Ten Minutes Outside Beats an Hour of Worry Every Time

Worry has a home address

I have noticed something about my worry. It almost always happens indoors. At a desk, on a couch, lying in bed. Worry likes a roof over it. It likes a screen in front of it. It likes me sitting still so it can talk.

And I have noticed something else. I have never once solved a problem by worrying about it for an hour. Not one time in fifty years. I have solved plenty of problems by stepping outside for ten minutes and coming back with a clearer head. Which tells me I have been doing the math wrong for a long time.

I am not a doctor or a therapist. This is just what works for one regular guy. If your worry is the heavy kind that will not lift, please talk to somebody who knows what they are doing. For the everyday kind, the kind that sits on your chest on a Tuesday afternoon, try this.

What ten minutes outside does

The first thing it does is move your body, and a moving body is harder to worry in. Try it. Walk at a decent pace and try to keep the same anxious loop going in your head. It gets harder. Your brain has other things to handle, like your feet and the sidewalk and the dog coming the other way.

The second thing is the sky. I do not know why, but looking at something far away does something to a problem that feels close. The email that was the size of the whole room is suddenly a small thing in a big world. It is still there. It is just the right size now.

The third thing is air. Real air, not building air. You breathe differently outside. Deeper, slower, without trying. By the time you come back in, your shoulders have dropped an inch and you did not even notice doing it.

The ways I do it

I will walk you through the versions I use, written out plain, because I know not everybody has a trail out the back door.

There is the around the block walk. Out the front door, turn left, keep turning left, back home. No phone, or phone in the pocket on silent. Ten minutes exactly.

There is the sit on the step. Some days I cannot even manage a walk. So I go sit on the front step with a glass of water and just look at the street. Cars, birds, the neighbor’s cat. Ten minutes. It counts.

There is the parking lot lap. At work, when the afternoon turns sour, I walk the lot. It is not pretty. There are no trees. But there is sky, and there is movement, and the sour feeling cannot keep up.

There is the kid walk. When my son is wound up about something, I do not sit him down at the table. I say come on, walk with me. We do not even have to talk. By the end of the block the thing usually comes out on its own, and it is usually smaller than it was.

And there is the night version. When I cannot sleep because my brain is running, I go stand in the backyard for a few minutes. Cold, dark, quiet. Stars if I am lucky. The problem does not go away, but the volume goes down enough to sleep.

The trade

Here is the deal I make with myself. I get ten minutes outside before I am allowed an hour of worry. If I still want the hour when I come back in, I can have it. I almost never want it. Something about the walk uses up whatever the worry was running on.

If you are reading this and there is something sitting on your chest, stop reading. Put the phone down. Go stand outside for ten minutes. Walk if you can. Sit if you cannot. Look at something far away. Breathe without trying to.

Then come back and see if the thing is still the same size. I bet it is not.

Ten minutes outside will do more for your head than an hour of worrying ever has.