There is a quiet beauty in the act of walking.
I have been in motion since my middle school years. I have known labor; I worked in industry, and I carried the weight of construction sites alongside my father.
From high school onward, the destination was always distant. I walked to the bus stops; I walked to the metro stations.
University took me to Eskişehir. My dormitory was far from the campus, and again, the road demanded I walk. Summers were surrendered to work at the beaches of Çeşme. I was trapped in a perpetual rush. There was always a kinetic rhythm to my life.
When I started my first job, the office was an hour away from my home. I spent my mornings standing in the crowded aisle of a bus, and I spent my evenings standing on the return journey. There was always movement.
I would plug in my headphones and dissolve into the ether. If you only knew the stories I wrote in my mind on those roads.
Then came the pandemic. Career shifts. The home office. The great stillness.
I slowly curated my sanctuary; I bought the desk, the chair, the monitor. Exhale. As a "bonus," of course, I accumulated the weight of a sedentary life. 🦥
I finally possessed the Mac I had dreamed of while standing on those buses. I had the sleek mouse, the crystal-clear monitor displaying "critical" things. But these beauties came with a subtle tax: I could no longer refresh the dreams I used to conjure while listening to my music in transit.
Two years ago, thankfully, I bought a car. With that, the rare moments of solitude—just me and my headphones—were finally extinguished.
"You are being dramatic," you might say. And you are right. This is not a tragedy; I am grateful to have achieved these things. I am not writing this to complain. But I know this: movement was the mechanism that cleared the static from my brain.
So why did I stop? Because I constructed new comfort zones, and then I simply forgot.
The site you are currently viewing is where I share the life I want to build. It is a mirror where I confront myself. This is another one of those confrontations.
In November 2025, I made covenants with myself. I am slowly trying to bring them to reality. Injecting movement back into my life was one of them. I actually sustained it for a long while, but the moment I stopped tracking the data—when I stopped paying attention—I retreated back into my comfort zone.
November and December were actually not terrible.
I hope this entry becomes a living habit, much like Cultivating the Reading Habit. As of February 1st, I have returned to the pavement. I will be updating this log weekly.
Checking soil...