1800 Steps Full Story

We had just moved to Thailand. We bought two folding bikes because we wanted to take them with us to the islands we were planning to visit.

I had a new job and felt on top of the world. For me, travel was about escaping routine and experiencing the beauty of the world. Somewhere along the way, in the race to get ahead, I had learned that "it's a dog-eat-dog world," "it's every man for himself," and "don't waste your time with people who don't help you achieve your goals." It sounded like good advice, so I stuck with it.

I thought healing would come from doctors, therapy, and exercise. I didn’t expect people to be part of the prescription.

🕣 8 min read

Just before the day of our trip, I woke up with severe back pain. The doctor recommended two weeks of bed rest. After those two weeks, I still couldn't get up and walk properly, so I continued resting for another two weeks. Then severe gastric issues started, and I couldn't eat much. When I finally managed to get up and start walking again, I realized my legs had lost so much strength that my feet hurt constantly.

Now I couldn't walk because of foot pain, couldn't lie down because of gastritis, and couldn't sit for long because of my back pain. Bonus points: I couldn't even watch TV because my eyes hurt too.

I went to an orthopedic doctor for my foot pain and asked him, "What's the prognosis?"

He replied, "You'll never walk normally again."

I was in a foreign country where I didn't speak the language. I had no friends, only a few neighbors I had met months earlier. My days became a cycle of discomfort. I would sit for ten minutes until my back started hurting, then walk for a minute until my feet throbbed, then sit again and repeat the process until I could finally sleep. This continued for almost six months.

I felt alone, forgotten, and lost. I started telling myself that maybe this was how it would end — without doing anything meaningful and without being remembered by anyone.

At home, I complained all day and made my better half's life miserable. I was jealous of kids playing sports I used to enjoy. Jealous of people heading to markets, malls, and parties while I was stuck at home in pain.

In the middle of all this, another doctor suggested I start walking in a swimming pool so that the water could support part of my body weight. So I began going every day.

The pool was usually empty, except for one aunty who always sat by the edge. One day, I started talking to her. She reminded me a lot of my mom. She had seen it all, done it all, and carried the weight of her family for more than fifty years. Now she was simply there to relax, with no intention of proving anything to anyone.

Aunty couldn't walk much either because of a heart condition. She couldn't even take twenty steps without gasping for breath.

Somehow, we became friends.

We talked about random things. I brought playing cards and we played together. Around the same time, I started meeting kids at the pool who wanted me to play with them. I couldn't bring myself to tell them that even standing in the pool was painful.

So I threw a ball their way whenever I could. Their cheers brightened my mood. And Aunty's too.

Meanwhile, the pool therapy was helping. I slowly worked my way up to walking about 1,000 steps a day. Eventually, I could leave the house, count my steps, and return home. I thought that if I just kept going, I would get better.

For a while, things improved.

Then I hit a wall.

No matter what I did, I couldn't get past 1,800 steps a day. Any attempt to push further resulted in so much pain that I couldn't sleep. And sleep was the only time I wasn't in pain. I didn't want to lose that too.

Around this time, I noticed something strange. Whenever I was with Aunty, my pain seemed less intense. Whenever the kids were around, I forgot about my pain, even if only for a few moments. The pain didn't disappear, but somehow it loosened its grip.

Eventually, I gathered the courage to walk to the Starbucks outside our apartment. Many seniors spent their afternoons there reading books, drinking coffee, or meeting friends. I started going regularly.

Slowly, I made friends.

And I realized that everyone was carrying something.

It wasn't just me. Some people couldn't walk properly. Some had health issues far more serious than mine. Some were dealing with challenges I couldn't even see. Yes, many of them were older, but not all. Pain, it turns out, doesn't care much about age.

I started reading at Starbucks every day despite the discomfort. I would sit for five minutes until my back hurt. Then I'd stand and walk twenty steps. Then my feet would start hurting, so I'd sit again. I performed this little circus for 60 to 90 minutes every day, and soon everyone there knew my routine.

Being around people started working like a drug for me. The more time I spent with Aunty, the kids, and the people at Starbucks, the more I forgot my pain. I listened to their stories, played cards, told jokes, helped them with mobile phone problems, and spent time with them in whatever way I could.

And somehow, all of it was helping me too.

In ways I didn't fully understand.

One day, while searching for footwear that might ease the pain — my fifth pair in just a year — I came across a heavily padded pair of shoes. It felt like walking on a mattress. For the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful.

I started wearing them regularly and noticed progress. My daily step count increased. Then increased again. Soon I was walking 4,000 steps a day.

The shoes helped. Swimming helped. Great physiotherapy helped. And over the next six months, I gradually returned to around 80% fitness.

This entire journey lasted more than a year and a half. It changed how I looked at life. It gave me a deeper appreciation for everything I have, especially the people who are part of my journey.

Looking back, I don't remember every doctor I visited. I don't remember the exact number of steps I walked. I don't even remember the name of the shoes that helped me recover.

What I remember is Aunty sitting by the pool. The kids asking me to throw them a ball. The people at Starbucks who quietly made space for me every day.

Somewhere along the way, they helped carry a burden that had become too heavy for me to carry alone.

I had spent years believing that everyone was fighting their own battle and that the smartest thing to do was focus on your own goals. But during the hardest period of my life, it wasn't ambition, productivity, or achievement that helped me heal.

It was people. Some were family. Some became friends. Some were complete strangers.

Big problems don't suddenly become easy when other people are around. But they do become smaller.

And sometimes, that's enough to help you keep walking.