Love, Lies, and Life After Divorce

How Walking an Ancient Trail (Kind of) Saved My Life

My Guest Greg’s Post-Retreat Interview

These days, I do post-retreat interviews with participants in my TrailTracers: From Troubled to Triumphant Camino Walking Retreats. Here is what Greg had to say:

Three months after my divorce, I found myself arguing with a squirrel.

“You don’t know anything about loss,” I said, squinting at the little guy munching on a pine cone. “Your nuts don’t move out and take the Vitamix.”

I sighed and plopped onto a mossy log. “You probably didn’t spend $3,200 on couples therapy just to find out she was already dating Brad from pickleball.”

The squirrel blinked and kept chewing. No sympathy.

How I Ended Up Wandering an Ancient Trail

It was my sister, Rachel, who suggested I go on a retreat and walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in southwest France. “You need to go outside,” she’d said. “Get some fresh air, walk it out, connect with Nature or whatever.”

She meant well. But at the time, I would’ve rather walked into traffic than a hiking trail. I was living off instant ramen and rewatching old episodes of The Great British Bake Off because it was the only thing that didn’t remind me of Brad.

Brad, if you must know, is the guy my ex-wife started dating before our couples therapist even had a chance to say “communication issues.”

So yeah. I wasn’t doing great.

But I figured why not? The retreat was only for 7 days. I had nothing else to do besides cry into my hoodie and Google things like “how to get abs after heartbreak” or “can emotional damage make you ripped?”

Unfit, Unshaven, and Unconvinced

I showed up to the first day’s walk wearing sneakers that hadn’t seen sunlight in years and pants with suspicious mustard stains. I looked like the human version of “before” in a fitness ad.

I only planned to walk for fifteen minutes before giving up. Tops.

But something weird happened. I didn’t actually hate it.

It was quiet. Like really quiet. And for the first time in weeks, I noticed my own thoughts without wanting to flush them down the drain.

The Accidental Routine

By day three, I was addicted to the trail. Every morning I was ready each morning – early. Like some kind of middle-aged forest cryptid in orthopaedic hiking shoes.

I hadn’t meant to become a “walker.” That sounded dangerously close to exercise. But something strange had happened around mile four of day one—I’d felt slightly less like flinging himself into a bush. And on day two, I noticed a patch of wildflowers and didn’t immediately think, “Wow, even these flowers have a better love life than me.

Progress.

I walked past trees, streams, and judgmental squirrels. I started naming rocks. Not in a creepy way—more like, “Hey, that one looks like my ex’s lawyer.”

I didn’t know it yet, but he was becoming that guy. The kind who carried trail mix in ziplock bags and knew the names of mushrooms that wouldn’t kill you.

One day, I stopped at a stream and stared at my reflection in the water. My hair had gone full “emotional breakup mop,” and my beard was inching toward “failed author.” But my eyes looked less like they wanted to pop out and run away.

“Huh,” I muttered. “Still sad, but with better calves.”

Something had changed: I was still sad, but it was a more tolerable kind of sad. Like, “cry softly into trail mix” sad instead of “text your ex at 2 a.m.” sad.

Nature Doesn’t Judge

I met a woman on the trail one day—Linda, or Beth, or some name that smelled like kombucha. She looked me up and down and asked, “Healing hike?”

“What gave it away?” I asked. “The beard or the broken man aura?”

She laughed. “Don’t worry. Mother Nature doesn’t judge.”

And she didn’t. That’s the thing. Nature doesn’t care if you’re crying over someone who ghosted you. It just goes about its business—raining when it wants, blooming when it feels like it, and shedding leaves like it’s quitting a job it hated anyway.

You don’t have to explain yourself to the trees. Sort of comforting, that.

Squirrel Therapy’s Surprising Benefits

Around day four, I noticed I was sleeping better. Thinking more clearly. Feeling things like “hope” and “the desire to clean my apartment.”

