My favorite physical activities aren’t fancy.
They’re simple, quiet, and they wake up parts of me I used to ignore.
Every morning, I walk my cat — Simba, my orange furball.
Sometimes before the sun comes up, sometimes right after.
Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.
He wears his little constellation harness, chest puffed out like he knows something cosmic.
And we just… walk.
It’s calm. It’s grounding.
It’s the first breath of the day.
At night, I walk him again.
Eight or nine p.m.
Another fifteen to thirty minutes.
Different air, different energy.
Same cat. Same little universe in motion.
That’s my walking.
The other joy is the heavy bag.
I don’t hit it for anger — I hit it for coordination.
For rhythm.
For the way the body and the mind have to talk to each other.
It’s cardio, it’s timing, it’s discipline, it’s therapy.
You can’t hide from yourself when you’re swinging at something that swings back.
And soon — I’ll be back in the gym.
Weights.
Three to four days a week.
Slowly rebuilding the machine.
Not rushing.
Just coming back to myself piece by piece.
Physical activity, for me, isn’t about showing off.
It’s about returning to structure.
Returning to breath.
And walking my little lion under the morning sky.
Leave a Reply