Walking Diaries #3 with Stacy Bronec

Four Walks for 10 Years

Welcome to the Walking Diaries where each month a friend of mine will share a story/reflection/poem/photo essay from a walk they took. Through their words and pictures, they’ll show and tell what the walk meant to them, and how they grew from it. And with each diary shared, I hope you’ll be encouraged to lace up your shoes and put one foot in front of the other. Want to catch up on the Walking Diaries? Check out a walk in Turkey by Sarah Bahiraei and a contemplative walk in the woods taken by Christina Hubbard.

Today I’m delighted to share a walk from my friend

Stacy Bronec

. Stacy and I met online through Exhale Creativity, a community for creative mamas where we’ve gotten to know each other through our stories. Stacy lives in Rural Montana and through her writing I’ve experienced a way of life that is different from mine. Stacy knows how to pay attention — to others, the land, and the unexpected ways our lives take shape. Enjoy her walking diary and let us know what resonated with you.

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One. 

Before parking in front of the skate park, we looped around the block to grab oatmeal chocolate chip cookies from the local bakery. With a stack of six cookies, double the usual size, we arrived at our destination. We were to walk this baby out. And by we, I mean me.

I can’t recall now if I ate one of those cookies. But I did have a baby that morning. Orange and yellow leaves dotted the green grass, unaware that it was fall. My belly poked out, my jacket unable to zip. The air was crisp, our conversation punctuated by contractions and catching our breath. 

After walking past the skate ramp, I stopped, placing my hands on my hips—drawing in a deep breath. I shuffled to a park bench, easing myself onto its wooden slats, still damp with dew. I told him how much it was starting to hurt—the memories of my first labor crashing into me like waves. I told him I couldn’t do this, although I already was. 

Between contractions, I stood up, nodded toward him, and put one foot in front of the other. My midwife’s words came back to me, “You’ll know when you need to come back.”

With each step, my water broke, one drop at a time. Park bathrooms and outhouses are places I avoid at all costs. But that day, when the worn gray building came into view just behind the empty tennis courts, I went in. The weight of my belly a force to be reckoned with.

My husband stood guard outside the chipped green door. But the swings and slides were empty this Thursday in October—the kids' and moms' summer routines behind them.

After another lap around the park, my breath catching with each contraction, I knew. 

Two. 

“How have you never watched Lonesome Dove? It’s my favorite movie!” he asked. I shrugged, honestly having never thought about the movie before that day; the day after I texted my mom and said, “Don’t be surprised if I get married and move to a farm!” 

On that Sunday, also the day after a friend’s 30th birthday party, we walked, hand in hand, up and down Main Street. A street in a city I had lived in for two years. The same street in the city he lived in 10 years earlier. 

With our gloves and stocking hats tucked behind my apartment door, we drove to the video rental store. I turned the DVD case over in my hands, baffled at how many hours the movie was. 

Ten years later, I still haven’t watched the movie. But he still holds my hand. 

Three.

“According to the app, the nearest Target is only five blocks away,” I said, looking down at the busy street 10 stories below. I flipped from Google Maps to a calendar. Two days late. 

I bent over, lacing my shoes, wondering if this same activity would leave me breathless in a few months. He and I walked down the floral-carpeted hallway to the elevator. He squeezed my hand as the golden doors opened. 

We walked next to one another, past Dunkin’ Donuts and deep-dish pizzerias on the day after our sixth anniversary. I continued to check the map, pointing in the direction we needed to go. We turned the corner, the streets and sidewalks gray, the red circle sticking out like a sore thumb. I’d never seen such a small Target. 

Down the aisles we went in search of a test. This wasn’t my first time buying one, but my stomach churned the same. For a few extra bucks, I picked the one that answered with words, not lines to determine, held up to the light. Is it? Or isn’t it?

We walked back to our hotel, the plastic sack rustling between us with each step. For the first time, we took a test together, rather than the prior two, where I took the test on my own, telling him the news later. 

The next day, we flew across the country, back to our son and daughter. It turned out we didn’t leave all our kids at home that weekend. 

Four.

My mind rewinds like a film, seeing myself in reverse, my decisions and steps in double-time. Walking backward from this version of me. The video stops on a mountain, me in white, him in a gray suit. I walked down a grassy aisle, families on both sides. He smiled, waiting for me at the end. Or was it the beginning? 

We stood still, listening to the words spoken and prayed over us, words I now cannot recall. Together, we walked hand in hand back down the aisle. Raising our clasped hands above our heads for the photographer, our families clapping and cheering.

That walk, of course, wasn’t the first we took together. If the film kept rewinding, the steps and detours we took, together and separate, led us to that day, the day with a bouquet in my hand and a new ring on his finger. 

The end of the aisle was another beginning, leading to walks down grocery store aisles, pacing hospital halls, and into classrooms, kids in tow—with the many ordinary days that are anything but ordinary tucked in between. 

Our hands aren’t always held, clasped with flowers, but we’re always walking in the same direction.

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Stacy Bronec lives in rural Montana with her husband and their three kids on their family farm and ranch. Years ago, she dreamt of big city life, but then she fell in love with a farmer and moved to the middle of nowhere. Now, she uses stories to make sense of the beauty and challenges of rural life. Her essays have appeared in Coffee + Crumbs, Motherly, and Grown & Flown, among others. You can connect with Stacy on her website or Substack, where she writes a monthly newsletter and an interview series: Rural Women Cultivating a Life They Love.