You Don’t Have to Be Outdoorsy to Have an Outdoor Life

Somewhere along the way, going outside became another thing women were supposed to be good at. I would like to officially unsubscribe.

There is a certain type of outdoor photograph that can make an ordinary Saturday feel wildly inadequate. A woman is standing on the edge of a mountain at sunrise, wearing perfectly fitted hiking leggings, expensive boots that somehow remain spotless, and a tiny backpack that appears to contain everything necessary for survival except a sandwich. Behind her is an enormous valley, the sky is doing something dramatic, and she looks suspiciously well rested for someone who supposedly got up at 4:30 in the morning.

Meanwhile, the rest of us may be standing in the kitchen holding coffee and wondering whether walking around the block in yesterday’s sweatshirt technically counts as outdoor recreation. I think it should, because somewhere along the way being outside became another thing we were expected to optimize. A walk became a step goal, hiking became a hobby requiring equipment, and camping started to involve enough gear to establish a temporary government. Even sitting outside somehow turned into an aesthetic involving teak furniture, lanterns, matching cushions, and a charcuterie board nobody actually eats because everyone is too busy photographing it.

We took one of the simplest pleasures available to us, opening the door and going outside, and managed to turn it into something that felt like it needed planning, equipment, goals, and possibly a new jacket. I would quite like to undo that and get back to the idea that being outdoors can be small, spontaneous, imperfect, and still completely worthwhile.

The outdoors does not start twelve miles from home

When someone says “outdoor adventure,” most of us picture somewhere much more impressive than the park down the street. We think of mountains, forests, national parks, scenic overlooks, and people who know the difference between seventeen types of hiking socks. That version of the outdoors is wonderful, but it is not the only one available to us.

Outside is also the little trail behind the library, the beach you drive past all the time and never stop at, the lake with the bench nobody seems to use on weekday mornings, or the shady side of a neighborhood street where the trees are old enough to meet overhead. It might be the dirt road you have wondered about for three years but never turned onto because you were always on your way somewhere else.

We underestimate how restorative it can be to go somewhere nearby simply because we have never really looked at it before. You do not need an itinerary, a sunrise start, or an announcement that you are “going on an adventure,” because frankly that creates unnecessary pressure. Sometimes all you need is coffee in a travel mug, twenty free minutes, and enough curiosity to turn down a road you normally pass.

Sometimes the entire adventure is a thermos and a different road home

There is something delicious about taking a slightly different route when nobody is waiting for you. You turn left where you normally turn right, follow the road a little farther than usual, and suddenly discover a park, a viewpoint, a nursery, a walking path, or a tiny town you somehow never noticed.

Maybe you stop for half an hour, walk until something catches your eye, then sit somewhere with your coffee and watch ducks behave with the confidence of animals that have never paid a utility bill in their lives. Nothing dramatic has happened, and that is exactly the point. You have simply stepped outside your normal routine long enough to feel like you had a day instead of merely getting through one.

Not every good experience needs to become a story beginning with, “You would not believe what happened.” Sometimes you come home and nothing happened at all, except you saw somewhere new, breathed different air, and spent an hour without anyone asking you where the scissors are. That can be a remarkably good day.

Fall is perfect for this kind of wandering

Summer can feel oddly demanding. We are supposed to make the most of it, travel somewhere, go to the beach, eat outside, attend things, take photographs, and squeeze every last drop of joy out of the season before somebody starts putting pumpkins in the grocery store.

Fall feels less pushy. The light softens, the air stops behaving like a hair dryer, and even places you already know can suddenly look different in late afternoon. Trees begin doing something interesting, even in places where autumn is more suggestion than spectacle, and there is more pleasure in simply walking somewhere without feeling as though you are slowly being cooked.

This is the season for taking the long way home, stopping at the park because the afternoon looks too nice to waste, or putting a sweater in the car and deciding that whatever is waiting at home can wait another forty-five minutes. Some of the nicest parts of life begin with the thought, “I have a little time, so I might as well stop.”

You do not have to walk fast enough for it to count

Women are extraordinarily talented at turning pleasant things into obligations. A walk becomes exercise, exercise becomes a target, the target becomes a number, and suddenly we are annoyed because our supposedly relaxing stroll did not raise our heart rate enough.

There are days when the whole purpose of walking should be to look at things. Walk slowly enough to notice the houses you like, stop to admire somebody’s absurdly beautiful garden, watch the dog across the street carry a stick that is clearly too large for him, or stand at the edge of the water because the light happens to look good.

There is no rule saying you have to turn every bit of movement into measurable progress. You are allowed to stop because something is pretty, turn around because you are tired, or sit down halfway through and eat the snack you brought because snacks improve almost every recreational experience. Outside is not grading you, and the tree at the end of the trail has absolutely no opinion about your pace.

