Mindfulness in the Heat: How My Summer Walks Taught Me to Be Present

When I was on my mindful walk last week in the 102° weather, I became acutely aware of how sad I will be to stop going on these walks. Summers in Arizona are tough. The intense heat drains the energy out of many of life’s usual rhythms—even something as simple and cherished as going for a walk. I noticed myself grieving something I’ve come to deeply love: my mindful walks.

These walks aren’t about getting steps in or checking something off a to-do list. Once a week, I walk the same route with no music, no podcast, no dog, no AirPods—just me. It’s a 30-minute journey that becomes a moving journal entry, a quiet conversation with myself. Instead of moving through my neighborhood on autopilot, I slow down. I notice the small things: the soft pink of a new flower, the subtle shift in the shape of the clouds, the buzz of restaurant patios filled with laughter and clinking glasses. But the awareness doesn’t stop at what’s outside. It turns inward. Without distractions, I become aware of what’s moving through me—anxiety, gratitude, grief, fatigue. I meet those parts of myself gently, without needing to fix or rush past them.

Here’s the thing that struck me on that hot day: This presence is always available to me. That perspective shift is at the heart of mindfulness. As Jon Kabat-Zinn describes, mindfulness is “paying attention in a particular way: on purpose, in the present moment, and non-judgmentally.” Mindfulness helps lower anxiety, improves focus, supports emotional regulation, and can even reduce symptoms of depression. It’s not a quick fix, but rather a practice that gently strengthens our ability to return to ourselves. That means I don’t need a perfect setting—or ideal weather—to be present. I just need to notice. Yes, it’s natural to feel resistance or even grief when something meaningful changes. I still feel a longing for the simple joy of those walks.

But now I ask myself: Can I notice the heat with the same curiosity I offer a blooming flower? Can I tune in to what this season—literal and emotional—is inviting me to pay attention to? Even indoors, I can find moments to return to the present. The sound of water as I wash dishes, the warmth of a coffee mug in my hands, the pit in my stomach before seeing a long-lost friend, the steady rhythm of my breath. Mindfulness doesn’t erase discomfort. It invites us to sit with it. To breathe with it. To listen to what it’s trying to tell us. Even if I can’t walk outside this summer, I can walk inward. I can return to the present moment, wherever I am.