A couple of weeks ago as I was driving home from school, I felt weight on my shoulders from what the day had brought: Tests, homework, stress. This feeling is nothing new to me, but it resulted in a particularly apathetic mood that Friday afternoon. I finally made it to my street, and as I turned the corner, I looked out my window. The sky was light pink, and when I rolled down the glass dividing me from seeing it fully, I felt a crisp breeze hit my face. Like actual magic, I felt the weight of my day decrease. I rolled down the rest of my windows, turned up the Lana Del Rey song playing on my speakers and allowed myself to feel what was around me.

A couple of minutes later, I arrived home and was warmly welcomed by my dog, Theo. He is five years old as of this October, and despite his age in human years being close to 40, his youthful, puppy spirit never seems to wither. I crouched down, petting him, before asking him his favorite question on this earth: “Do you want to go on a walk?” Immediately, his tail started to move like the blades on a helicopter. I grabbed some treats, bags and his leash. We were off.

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Elizabeth Hoffman

We made it up the street’s length before turning back–it is a dead end–and going the other direction. A few times we were stopped by friendly neighbors asking: “How is your family doing?” or “What kind of dog is Theo?”

“They are doing well! Josh is in college and my parents are at work” and “Theo is a miniature Bernedoodle–a mix of a Bernese mountain dog and a poodle” are responses that, at this point, are ingrained in my brain.

That is at least how it goes when it comes to neighbors who live at opposite ends of the street. For those next door and those we have interacted with since we moved here over a decade ago, the short conversations typically turn into something much longer and center around more personal subjects–the ins and outs of school, mental health.

Walking alone is a personal and reflective experience even with the welcome interruptions of kind neighbors, and doing it alone–with the exception of one’s dog, maybe–is also fundamentally different than when accompanied by other people. The time and space to think during a walk is more present individually, and I tend to find the answers to some of the most pressing personal issues of mine when indulging in one.

How to say something I have been trying to communicate, what to do about a particular friendship, how I feel about something complex. These are all subjects explored on walks with my dog during all seasons, but the reflective nature of winter has added to it when looking back at the last 12 months. Winter and Christmastime enhance the already contemplative nature of walks; this time of year has a tendency to cause a mix of nostalgia and reflection. That nature of this season is part of why I love it so much–it forces you to slow down.

As late November turned into December, the skies turned, in my opinion, the most beautiful shades of pink. Summer skies are orange and often enjoyed on beaches and in bathing suits, but there is something about winter sunsets that appeal to me more than anything. Perhaps it is their short duration and how that forces you to notice.

I arrived home with Theo that day feeling significantly better than when I left. Rolling down my window and feeling the crisp breeze began this change, and the walk with my dog completed it.

It seems implausible that something so simple could cause such a meaningful shift in my day, but I think its simplicity is what makes it so impactful. After a lengthy day or week filled with complex subjects–Cold War tensions, probability functions, democracy–the undemanding act of putting one foot in front of the other, in tandem with my dog, is endlessly relieving.