Nature is surprisingly good company

There is something about being outside that makes a problem shrink slightly. It does not disappear, and I am not going to tell you that a tree can fix your taxes, your job, or the fact that somebody has once again left exactly one tablespoon of milk in the refrigerator, but things often feel different once you have been walking for a while.

You may leave home replaying some irritating conversation in your head, and eventually your attention gets hijacked by something else. A bird lands nearby, the wind moves through the trees, or you notice the smell of dry leaves, cut grass, or the ocean. A dog trots past looking happier than any person you know, and somewhere in the middle of all that, your brain loosens its grip.

This is one reason I sometimes like walking without headphones. I love a good podcast, but I also think we have become slightly terrified of an unfilled minute. We listen while driving, cooking, cleaning, walking, and sometimes while doing three other things at once. Every now and then it feels good to let the world provide the soundtrack, even if the birds occasionally need to work on their volume control.

The best outdoor routine might be ridiculously small

We have a habit of creating habits that require an entirely different personality. We decide we are going to hike every Saturday morning, which sounds wonderful until Saturday arrives and hiking requires getting dressed, driving somewhere, finding parking, carrying water, checking the weather, and leaving the house before the rest of civilization has finished breakfast.

Three weeks later, the hiking career quietly ends because the routine was too complicated to fit into an actual life. A smaller ritual has a much better chance of surviving, especially if it feels pleasant instead of virtuous.

Maybe Sunday morning becomes coffee outside for twenty minutes. Maybe Wednesday after work becomes a short walk somewhere with trees. Maybe once a month you pick a place within an hour of home, drive there, and wander around until you are hungry. The goal is not to become an “outdoors person.” The goal is to build a life in which going outside happens often enough to feel normal.

Going alone is not the consolation prize

Women are often very good at postponing things until someone else wants to do them too. We wait for someone to go to lunch with, travel with, walk the trail with, visit the garden with, or drive down the coast with. Sometimes everyone else is busy, and sometimes we wait so long that the thing never happens at all.

There are obviously places where going alone requires sensible safety precautions, but there are plenty of public beaches, botanical gardens, parks, and well-used walking paths where being by yourself can feel less lonely than liberating. You can walk as far as you want, stop when you want, and spend fifteen minutes looking at something nobody else finds remotely interesting without hearing, “Are we going yet?”

There is a particular pleasure in not having to negotiate. You can change your mind, leave early, stay longer, buy lunch when you are hungry, and choose the scenic route without explaining yourself. You may even discover that you are quite enjoyable company when nobody else is interrupting.

You probably do not need the outfit

Outdoor clothing has become extraordinarily complicated. Apparently, one cannot simply own a jacket anymore. It needs to breathe, wick, repel, layer, compress, and survive conditions most of us have no intention of encountering.

I support good shoes, sunscreen, and taking enough water so you do not end up being rescued by people who will later describe you as “unprepared.” Beyond that, I am less convinced that a forty-minute walk around a local park requires equipment suitable for Everest base camp.

Wear what is comfortable, take a sweater, bring water, and put a snack in your bag if you know you are going to want one. The outdoors was here long before performance fabric, and I suspect it will tolerate your old sneakers perfectly well.

Not every outing needs to become content

We have become accustomed to documenting everything we enjoy. A beautiful sunset gets photographed, a pretty trail gets photographed, and coffee beside a lake apparently requires the cup to be positioned correctly before anybody is allowed to take a sip.

There is nothing wrong with taking pictures, and I love having photographs too, but every now and then it is worth letting something beautiful happen without immediately turning it into proof. Watch the sunset until it disappears, leave your phone in your pocket, and let the good light exist without asking it to perform for social media.

There is a particular kind of luxury in having a moment that belongs only to you. Nobody liked it, nobody commented on it, and nobody even knows it happened, but you remember exactly how the air felt and what the sky looked like. That private little memory can be worth more than a hundred photographs you barely look at again.

Maybe this is what Outdoor Bliss actually means

I do not think bliss has to involve a hammock between two palm trees on a deserted beach, although if anyone is offering that arrangement, I am available. Sometimes outdoor bliss is far less glamorous and much easier to find.

It is cold air on your face after being indoors all day, a quiet place beside water, or a walk long enough for the thoughts in your head to stop shouting over one another. It is eating a sandwich outside and deciding it tastes better simply because you are not standing over the kitchen counter. It is remembering, for an hour or two, that the world is much larger than your inbox.

The older I get, the more I appreciate experiences that do not require me to achieve anything. I do not need every walk to make me fitter, every outing to make me more interesting, or every beautiful place to become a destination. Sometimes I simply want to leave the house, see something pretty, breathe different air, and come home slightly happier than I was when I left.

That feels like enough, and perhaps that is the best part of all. You do not have to call yourself outdoorsy, adventurous, or anything else. You do not have to own the equipment, know the terminology, or prove that you were there. You only have to open the door once in a while and go see what is out there, letting the rest remain wonderfully unoptimized.