400,000 Steps

One week ago, my girlfriend died. I had known her only two years and had spent no more than 50 hours with her during that time, exploring about 150 kilometres. We shared 400,000 steps together through towering forest, bountiful brush, beneath spectacular waterfalls, between deep crevices formed over millions of years, along rushing streams, through butterfly-abundant meadows of tall grass and wildflowers, and overlooking cities from steep peaks. It was some of my favourite time spent with anyone.

When you put two women like us together, there’s a special kind of magic. She had almost a decade of life over me so she enjoyed a few experiences I have yet to encounter, like the happiness that comes from seeing your children raising their own families, and simply the wisdom that comes with being on this earth a little longer. We shared a bit of that same quirk and woo-woo spirituality so it made being in each others company light, spacious, and completely effortless.

I met Cynthia through our love for hiking. We both belonged to a public hiking page on Facebook so when we saw each other’s posts, we would “❤️” them. It was obvious our love for nature, the trails, and the sheer exhilaration of exploring on foot were aligned. One day, she spontaneously reached out to me suggesting we could hike together sometime to which I eagerly agreed. As a rule, I prefer to hike alone or with only one other person. Beyond that, it becomes too chatty and I miss out on the silence and solitude I crave from embedding myself in nature. The forest provides a tranquility I can’t experience in many other places, and a kind of therapy that helps to correct any imbalance my mind or body may be experiencing. That said, knowing Cynthia through her posts assured me she was an easy person to share time with.

We planned our first hike, about 25 kilometres through the Toronto section of the Bruce Trail. We both drove two hours to our starting point; she came from the west and I from the south. I arrived in the parking lot of a small baseball field on the very edge of the town almost in lockstep with Cynthia. We jumped out of our cars beaming and came in for the biggest hug as if we’d known each other a lifetime. She was honestly just adorable. The fairest of skin, a gorgeous mane of long, thick blonde hair, her signature pink ballcap, shimmery lip gloss, rosy cheeks, and the most stunning, smiling, silvery-blue eyes. She was on the shorter side and don all the usual gear; pink poles, a cute backpack, funky socks, and stylish hiking boots. She made hiking look ridiculously trendy and fun. I was already excited for the day.

We set off and quickly started the storytelling of our lives. From family, to career, to friendships, and love. We spoke of all the great things, the things that nearly broke us, the way we overcame them, and the struggles we were yet to resolve. It can feel incredibly safe to share all your secrets with a stranger because there is no fear of judgement or loss when you assume the interaction will be time-limited. What I’ve learned along the way is the importance of paying attention to how one’s body and mind feels in various company. Our senses guide us, if we listen. The degree of unconditional safety and acceptance then determine how much time and energy will be available to them, if any. For me, high safety equals high access, and the same in reverse. I didn’t think that way then, but I do now. Regardless, Cynthia was a trusted, safe space and I was the same for her. Put two women of our age, experience, and shared philosophy together in the woods for eight hours and there were no conversational boundaries. We would leave it all on the grassy, leafy, pine-needled, mossy-rocked floor. Oh, if those trees could talk!

I remember everything about that day. The stifling thirty-degree Celsius heat, the absence of even a whisper of breeze, the steep climbs, the heavy canopies of the trees, the moments of awe when we’d see something strikingly gorgeous, and perching on a couple of boulders at our midpoint, basking in the sun with cold drinks, fresh fruit, and egg salad sandwiches, our laughter echoing through the baron back roads. It was all kinds of wonderful.

She was a strong, spunky, fit woman who despite being ten years older was a parallel fitness partner, but I’d have to hold back a bit sometimes as my legs took fewer strides than those on her much smaller frame. We’d giggle about it. I was always fairly competitive with myself, trying to cover more distance in less time than previous hikes, but with Cynthia, you almost didn’t want the day to end, so slowing down a little worked to my advantage. It meant chasing the setting sun in the final few kilometres, as nightfall loomed in that very remote area. Thankfully we made it through the full 25 kilometres safely; exhausted but exhilarated, and with a celebratory embrace, we bid farewell with a promise to reconnect.

