I used to treat walking across campus as a transition, nothing more. It was the space between things — the time taken to get from my lecture to the dining hall, from a meeting to my dorm, from one obligation to the next. I walked quickly. I checked my phone. I mentally rehearsed what I had to do next.
Walking alone felt like wasted time.
In college, everything seems like it should be optimized. Study smarter. Network intentionally. Schedule your workouts. Make your rest productive. Even downtime starts to feel like something to improve.Â
So, when I found myself crossing campus alone with nobody beside me, my first instinct was to fill the silence. I would text someone. Check my email. Scroll. Anything to make the solitude feel purposeful. Walking alone can make you feel strangely exposed, like everyone else is heading somewhere with someone, while you are the only one without a plan.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted.
Maybe it was the day I was too tired to check my phone, or the afternoon when the air was crisp, and the sunlight hit my face at just the right angle, and I just … stopped. I looked up. The sky glowed golden as the day came to a close. The leaves rustled. A bunny hopped across the field.
I started walking without rushing.
Suddenly, that in-between time, the time I used to treat as a filler, became one of the most honest parts of my day.
In college, there aren’t many moments when you aren’t “on.” You’re either absorbing lectures, devising plans, showing up for people or tending to commitment after commitment. Walking alone became one of the only times when I wasn’t responding, achieving or proving anything to anyone.
Yet, in those quiet moments, the best thinking takes place. Not the structured, bullet-point thinking. The wandering, creative kind. The kind where a stray idea connects to something you learned last week. The kind where you suddenly realize why something has been bothering you. The kind where your brain finally exhales.
When I stopped filling every walk with noise, I began to notice the things that I’d been too distracted to see: the way the clouds blush at sunset or the way my mood shifts with the light. I noticed my own thoughts more clearly, too.
High-achieving culture trains us to believe that stillness is laziness. If we’re not actively doing something, we’re wasting time. Walking alone challenged that belief. It forced me to face the silence, even for 10 minutes between classes.
Now, walking alone feels less like empty time and more like a reset button. It’s a part of my day that doesn’t belong to a syllabus, deadline or someone else’s expectations. It’s where I can process, decompress and think thoughts that don’t need to turn into something impressive.
So, if you ever see me walking alone across campus, I’m not lost. I’m not waiting for someone. I’m not lonely.
I’m just thinking.