My Fitbit thought I was training for a marathon. I even jogged one morning. Voluntarily. No wild animal was chasing me, I just… jogged. I almost called 911 on myself.

But more than the movement, it was the space that helped. Walking gave me mental room to stop spiralling and start processing. It was like a mobile therapy session, minus the co-pay and couch.

Also: squirrels are surprisingly good listeners.

Perspective Hits Different at Height

The best view was at the top of Boar Bluff—a peak with zero boars, thank goodness. I hiked up there, wheezing like an old accordion, and just sat.

I realised I hadn’t thought about Brad in nearly six hours. That was a record.

Instead, I’d been thinking about how trees sort of looked like middle fingers if you squinted. Or how birds didn’t worry about joint custody or whether they’d ever be “dateable” again. They just flew and pooped and lived their weird little bird lives.

I looked out over the valley. It was absurd how pretty it was. Trees in full fall glory, a patchwork of orange and gold that looked like autumn had dressed up for a first date.

No phone. No music. Just me, the wind, and an occasional bird curiously eyeing the extent of my emotional baggage.

I started to feel something I hadn’t felt in months: like myself again. A slightly sweatier, dirtier version of myself—but still.

Real Talk: Nature Won’t Fix You, But It’ll Give You Space to Breathe

Let’s be clear: walking in the woods didn’t magically erase my pain. It didn’t cancel my divorce, fix my credit score, or make me forget Brad and his smug jawline.

But it helped me make space for the mess.

The truth was, walking had done something to my brain. It wasn’t just the movement—it was the quiet. The kind of quiet that let your thoughts un-knot themselves without the help of ice cream or hate-listening to breakup podcasts. Out here, there was no Instagram feed to scroll, no texts to overanalyse, no well-meaning but exhausting friends saying things like, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Nature didn’t try to fix me. It just let me be broken with good lighting.

I began talking to animals more often. A deer stared at me once for so long that I asked, “Are you my spirit animal or just nosy?”

On day five, something bizarre happened: I ran for a few minutes. Not because I was being chased, but because it felt right. A jog. Voluntarily. I would have slapped Past Greg for even suggesting it.

One crisp morning, I crossed paths with Linda-Beth again.

“Hey! You’re still alive!” she called, sipping from a BPA-free water bottle the size of a toddler.

“Mostly. I’ve achieved peak dad-core and can now identify bird calls.”

“Nice,” she grinned. “You’ve got the post-breakup trail glow.”

Greg snorted. “I’m radiant with trauma.”

But she wasn’t wrong. My face was less “puffy from crying on the couch” and more “rugged guy in a yoghurt commercial.” HMy mood swings had softened into something more manageable. And at night, instead of staring at the ceiling wondering if I should get a hair transplant, I was asleep by ten, dreaming of raccoons and weather patterns.

By day 6, I did something bold: I turned off my phone for an entire hike. No Spotify. No doomscrolling. Just me, the wind, and the occasional squirrel fight.

And that’s when it really hit me.

I didn’t miss her.

I missed the idea of what we were supposed to be. But now, out here, surrounded by birds that probably gossiped about him, he felt… okay. Not amazing. Not “ready to date” okay. But “can eat a sandwich without crying” okay. Which, for me, was massive.

The final day, the squirrel—maybe the original, maybe its cousin—appeared at his feet.

“Still judging me?” I asked.

The squirrel twitched its tail and scampered off, uninterested.

I grinned.

The Trail Is Still There

These days, I still hike. Not every day, but often enough. I’ve got a “hiking stuff” folder on my desktop, a stash of ethically sourced granola, and a slightly alarming knowledge of bird calls.

And when life feels like it’s doing the cha-cha on my dignity again, I hit the trail.

Because the trail doesn’t care if you’re divorced, unemployed, or wearing socks that don’t match.

It just invites you to keep walking.

This post is supported by Walking Through Change: Finding Your Path Through Life’s Transitions

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Has nature ever helped you to get through a tough time? Send me an email – openlockeddoors@gmail.com.

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