Walking, for me, has always been therapeutic – something more than a way to get somewhere. I picked up the habit in senior school when I started accompanying my dad on his morning walks.
Back then, self-reflection wasn’t on my agenda. We used to sit on the steps of a pond—part clean, part covered with algae. I would soak in the feel of the morning breeze against my face. Those quiet moments lingered with me long after we left.
Over time, walking became a way to reflect, to breathe, and to let the world fall back into place. I’ve walked on foggy mornings and rainy evenings. I’ve walked when I felt restless, trying to shake off the weight of a long day.
Every time, it does what no chair or desk can do: it clears my head. Walking is as old as thought itself—something we’ve done instinctively and in that simplicity lies its power.
It was years later, long after those walks with my dad, that I stumbled across Michel de Montaigne. Not in a classroom or a lecture, but in his Essays.
Montaigne wasn’t the kind of philosopher who sat still. He did not shut himself away in libraries or courtrooms like some of his contemporaries.
He thought on his feet, literally.
“My thoughts fall asleep if I make them sit down. My mind will not budge unless my legs move it.“
That simple truth guided his Essays. Just like his walks through the countryside of his estate in southwestern France, his words also wandered.
I’ve felt that, too. When my cubicle feels like a cage and my mind feels cluttered, I walk. There’s something about the steady rhythm of your steps that matches the rhythm of your thoughts. I can see you nodding your head in agreement 🙂
Some problems feel unsolvable until you’re moving. Montaigne understood this better than most.
“We must reserve a back shop, all our own, entirely free, in which to establish our true liberty and principal retreat and solitude.”
For him, walking wasn’t just an escape—it was a return. A return to himself, to his thoughts, and to the kind of quiet the world rarely offers.
Since we’re talking about Montaigne and France, I’m reminded of a trip to Paris in 2017. I was there for an official conference. After a marathon session, I felt lethargic and dizzy. All I wanted was to hit the bed.
Instead, I stepped outside into the fading light and let my feet decide the route. From my hotel, I walked to Shakespeare and Company for a bit of book therapy. From there, I wandered to the Centre Pompidou, then past the Louvre, and eventually all the way to the far end of the Champs-Elysees.
By the time I returned, I felt lighter, calmer, as if I had walked off the weight of the day.
Montaigne’s long walks in his vineyard likely had the same effect. Surrounded by hills and vineyards, he found clarity in motion. “The simple life is the life most in accord with nature,” he wrote.
That simplicity connected him to something larger than himself. Walking for him wasn’t about getting anywhere. It was about letting his mind wander freely, untethered by the constraints of a desk or a rigid idea.
For Montaigne, walking wasn’t about solving problems. It was about balance.
The world demands too much of us—too much noise, too much doing, too much everything. Montaigne believed walking kept him steady, in both body and mind. “The simple things—walking, fresh air—restore a man to himself.” It’s a truth we often overlook in a world obsessed with speed and perfection.
Today, Montaigne’s ideas on walking feel more relevant than ever. In a world dominated by screens and schedules, walking isn’t just good for the body, it also restores the soul. Modern research backs him up: walking boosts creativity and reduces stress.
But you don’t need studies to tell you what you can feel in your bones. Walk long enough, and your thoughts untangle themselves.
What I admire most about Montaigne is how his Essays reflect his walking. They’re not perfectly ordered or polished. They ramble and explore, taking detours and finding surprises along the way.
He didn’t pretend to have all the answers. He cared about peeling back the layers of thought, one step at a time. “I do not portray being: I portray passing,” he wrote.
He understood that life, like a good walk, isn’t about the destination. It’s about the journey.
So now, when I walk, I think of Montaigne. I think of his wandering mind. I think of how walking made him a better thinker and how it can do the same for me. And, for you, too. Because walking is a quiet rebellion. It’s a way to reclaim your thoughts and your space to simply be.
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