I finished reading Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow on a Saturday morning in October. I had been carrying the final chapter on my old Kindle for 2 weeks, finding reasons to delay. The story deserved better than a rushed ending.

The forest was quiet that morning except for the wind moving through pine branches and the occasional distant shout from where the children were learning below.

Every other Saturday, my daughter attends environmental consciousness classes at the Hymettus Forest. She learns through play, discovering how to care for nature, herself, and her group. What began as her educational experience has grown into a meaningful ritual for both of us.

While she spends hours exploring, I walk. The path climbs through pine and cypress on the western slope, opening occasionally to views of Athens spreading below.

Concrete stretches without pattern or plan, the city filling every direction with precious little green breaking the density. I pause sometimes to photograph it, the same chaotic view captured dozens of times.

The walk continues with headphones on, an 80s and 90s playlist, moving without a destination.

I started bringing the Kindle months earlier, thinking I would read between walks. Instead, the book became the walk. One chapter per visit, sometimes two if they were short.

The story moved at the forest’s pace, and I let go of rushing it. It writes about friendship and creation, about building games together and the cost of making things that matter. I would read a section, then walk, then sit and read more.

The book never felt like an interruption. It felt like part of the ritual.

I believed for months that the forest was where I did my best thinking. Solitude, movement, fresh air, and time away from the constant pressure of work made it feel productive. Problems would untangle themselves while I walked, or so I thought.

Architectural decisions would clarify while I sat reading. They never did.

After more than a year of this routine, I started noticing a different pattern. On Monday morning, a technical trade-off I had been circling for weeks suddenly becomes clear. The conflicting priorities that seemed impossible to balance the previous Friday now have an obvious resolution.

By Tuesday, the documentation I had been avoiding flows without resistance. Wednesday brings a conversation about system boundaries that cuts through weeks of circular discussion.

This happens in the days after these walks, not during them. I am no longer trying when it surfaces, no longer grinding against the problem or forcing the decision. Time spent outside doesn’t just occupy me; it resets my mind, dissolves mental clutter, and sharpens my focus across work and life.

I return from these walks with empty hands and the sense that something has shifted without my participation. The urgency that distorts every decision at work loosens its grip when I stop trying to think productively.

She comes out of the forest muddy and animated, talking about the fort they built, or the beetle they found, or how one of the older kids taught her to weave grass. I come out with tired legs and a few photos. No notes, no breakthroughs, no plans.

These few hours have become essential for me as a busy dad. They help me refocus and return to daily life with renewed energy.

I actively seek these moments now while waiting for my little princess to complete her activities, understanding that the setting matters less than the practice itself.

What these brief escapes reveal about mental renewal no amount of grinding at my desk ever could. Moving away might feel like a luxury in the middle of life’s demands, but it has proven the most effective way to maintain what complex decisions require. A walk or a quiet moment creates the space for recalibration, offering a refreshed perspective for what comes next.

That October morning, finishing the book felt like completing a long project that was never really a project at all. Just something that happened slowly, in pieces, without pressure. I closed the Kindle and sat there, letting the ending settle.

She would be done soon, full of stories about whatever small discovery the morning had brought. I had nothing equivalent to offer. Just a finished book and the quiet knowledge that some part of my mind had been clearing itself while I read about characters building games.

The best decisions might require this same patience. The willingness to pull back when proximity distorts perspective. The discipline to stop analyzing and trust that answers will surface on their own schedule.

I wonder how often I resist this at work, convinced that more hours or deeper analysis will break something open, when walking away might be exactly what the problem needs.