Walking at My Own Pace: What Two Falls Taught Me About Listening to My Body

Today gave me a lesson I did not expect, one that began with a sprained ankle and ended with a revelation about how I move through the world.

After injuring my right ankle on Friday, my left leg has been working overtime. She’s the leg that has always struggled, the one I’ve nurtured through remedial therapy and osteopathy, the one I’ve been learning not to give up on. And strangely, beautifully, she has stepped up. She’s stronger now, carrying weight she never used to carry, supporting her sister in ways I once thought impossible.

So when my friend suggested water walking this morning, my whole body said yes. I asked my neighbour for help getting to the gym, something that still feels vulnerable since my diagnosis, and he happily agreed. I arrived prepared, determined, and hopeful.

But the moment I stepped out of the car, I made a familiar mistake: I matched someone else’s pace instead of my own. I held onto Brendan, chatted, turned my attention outward, and stopped listening to the tiny pauses my body needs. Within moments, I tripped and fell scraped knees, bruised pride, and a shock that rattled me more than the impact itself.

I sat, recovered, and tried again. But inside the gym, after only two steps, I fell a second time. People offered explanations: “It was your shoes,” “You were walking too fast” but I knew the truth. I wasn’t walking at my pace. I wasn’t listening inward. I was trying to keep up.

And that’s when the real insight landed.

I realised I have a lifelong habit of speeding up around others. I do not want to be left behind. I don’t want to slow anyone down. I don’t want to be the person who needs extra time. But my body now requires deliberate movement: heel–toe, knee lift, weight shift, pause. When my attention splits between conversation, social pressure, someone else’s rhythm, the sequence breaks. And I fall.

Brendan suggested maybe it was too soon, maybe we should go home. For a moment, I agreed. But then something deeper spoke up: if I left now, fear would win. If I left now, I’d lose confidence. If I left now, movement would become something to avoid. So I chose differently. I chose the pool. I chose the sauna. I chose to keep moving.

Walking back to the car afterwards, I asked Brendan to walk ahead of me so I could walk alone, at my pace, with full attention. And just like that, no falling, no stuttering, no fear. My body was steady because I was finally walking with her, not with anyone else.

Coming home, I realised this lesson applies far beyond the gym. In life, too many people want me to “walk at their pace” emotionally, socially, energetically. But I need to move at the rhythm that keeps me safe, grounded, and confident. I need to know the terrain. I need to pause when my body asks. I need to give myself time. I need to stay attentive to my own internal signals, not someone else’s expectations.

The truth is simple and profound:

My pace is not a problem. My pace is my safety. My pace is my wisdom.

And today, scraped knees and all, I finally learned to honour it.