The first time I noticed how many steps it took to get from my favorite window perch to the kitchen was on a stormy afternoon. Not that I was counting on purpose – it just happened, the way some thoughts do when you’re trying not to think about the thunder outside. Fifteen steps. Sometimes sixteen if I’m being extra careful.
I didn’t realize then that counting would become my quiet companion on difficult days. My person says everyone has their own way of finding calm when the world feels too big, too loud. Mine just happens to involve numbers and familiar pathways.
Twenty-three steps from my cozy corner to the bathroom sink. Twelve steps to the bookshelf where my person reads in the evenings, their voice steady and soothing. Nineteen steps to the front door where I sometimes sit and wonder about what’s beyond.
Some might think it’s silly to count steps. But I’ve learned that what looks like silly from the outside can feel like safety on the inside. When I was younger and newly arrived in this home, everything felt overwhelming. The spaces seemed endless, the shadows too deep. But then I discovered that counting made the endless spaces feel measured, manageable.
My person noticed, of course. They noticed how I’d pause at certain points, how I’d take the same path again and again. Instead of trying to change my routine, they began to respect it. Sometimes, when I’m counting my way through a challenging moment, I catch them watching with understanding in their eyes. They don’t try to rush me or distract me. They just let me find my way, step by counted step.
Lately, I’ve been trying something new. Sometimes, instead of counting steps, I count breaths. Or I count the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams. It’s not about the numbers anymore, not really. It’s about finding different ways to remind myself that even when things feel uncertain, there are always patterns to return to.
The storm that started my counting habit has long passed, but I still know it’s fifteen steps to the kitchen. Some days I make the journey without counting at all, too busy thinking about breakfast or following my person’s morning routine. Other days, when everything feels wobbly, I count each step carefully. Both ways are okay.
I think that’s what growing up is about – not leaving behind the things that once made us feel safe, but learning that we can carry them differently. Like my fifteen steps to the kitchen, still there when I need them, but not the only way I know how to get there anymore.
Tonight, as I settle into my evening routine, I find myself counting something else: the ways my person shows they care. The gentle voice when I’m hesitant. The patient presence when I need to count my steps. The quiet understanding of who I am. Those are the numbers that matter most of all.