Most mornings, I walk.

Not in a “count your steps” kind of way, but the kind of walk where your mind gets to breathe. The kind that clears a little of the fog before the day begins.

No notifications. No pressure to perform. Just one foot in front of the other.

This week, I caught myself wondering what people think when they pass me especially when I’m mid-walk, sweating hard, face red, completely in my own world. There’s no music, no podcast, no Instagram story. Just the sound of my breath, the feel of the trail underfoot, and the occasional nod from a fellow early riser.

And then… there’s him.

An older man, probably in his eighties. Always dressed the same: simple clothes, walking shoes, and a calm, steady rhythm to his pace. Every time we cross paths, he greets me. Sometimes with a nod. Sometimes a soft “buenos días.”

Every. Single. Time.

I don’t know his name. He doesn’t know mine. But this small, quiet exchange between us feels meaningful.

This tiny, reliable moment tucked inside an otherwise unpredictable world. It reminds me that some things don’t need to be documented to matter. They just need to happen

Maybe, for him, it’s just a “Hey, colleague! Here we go again.”
But for me, it’s more than that.
It’s momentum.
It’s a sense of continuity.
It’s an organic validation. The kind no like, retweet, or emoji could ever offer.

In an overstimulated Era obsessed with being seen online, this man reminds me what it means to simply be present. To just be where your feet are.

His consistency — showing up, moving his body, greeting a stranger— is a quiet discipline I want more of.

A kind of dignity that feels rare these days, like something we’re slowly losing in the rush of it all. No audience. No performance. Just practice.

I’m proud to share the path with him.

And honestly, I’m curious: what does he see when he looks at my sweaty, focused face?
Does he see someone trying to figure it out?
Someone trying to be just a little better each morning?
Or maybe... he just sees another walker.

But I like to believe he sees someone showing up — just like he is.

Walking through questions with no clear answers.
Too young to understand the meaning of life,
but old enough to start making peace with it.

These small, ordinary moments… they’re the real world.

No filters. Just presence.

And I don’t want to miss them.

If this resonates with you... who are the “old man” moments in your life?

What quiet rituals keep you grounded?

Thanks for reading