And we did just that on several occasions over the short time we knew each other, often the exact same story of intimate conversation, excitement, hysterics, awe, exertion and exhaustion. The only thing that differed was the location. And it always involved squeezing every last minute of daylight out of our adventures. Now as Facebook friends, we were able to follow each other’s journeys from a distance, often commenting about the loveliness of the photos and high-fiving each other’s accomplishments after completing another section of the trail, reaching a new personal best, overcoming a fear, or simply discovering a new, magical trail that one of us had fallen in love with.

Cynthia was a “Live Love Laugh” ambassador, the poster child for “You Go Girl” and walking proof of “Good Vibes Only.” These sayings are often over-marketed punchlines, sarcastic quips, and memes on positive thinking and personal growth social media pages. We see them in flashing lights, pressed into midriff t-shirts, and plastered on car bumpers. They are often the things we think or say to ourselves and to others when we or they are winning at life, or adversely when struggling and having a tough moment with it. Cynthia embodied all of them with utter authenticity. She believed in them, lived them, loved through their lens, and inspired others to come along for the ride. She was an extraordinary woman. I never met her other friends nor her family. I knew of them, mostly through stories about her children and grandchildren who were the centre of her joy and her heart. But because of the distance between us and our many other commitments, hiking was our best way to package our friendship in maximum joy for short periods of time over the year. And in that time, we made the most colourful and meaningful memories.

It’s been several months since our last hike but we remained focused on our next adventure and talked about arranging a faraway trip. We were the kind of friends that picked up where we left off, every single time. And it’s easy to take that kind of thing for granted because you know that at a moment’s notice, reestablishing the connection is effortless. Unfortunately, I won’t have that opportunity again. Cynthia was the victim of a head on collision with a large commercial truck, in broad daylight, in a rural area on International Women’s Day. She died instantly. An hour earlier, she posted an International Women’s Day photo on Facebook that I “❤️” and which she did of mine. She had a job she loved and was on the road frequently. A couple of days prior, she’d been out on a long hike with a big crew of family. She had just returned from a trip to Alberta for work, where she delighted in nature, the spectacular mountains, the lush forests. She recently fell deeply in love, which she had given up on after the trials of love tested her too many times in her 60 years of life. But it happened and she emitted a whole different kind of energy, just when you thought she couldn’t shine any brighter.

Now I sit with great sadness reading the hundreds of comments on Facebook about how she touched so many lives. I called her my soul sister, but she had many who called her the same. Our story of friendship and sisterhood was exactly the same story with all the other women in her life. It was not our relationship that was unique; it was Cynthia who was unique. If she had an impact on me after 50 hours, 150 kilometres, and 400,000 steps, I can’t even imagine the deep loss felt by those who have known her for a lifetime and for those graced by her presence on a daily basis.

In response to the announcement of her death by her daughter on social media, all of the comments carried the same essence:

• I always loved her free spirit and joy of life
• We hit it off straight away and became firm friends
• There was always light beaming from this beautiful lady
• Cynthia was a bright spark of light
• Cynthia was a such a soulful person who embraced what life had to offer
• She was so excited to share her passion for nature with anyone who asked
• She was such a go-getter and a caring woman
• She brought such energy and love to the world
• Cynthia brought more to life than herself; she brought true love and devotion

Beyond these, almost every message mentioned her powerful love and commitment to her family. Her adoration of her children and grandchildren and of the quality moments they shared; the kind of moments that are keeping them all connected to her now, even though she has left this earth. Almost every picture included them. She gushed over them on every hike, but not in an inordinate way. She had a rich, full, active life all on her own and she lived it fearlessly and independently. But family lit her up and was intricately knit into the fabric of who she was and what she valued most in the world.

After reading all these messages of condolence, seeing just how many lives she touched, and recognizing the alignment of experience by everyone who knew her, it’s easy to conclude that Cynthia was an angel among us. She was her true self, every single day, with every single person, and in every single scenario. People live entire lifetimes struggling to find themselves or hide themselves, or worse yet, picking and choosing what parts of themselves they portray based on the company they keep in that moment. Cynthia was the ultimate in being her unfiltered, authentic self to her last day. Perhaps, like some of us, she grew into that level of comfort in her skin or alternatively, was raised by an equally strong woman who taught her to confidently go about her journey with zest, genuineness, and positivity.

