road trip.

On December 30, I headed out alone, just me, my body, and my soul.

I arrived with nine hours to prepare. I laid out food, hydration, clothing, and the comforts I have learned matter most. Before beginning, I stepped onto the balcony and witnessed one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. I took it as a sign that I was exactly where I needed to be.

At midnight, I began with meditation and intention.

The darkness was deeper than expected. The moon was hidden by clouds, and the cliffside paths required care. After the first lap, I paused for rest and welcomed a two-hour nap before morning light arrived.

What followed was magic.

Ocean paths. A cypress forest maze. Routes rich with history and perspective.

At first, my hips protested. I talked to my body, thanked it, encouraged it. Eventually, I found my rhythm.

After the fourth lap, a second wind carried me through a ten-mile meditation stretch as rain fell softly around me.

I refueled. Ordered pizza. Finished strong.

By the end, I knew this was a place I would return to. The walk changed me. It brought clarity, joy, and perspective, and it continues to remind me who I am, especially on hard days.

A Closing Reflection

This is not a traditional way to celebrate the New Year.

But it is my way.

Even when I feel unprepared. Even when it is raining. Even when I am tired or unsure.

I go anyway.

This walk is a testament to where I am, how far I have come, and a way to honor my life and those who have shaped me.

Healing is not linear.

Growth is not perfect.

Intention matters more than tradition.

Final Thought

Your journey is yours alone, sacred, imperfect, and unfolding exactly as it needs to.

Whether you are walking into a new year, through a difficult season, or back home to yourself, trust the path beneath you. Even the smallest steps count.

With Love and Gratitude,

Amber