There was a year in my life I’d walk to the entrance of Eden Trail in Tacoma almost every evening with my mom and my dog. Some nights, I walked to take a break from hours of studying. I was teaching myself history texts from a land and law I was unfamiliar with and math concepts I only knew in Korean. Those nights, I’d walk with a huge crease between my brows until the area would slowly start unfolding, and only then would I notice the details of the trail and how refreshing the night air felt, perhaps because it was spring and the little white flowers were starting to bud on the bushes by the side of the road. Had I been clenching my jaw this hard the whole time? I’d wonder and turn back toward home. 

Other nights, the three of us would walk in silence, listening only to the soft sounds of my tiny Pomeranian’s paws padding ten steps to our one as we’d occasionally burp meaningless words to the air.

“The stars are so bright here compared to Seoul, hmm?”

“Yeah, such great weather and clear skies.”

Neither of us spoke about what we really wanted to, but the silence was strangely comforting as we’d walk our emotions out as the Inuit people do—taking step after step without trying to explain our thoughts. Perhaps my mom was trying to figure out where to get the engine oil changed. Perhaps I wanted to ask her how to make new friends in school.

Other nights our mouths would spin stories like fabric looms as the sky would wait to be covered by the tapestry we created. Perhaps it was a funny story about Grandma and how her blueberries exploded in the fridge or the silly chants we made up for our tiny dog:

Zakatakata, Pom!

Zakatakata, Pom!

On the nights we felt extra energetic, we’d stop by the neighborhood playground to challenge each other to a monkey bar duel or to go on the swings and remember how long it took me to figure out how to harness the wind.

We don’t participate in this ritual as much anymore, partly because high school has made me busier and because we don’t need it as much. The disconnect we felt in a new country and the confusing loneliness packed with empty social interactions are no longer there. We’ve both found communities to be a part of—me with my hilarious and caring friends in the Ballroom Dance conservatory I can unapologetically be myself around, and my mom with her church life group and paddle yoga team who she can bare her soul to. And of course we have each other.

I still bring with me the feeling of walking through the night whenever I happen upon a problem. There is beauty in simple execution and in treating each step as progress toward some direction though we may not know which one. When I spend too much time thinking over how I took that one rumba step in the corner of my dance room or the word I wrote in some new story I might never show anyone, I remind myself of this ritual and take the next step of the routine or finish the sentence I was writing.

When I do that, I feel like I’ve returned to my middle school self as the neighborhood and the taste of the night air are still so much the same. As I hear the crickets singing in the bushes and the peals of our laughter echoing down the street, I marvel at how far we’ve come, how long we have to go and the new love, people, and passion we’ll find in our trails of life.