I take many things from her death, like we often do when we lose someone. As someone who will eventually die but doesn’t want to die just yet, I can only focus on my own words, actions, and choices. What is important to me and the lessons I take from this loss may not be what others’ take away from theirs, and that’s okay. Here are a few things that immediately come to mind. I’ll preface this by saying I’m not good at all of these things all of the time, but I am trying.

• If you love something, do more of it. Keep doing anything that lights you up. Don’t wait for anyone or anything to slow you down. Get at it. Cynthia went for all of it.
• Take care of your body so it goes as long as it can but if the carrot cake comes calling, just make it happen. Cynthia would have eaten the cake.
• Regardless of how well you take care of your body, accidents and illnesses happen and this may be your last hour. Right now, is all you have so keep your eyes on what is important and let the rest go.
• Stop caring so much about things that don’t matter. We’re all going to die. Most of the things we think matter don’t. Most of the things we worry about haven’t happened and won’t. Turn off the noise.
• Start and/or keep spending time with the people who matter most. This one is easy for me. Transient connections bore me. Superficial connections nauseate me. My tribe may be small but it is rock solid. Depth over shallow. Meaningful over trifling.
• Look both ways, and then look both ways again, and don’t take knee-jerk risks. Just be late if you must. It’s not worth the alternative.
• Hold your loved ones dear. Tell them you love them, deeply and often. Show them they matter so they never have to guess how important they are. If you don’t wake up tomorrow, are you good with where you left things? Are you sure? Are you sure they are too? Vulnerability is a flex. Use it.
• Stay curious. Thirst for broadening your world. Keep exploring. Go somewhere new. Try something new. Be open to finding people who want to share in the experience. Form connections with people who are equally passionate. Take a risk (but don’t risk your safety), even if it’s just a friendly Facebook comment to a stranger, just like Cynthia did. I’ve made a number of meaningful connections that stuck, through my solo journeys. Like attracts like.
• Don’t wait for the perfect time to enjoy what you love. Cynthia bought me a bottle of her favourite wine for my 50th birthday. Red, Josh. Two years later, I still haven’t opened it. She’d written a sweet message on the front label so it meant a lot to me. Very soon, after a long sunny day on the trail, I’ll sit down for a picnic on the edge of the woods and finally uncork that bottle. I will raise a glass to her and enjoy every sip, as she intended. Cynthia wouldn’t have saved it. She never delayed joy. She would have drunk it that same day!

Aside from all these standard take-aways that often fade as the grief loosens its grip, what I’ve thought about most was her legacy, and by extension, my legacy. I remember an old icebreaker exercise I used to use back in the days when I’d run workshops and training sessions and one of the questions posed to the participants was something along the lines of, “What would people write on your tombstone?” Through Cynthia’s death, it’s clear that everyone who crossed paths with her had the same beautiful experience. She made an impact because of her heart, soul, and consistency of character. So, I ask myself, what do I want to leave behind for those I love? How do I want my handprint, footprint, and heartprint to reverberate in this world?

I hope my existence made a few people smile, that their life was a little brighter because I was in it. I hope my presence made others’ pain a little more bearable, difficult times a little more manageable, hopeless times a little more surmountable, and confusing times a little clearer. I hope I was able to make happy times a little extra rosy. I hope I made some people laugh and I hope I was a safe place for them to cry. I hope I modeled impossible moments as opportunities to build strength but also that it’s equally important to soften and be vulnerable. I hope I was able to shift another’s self-doubt to realizing their own awesomeness. I hope I was able to inspire a touch of adventure and incite the occasional blaze of excitement. I hope that people appreciated my passion and honesty and while oftentimes admittedly direct, that it encouraged others to express themselves and speak up too. I hope my protectiveness of loved ones was understood as care, not control. I hope I am known for seeking the silver linings, perhaps not always immediately, but always eventually. I’m sure I will be known for my drive for perfection but that as I aged, I’d realized the only drive necessary is the one for peacefulness. I hope others felt seen, appreciated, and accepted by me. I hope my love was always fulsome, felt, and never misunderstood.

Cynthia left a legacy of incredible love just by being herself and living her values. She was a woman of great soul and despite the loss, she has this undeniable, unceasing energy that seems to have penetrated everyone she touched. What a gift she was and how remarkable, how fortunate it is that I shared 400,000 steps on this earth with this strong, powerful, positively joyful human.

What legacy will you leave?