Top 5 Reasons to Walk While You Still Can
Because the body keeps score—and sometimes, so do your grandmothers.
It’s social (even when it’s just you and someone you love).
It’s the simplest health plan you’ll ever stick to.
It gives your days a shape you can feel.
Move it or lose it isn’t a threat—it’s a timeline.
Outside is still free. For now.
(This story came out of a writing workshop with Tania Katan, prompted by: “When was the first time you knew someone was old?”)
These days, at the ripe old age of 58, the only reason I remember what I ate for breakfast is because it’s the same thing every day.
Lunch? A mystery.
Yesterday? Vague.
Last week? Don’t get greedy.
Which is why I keep too many photos on my phone. Not curated, not organized—just a messy, visual breadcrumb trail of my life since 2011.
My grandmothers didn’t make it into the iPhone era.
But I have slides. Thousands of them. Enough to prove I existed—and that they did too. I even still have a slide projector. (And yes, there’s now an app that mimics the clicking sound. Progress? Meh.)
My paternal grandmother, Shirley, lived to 99 years and 11 months. Born in 1905 in a shtetl in Bessarabia, she boiled her Brooklyn water and stored it in old prune jars like it was liquid gold. Maybe a shot of schnapps before bed. Never, to my knowledge, sick.
She called me shayne punim—beautiful face—and told people I was born talking, “inoculated with a Victrola needle.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I remember my last phone call with her like it’s on a loop.
I’m driving to work, heading onto the Bay Bridge from San Francisco to the East Bay, flip phone wedged between shoulder and ear.
Me: Hi Grandma!
Grandma S: Shayne punim. Are you good?
Me: Yes, Grandma. Heading to work.
Grandma S: Are you working as a lawyer?
Me: Sort of, Grandma. I have a very good job.
Grandma S: Good. That’s good. How’s your Hillary? Do you think she’ll be President one day?
Me: Yes, Grandma.
Grandma S: Oy vey.
Me: Grandma, I have to get on the freeway now—I need two hands on the wheel.
Grandma S: Zisse kind. Shayne punim.
Me: I love you, Grandma.
And I remember our last walk.
Early 90s. I was teaching sixth grade in Brownsville, living in Park Slope. She was still in her apartment in Sheepshead Bay.
She wore polyester pantsuits. With heels.
Grandma: Let’s walk to the Bay today. They said on the radio it’s beautiful out. Since you’re here, you can guide me.
Ocean Avenue to Emmons Avenue—about half a mile.
She had macular degeneration. I was her eyes.
We made it there.
On the way back, her breath shortened just a little.
Grandma: Let’s go a bit slower, shayne punim.
That was the last walk we took together.
My maternal grandmother, Millie, was a different kind of legend.
Born in the Bronx in 1915. Smoked. Drank vodka on the rocks. Played cards like a shark. Ran a store called The Phantom and had no patience for browsers.
“Buy something or get out.”
She called her blood cancer MDS: “my disaster.” Said it with a mashup accent that somehow included the Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and New Jersey all at once.
I remember the last time I spoke to her.
I’m sitting on a brown leather couch in San Francisco. She’s in the hospital. Too weak now for the transfusions that had been keeping her alive.
My cousin puts me on the phone.
Grandma: Daaaahlink…will I see you?
Me: I love you, Grandma.
Grandma: I love you too, darling.
That moment still guts me.
And I remember our last walk too.
Ft. Lee, New Jersey. October 2000.
We’d done that walk a hundred times before—from her tall, white, brutalist building down to the shops.
There’s a slight incline on the way back.
This time, she had to stop.
More than once.
In heels, of course.
Always dressed. Always composed.
Grandma: Let’s go a bit slower, darling.
I don’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday.
But I remember that.
The slowing down.
The asking.
The quiet shift from leading to being led.
That’s when I first understood.
Aging doesn’t announce itself. It just…adjusts the pace. And if you’re lucky, you notice before you have to say it yourself.
anecdōtes:
Welcome to anecdōtes, our weekly writing prompt for those of us taking care of aging loved ones while simultaneously googling “am I having a midlife crisis or is this just Tuesday?”
This Week’s Writing Prompt:
Describe a walk you took with someone you love. What do you remember most? Use all 5 senses.
dōt.age exists because we’re all navigating the uncharted territory of caring for aging parents, and we need to share our stories.
This isn’t about being a writer—it’s about being human and sharing our messy, unfiltered truths of eldercare.
Each week, we’ll drop a prompt.
You write for five minutes.
No polish, no pressure—just permission to be gloriously imperfect.
If you want to share what you wrote, send it our way and we’ll share it on our Substack so we can all feel a little less alone in this wild mixtape that is our lives.
SEND TO: LNahmie@gmail.com
dōte.worthy:
Here is a short article from Mind Over Mountains about the benefits of walking and talking in nature.
Here is a bit about the Blue Zones study and how consistent walking and movement can promote longevity.