I used to hate exercise, but now I can’t stop walking for my mental health

Standing at the stop of Arthur’s Seat, looking over Edinburgh, I think about how far I’ve come. The first time I climbed up here was a spontaneous, stupid decision on a snowy day. Trying to climb up an extinct volcano in a winter coat and Vans with no grip was bad enough, but it took hours to get back down, which mostly involved sliding down a rocky path on my bum and an impressive bruise that lasted for months.

The second time I climbed up was towards the beginning of my training for the West Highland Way, something I decided to do on a whim because a) I thought it’d be one of the only holiday options available during a pandemic and b) I had spent 3 days in the Highlands and decided I wanted more.

It was boiling hot — by Edinburgh standards at least — and I cried when I was only about 20 steps from the bottom of the hill. All I could hear with every step I took were the voices of everyone who told me I’d never do anything; the eternally-disappointed relatives, the abusive exes…

Thanks to years of mental and physical chronic illness, I hadn’t exercised in years and my fitness levels were pretty much zero. I finally made it to the top, out of breath, with a pounding headache, and thinking “I am never going to do that again.” Given only a few months earlier I could barely open a door without feeling like my wrist would snap, I wrote it off as a one-off achievement and left it at that.

This time, breathing it the cool wind at the summit, I don’t feel a sense of calm wash over me, but I do start to believe that if I just keep going, keep doing this, I might actually achieve my goal: 154km in a week.

I look around at the tourists taking photos and families jumping around the rocks. I watch a man who walked up with just his two dogs for companies sit on the edge and give them a cuddle. I see the students crack open and share a bottle of fizz. I’m out of breath and sweating, my thermals soaked through, and I tuck my chin into my fleece after chugging half a litre of water.

The feeling of constant panic, of breathlessness, disappears. I don’t think I’ve ever not felt like I’m trying to catch my breath before. I never feel relaxed or rested. Somehow, when my feet burn and I’m gasping for water, I feel calm. When I record another 15 miles, only stopping for soup and a sandwich, I’ve found my purpose. And when I look down on the city I live in and realise how far I’ve come, knowing how much I can do, I feel proud.