Going fast can be fun, but life is made richer when you slow down.

I’d heard that there’s a beauty in going slow. Once I would have countered (in my mind, at least), “but going fast is more fun.” These days, I am not so sure, and I recently found out why.

Sitting on a large rock by Sylvester Hut in Kahurangi National Park, I watched the sun cresting Mt Crusader in gentle orange. The rock was cold and the surrounding tussock formed an immersive, golden sea. I closed my eyes. The sun’s rays were warming and soothed the sting of the morning’s cold breeze. Body and mind were still. Quiet. Deeply grounded. It was the magic you hope for.

Until, along came a disruptive, deeply habituated urge: “Stop wasting time! This is an opportunity to get going early! You’ll be able to move faster, go further and push harder!” 

I moved – but then caught myself. There was no rush. This was a moment to enjoy. I drew a deep breath and focused on the sunlight hitting my face. Groundedness returned, and I slipped deeper into the moment.

Until four years ago, I would not have chosen to stay like this, and would likely have sacrificed this nourishing moment in order to depart early and push hard all day. The fact is, I’ve felt driven to push hard and achieve for most of my life. Track times were for beating, and I lived for PBs. It was not entirely bad. This drive served me well for a time, especially when (mis)diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) in 2011. At the time I was dependent on a mobility scooter to get outside, and had been told I’d lose the ability to walk. My drive kicked in, sustained me through several years of rehabilitation, and getting me back in the mountains. 

However, this competitive, go-hard approach meant ignoring my body, creating a disconnect and reinforcing my already problematic relationship with time and landscape. Although I loved being outdoors, my watch face often trumped my surroundings. The landscape held utility as long as it enabled achievements that bolstered my failing sense of self-worth. I was frequently outside but rarely present in it. Significant moments felt shallow.

In 2019 I experienced a significant relapse. I’d ignored symptoms for months, too focused on improving my 5k running times. One morning I returned from a run barely able to communicate, struggling to walk unaided and experiencing significant cognitive challenges. A few weeks later I was diagnosed with Functional Neurological Disorder, an under-researched condition that’s often misdiagnosed as MS. I developed debilitating, chronic pain, and life in the mountains became impossible. I was back to square one. It was devastating.

Then in 2020, I was accepted into the Pain Management Centre at Burwood Hospital, and my trajectory changed. Working with a physiotherapist and a psychologist my capacity and mindset were slowly rebuilt. Initially, it meant walking around the block for 12 minutes a day. It was enormously challenging. I had to walk very slowly – and I wasn’t allowed to wear my watch. 

But then came a radical realisation: I discovered richness in going slow, being present by engaging my senses and finding beauty around me. Even minor moments felt unexpectedly deep, rich with meaning. 

Three years later, with a 10-hour day ahead, I was having my moment at Sylvester Hut. The sun’s warmth penetrated my jacket, excising the cold. It was bliss, and I’m glad I resisted the compulsion to achieve. Sometimes, going fast is fun, but life can be made richer by going slow.