Steps of Gratitude: The Path My Mother Showed Me
“Take in deep breaths—”
“—through my nose. I know, I know.”
My mom and I walk down a trail in a nearby park, my arm wrapped around hers, as she mutters her usual phrase, one she never misses to remind me whenever we step outdoors together.
Her knee is still healing from a fall a few months ago, so we decided to take a light, refreshing trek. It also turns out to be nostalgic in every way. As we walk through the park, the rustling pine trees providing ample shade on the blazing day, I see mirages of past memories flash by with every glance around. There’s that the swing I used to love when I was around 10 years old, so much that I’d wait (impatiently and probably annoyingly) for my siblings’ turns to end so my mom could push me until I could almost taste the sky. And there’s the picnic table where we’d have a hurried bite of a watermelon that my mom would hold out for us before jumping back into the water park a few feet away. Definitely a bit too nostalgic.
Every memory, though, has my mom in it. And there’s something surreal and otherworldly about being in the same space, years later, with the same person. So much is the same as it always was, and yet, so much is different. I push my hand into my mom’s pocket, weaving our fingers together as a soft breeze sends a chill down my spine. Yep, it’s definitely the breeze that’s giving me the chills. And I think it’s the pollen that’s getting me so teary.
These walks have been a tradition between my mom and me. Whenever the weather gets nicer, the days get longer and the sun comes out, my mom and I feel the urge to get outside as much as possible. Around the neighbourhood, in nearby parks or even up a mountain. But mostly, these walks have been our way of reconnecting and soaking in each other’s presence. It’s our therapy. When it’s just her and me, alone with nature’s melodies, the world shifts and everything just falls into place.
In high school and university, I dealt with a lot of stress. My mom would notice, as she always did even if I tried to hide it, and she would nonchalantly suggest we go for a walk. We would throw on our jackets and some shoes, and out we’d go. Sometimes we’d talk about arbitrary things. Sometimes we’d stay silent. Sometimes that silence was interrupted by me, when I was ready to talk about my problems. And a lot of problems were solved, and decisions were made on these walks. I figured out which course (Psychology or Calculus) I wanted to take in my senior year of high school, a decision that was killing me at the time (spoiler alert: I picked Calculus). I asked for her suggestion on switching my university program from Biomedical Physiology to English because I couldn’t put off my passion any longer. I also explained to her why I felt that my now fiancé would be a great husband. Sometimes she’d ask me what I wanted for dinner or when to get vacation days for our first camping trip of the season. Other times, we’d share stories and incidents from the past.
Intermingled with these heavy conversations were intervals of my mom stopping to take a picture of a flower or when we’d simply shut up and breathe in the cool air. There was something about the outdoor environment, a certain je ne sais quoi, that allowed me to open up to her, give in to her presence and allow her to support me. The outdoors became our space, our haven.
Mama introduced me to the beauty of the outdoors. And during our walk this day, I realize how much of an impact this tradition has made on me. A wave of gratitude flushes over me and I lean a bit closer to her. How she manages to ease my heart with a simple stroll—even when she’s quietly carrying so much—is a mystery soaked in grace. In Islam, Muslims often remember the words of Prophet Muhammad, that, “Paradise lies at the feet of the mother.” And walking back home, I could feel this truth rising gently with every step beside her—as if the Earth itself was softened by her presence.
The trees sway with quiet reverence, the breeze carried our laughter like a hymn and the sky stretched wide in silent prayer. I watched the way she paused to admire the wildflowers, how she always notices the little things—the softness of the breeze, the call of a bird, the feel of the ground beneath her feet.
She doesn’t say much on these walks, but in her silence, I hear everything: the patience it took to raise me, the wisdom tucked in long pauses, the love passed down like a well-worn path we keep returning to. The outdoors became more than a backdrop that day—it became a reflection of her. Strong and calm. Enduring and gentle. In that moment, I understood: her love is its own kind of wilderness—vast, grounding and eternal. And perhaps that’s what she gave me all along—not just a love for nature, but a support system. To understand that sometimes we just need to take in a few deep breaths through our noses.
