I don’t know if it’s because I turned 40 this year. Or because I started yoga teacher training. Or because I started taking Lexapro. Or a combination of those and other things, but I’m a person going through a transition. I’m sort of on a new path.
One of the many new things in my life that I’ve been taking advantage of is the new trail that was recently built between Jarvis and West Main Street in Cheshire. It’s not officially connected to Southington yet, but it’s walkable and no one tells you to get off. It’s not connected to Cornwall Street either, which would make it possible to stay on the trail all the way from Southington to New Haven, but the small road that connects West Main and Cornwall (Willow) is safe and short enough that it’s no problem to do the whole route without getting too far off the path.
It’s a new pathway. I ran on it for the first time about a month and a half ago. It was the same day I put on a Fitbit. Daren got one at a conference in Vancouver. He had it on his dresser for a few weeks until I asked if he was going to use it. He said no and that I could, so I put it on that morning and ran the 1.25 miles up to the new trail.
As soon as I stepped off my usual route, I felt a little scared and excited. I’d never really been off my usual path (A.K.A. rut), and the excitement of being on new territory without a car felt freeing. I turned the corner not really knowing how long it would take me to get to the trail. I knew it by car, but being on foot was so much different. It turned out not to be that far.
When I reached the entrance of the trail, standing there in the bright morning sunlight, it felt a bit magical. I stopped to take a picture of the new sign. I thought I might start walking once I got there, but I wasn’t tired yet and felt a strong desire to keep running.
The path is flat compared to the hills in my neighborhood that I’m accustomed to. Sometimes those hills kick my butt and I need to stop and walk; other times I can push through them. The flatness felt novel and good. It felt like I could run forever.
I ran further into the trail and saw the “Prom?” sign graffitied into the mountain. Where did that come from? Is it the Cheshire prom pose place? Did some romantic high school boy do that for a girl while the trail was being built? Who knows… but it’s kind of nice. It sits right across from a bench.
I stopped again, feeling the warm morning sunlight on my skin, wanting to soak it in. I ran further, breathing slowly—an old trick that sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. That day, it worked. The slow breathing, warm sun, and shadowy trees created the perfect conditions. I continued down this new path without really knowing how far I’d go. I just knew I wanted to keep going.
Running water, green muck, benches, beautiful trees… it was all breathtaking. I felt so alive.
When I started to hear cars in the distance, I knew I was getting close to the end. And almost without warning, there it was—West Main Street. I had to stop and just take it in. I had never seen it from that perspective, out in the open without the protection of a car. Without that barrier, you feel everything more. The air, the smells, the heat. It was beautiful.
I turned around, now having a sense of how far I had gone.
Again, I thought I’d get tired and walk. To my surprise, I never really did. Even when I got back to the hills, I pushed myself just a little further each time—one mailbox at a time—until I reached the top without stopping.
By the time I got home, I realized I had run farther than I ever had before. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. And it was actually fun.
Over the next few weeks, I went back to the trail as often as I could. I walked it. I ran it. I explored parts that weren’t even officially open yet. I started combining new routes with old ones and found myself going farther and farther.
One Sunday after yoga training, I got on my bike and decided to ride the path alone. I hadn’t done that since I was a teenager. It felt both exciting and a little scary.
I rode faster than I expected and reached the end quickly, so I decided not to turn back right away. Instead, I went off the path to see if I could find my way to another entrance—without using a map. And I did.
That feeling of figuring it out on my own stayed with me. Not just physically, but mentally. I felt independent. Capable.
This new path has opened up my world in so many ways. It helped me realize how strong I am, on foot and on a bike. It’s given me the ability to go places without a car. It’s connected me to different parts of town, to nature, and to myself.
And somewhere along the way, I started to see it as more than just a trail.
It felt like what was happening inside of me.
I began thinking about how we create new neural pathways in our brains—how change happens slowly, through repetition, through small shifts over time. Just like the trail being built piece by piece.
I’ve watched sections of it evolve day by day. And I realized—I’m doing the same thing.
Each day, one small change at a time, I’m creating new routes. Strengthening them. Making them deeper so they can eventually become the default instead of the old patterns and ruts.
As above, so below. Pathways are pretty amazing, whether in our minds or in the physical world.
It made me think about history—about when the Romans built roads and how that opened up the world. It created connection, trade, movement, possibility.
But roads can also wear out. Or lead somewhere you no longer want to go.
It happens in our minds too.
Creating a new path is work. It’s uncomfortable. It’s unknown. The old path is easier—it’s familiar, automatic.
But once you step off that old route and into something new, something shifts.
It’s exciting. A little scary. You’re more alert. More aware. You notice things you wouldn’t normally see because you’re no longer on autopilot.
And when you return to the old path, you see it differently. You start to recognize what still serves you—and what doesn’t.
Maybe it’s not about abandoning the old completely. Maybe it’s about keeping what’s good while creating something new.
That’s where growth happens.
New pathways—both mentally and physically—make life more exciting. They help us grow. They open up possibilities.
That sounds pretty good to me.
Thank you, Cheshire rails-to-trails project. It’s just one of many things changing in my world right now, and I wanted to honor it by sharing its beauty.
Love, Peace & Namaste.
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