My wife Shannon and I walk three miles a day. We begin from our home on College Street and make our way west to the Riverwalk, with a turn-around point that is measured so we complete three miles by the time we arrive home. We go back the way we came, which leads us uphill once we exit the Riverwalk.

An uphill trek in Mississippi during the summer is a testament to lunacy. My wife Shannon’s bravery in the face of sizzling asphalt is performative at best. I annoy her with motivational cliches, and she claps back at them to maintain a smile. Aggravating those I care for is my love language.

You can observe an abundance of life in those three miles. So many characters on so many personal journeys. I can only assume their intent, whether it be cardio, diet, nature, or something else beyond what I can see. Regardless, we are all one and the same. For the most part the terrain is flat, but we all have a hill looming somewhere.

During our first couple of miles, Shannon and I often discuss my writing, and our rapport can put me on defense. Our literal and proverbial hill is always waiting though, and with it comes a shift.

Some of my better writing edits have actually come from that uphill climb. In that small stretch my short stories, essays and this column often receive life. Something about that space allows her honesty to be absolute, serving as a vessel for her critiques. My exhaustion and vulnerability also opens my door for the truth. It’s so emotionally pure when someone is forthcoming and you can accept it. Oddly enough, doing a hard thing can make an even harder thing seem easy.

Before reaching the top, if we’re lucky, we see our dog friend “River,” a precocious boxer mix that quickly makes us forget we’re exercising. His soulful eyes manage to speak for themselves, telling us that he’s so grateful we brave that hill everyday just to scratch his belly and bring him a treat. After a few sloppy licks and a zoom around the yard, he sends us on our way.

We feel grounded and aware, commenting on the beautiful rainbow of zinnias growing in the beds catty-corner from Leadership Plaza. I once again make an assumption, saying they look as if they came from last year’s flower gone to seed. I’m pretty sure I know who planted them.

We reach Market Street and briefly pause. Looking around, the conversation shifts anywhere from the old Parker Furniture fire to how much we miss Fred’s department store. Fond memories of the Stella Shouting Contest brim with nostalgia. We have our own family dynasty in that competition. My two sons and I have each shouted our way to victory throughout the years.

We cross over and make our way to the front of Events on 5th. We are sure to run into Angie, its owner, at least twice a week. Usually with flowers in hand, she praises the longevity of our walking streak. Sometimes I imagine myself breaking into a sprint and grabbing the flowers as if I just completed a marathon. Maybe I’ll try it next time. If so, I’ll make sure you, the readers, will be the first to know.

Closer to home, we usually see firemen grilling out or doing drills. They keep such a beautiful station, it displays a humble pride in what they do. 

So what is your hill? I think it’s important that we ask ourselves that.  Regardless if it’s up or down, you’re not walking it alone.

Many of you may remember the children’s book, “What do people do all day.” The illustrations are of various animals holding different occupations and positions in a busy little town. Through every page flipped you can strangely relate to the town’s people doing good town things. I see the same pictures on our walks.  Never mind our political leanings, religious views, or our discernment for roundabouts. We are all woven into the tapestry that is Columbus.

There are a lot of changes happening on our local and national stage. In response, it’s hard not to defend your own plight, which can often seem like an uphill climb. But who says it can’t be big and beautiful along the way? For me, it works by doing that hard thing, so the next thing feels easy. Don’t fear being vulnerable when life lets you, swim in the sea of change, and look around for the townspeople doing good town things.

The best part about being human is that there is no playbook, just a shared journey by all of us, up life’s big beautiful hill.

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist and is currently the general manager of a local landscaping company. Bowen writes in his free time and is working on a book about his experiences and travel.