The Clarity of Wandering

I’m in a mini book club with a coaching colleague. One book, one chapter a week—more or less. Plenty of leeway, but a shared commitment to read, reflect, and actually make it to the end. Right now, we’re working through Johann Hari’s Stolen Focus, a book about why our attention is slipping away. I just finished the chapter on mind-wandering—and my mind was, well, blown.

At the start of the year, I set my intention around deep work. I wanted to shine a single spotlight on whatever I was doing, believing that long stretches of focused attention were the gold standard. If I could train my brain to resist the engineered distractions of my devices, I’d produce better work, make clearer decisions, and feel more present in my life.

Then I read about mind-wandering. Turns out, letting my thoughts drift isn’t just a distraction—it’s essential. Creativity, problem-solving, even making sense of life all require space for the brain to roam. When we stop gripping so tightly, unexpected connections emerge. Wandering doesn’t mean losing direction—it means giving our brains room to integrate, to breathe.

Which brings me to something I’ve resisted for myself for years: walking as a form of exercise. 

Beyond my daily school drop-off and pick-up routes, I’ve always preferred structured movement—weights, circuits, something that feels productive. But then I came across a study out of the University of Utah that confirmed what poets and philosophers have known forever: walking in nature isn’t just good for the body, it’s transformative for the brain.

The study found that a 40-minute walk in nature significantly improved executive control—the ability to focus—compared to an urban walk of the same length. But what struck me most was how walking and mind-wandering go hand in hand. Just as my brain benefits from drifting between thoughts, my body benefits from movement that isn’t about hitting a target. Walking is the perfect setting for deep thought—it gives ideas a chance to surface and unfold organically.

Nature restores. It allows the mind to reset, to escape the grip of screens and schedules. Taking time to observe clouds, listen to birds, or notice how light moves through trees isn’t just pleasant—it’s necessary. And in that quiet wandering—of both the feet and the mind—clarity arrives in a way it never could under the rigid glare of forced focus.

We live in a culture that equates progress with effort, with gripping tightly. But what if our best ideas and insights emerge not when we push harder, but when we step back? Not when we force focus, but when we create space?

I still believe in deep work, but I’m starting to see it differently. Maybe it’s not about spotlighting one thing at the expense of all else, but about knowing when to dim the lights, let the scene shift, and allow the subconscious to take the stage. A spacious walk might be exactly what my brain needs—to wander, to make sense of things, and ultimately, to return sharper than before.