How Regular Time Out In Nature Helps Me Show Up Better In Every Part Of Life

It still makes me laugh when I think about how it all started: two total strangers in GO Outdoors, both standing in the camping aisle, both pretending to know more about tents than we did. I (@geordieramblers) was debating the pros and cons of a two-man versus a three-man, and Steph (@geordie_hiker) just happened to be doing the same. A bit of small talk turned into a conversation about favourite walks, and somehow, a few years later, we’ve got a beautiful little boy, muddy boots by the door, and more miles on the clock than either of us ever expected. Funny old thing, fate.

We both work full-time in screen-heavy, high-pressure jobs — the kind where you can easily go from Monday to Friday without ever feeling the sun on your face. Deadlines, emails, meetings, calls, notifications; it’s constant. Buzzing in your ears. Draining your already heavy eyes. There’s always another task, another email, another deadline. For a while, before we met, that pace swallowed us whole. But many years ago now, we both came to a realisation: when we stepped outside, when we put the phones down for long enough to listen to the sounds of earth, everything shifted. The noise dulled. Our shoulders dropped. We started to breathe properly again.

That’s when we made a pact: no matter how busy life gets, we’d always carve out time in nature. It’s not about chasing big summits or ticking off maps (though we love a good Wainwright and we've both climbed all 214 of them). It’s about small, deliberate pauses; a sunrise before work, a sunset after, or a quiet woodland wander at the weekend. It’s become our reset button.

Most weekdays, the alarm goes off before the city wakes. While everyone else is rubbing their eyes and scrolling their phones, we’re out on a trail somewhere or strolling by the North Sea, headtorches cutting through the dark, coffee steaming in cold hands, waiting for the first bit of orange colour to hit the sky. Those mornings are gold. They remind you that you don’t have to go far to feel alive; sometimes, it’s just stepping outside your front door.

Then there are the evenings when work’s been a slog and your head’s full of static, when all you want to do is slump and watch Netflix. That’s when a sunset walk works its magic. We’ll grab the baby carrier, head for a nearby hill, and let the day drain out of us with each step. The world slows down again. You start to notice the birds settling, the light softening over the fields, the small sounds that get drowned out by everyday noise. You don’t fix your life in those moments, but you do find your footing again. Just enough to go again the next day. Just enough to reset.

Weekends are for our longer adventures: waterfalls, forests, mountains, moors, and the occasional country pub at the end (because balance, and who doesn't love a pint, right?). That’s when we switch properly off. No screens, no emails, no notifications. Just us, the trail, and whatever weather the North-East of England decides to throw at us. Sometimes it’s glorious sunshine; sometimes it’s sideways rain and fog thick enough to lose your own voice in. But that’s the beauty of it: it’s real. It's ours. Or, as we say up North, it's wors.

The more we’ve made time for nature, the more it’s shaped who we are — not just outdoors, but in every part of life. It’s changed how we parent. It’s made us more patient, more grounded. The things we used to walk past blindly — the trickle of a waterfall, the tweeting of morning birdsong — we now pay attention to. It’s helped us handle work stress better. When you’ve stood on a mountain in the freezing cold waiting for a sunrise that never comes, you learn a bit about perspective. Deadlines don’t feel quite as terrifying after that. It's slowed us down, but maybe, just maybe, that's the whole point? In a world obsessed with needing more, maybe it's time we advocated for going all in on what truly fills us instead of what simply distracts us.

And it’s not just about escaping. It’s about returning. Each time we step outside, we come back to our jobs, our families, our routines with a clearer head. Nature doesn’t solve your problems, but it gives you the space to see them differently. It’s where we talk about plans, dreams, ideas, and sometimes, where we say nothing at all. Silence feels safe out there. It feels needed. Whereas in a pub, it feels awkward and forced. There's no room for drama or gossip when you're truly living in the moment. We'll leave all that to the people stood under the big city lights.

There’s a moment that sums it all up for me: earlier this year, we spent a quiet spring evening at Simonside (our favourite hill in Northumberland), cold leaves crunching underfoot, sun slowly setting through the trees. Steph had our newborn son, Luca, tucked into the carrier, fast asleep against her chest. His fingers curled around her thumb. Steam rising from the flask, mist curling off the hills, and not another soul around. That was it, the whole reason we do this. That sense of being exactly where you’re meant to be, together, outside, alive. I remember thinking that there are billionaires out there who'll never feel this kind of rich.

People sometimes ask how we fit it all in: the jobs, the parenting, the hikes, the content. The truth? We don’t always. Some days it’s a ten-minute walk between meetings or a quick dash around the estate before bedtime. But the point isn’t how long you’re out, it’s that you go. You commit. You make space for stillness in a world that never stops. The problem is, if you don’t spend enough time getting to know yourself and the passion that burns deep inside of you, you start living out everyone else’s idea of who you should be. It took me more than twenty years to really understand who I was, what made me feel alive, and where I actually wanted to spend my time when the working day is done.

For us, those hours outdoors are what keep everything else running smoothly. They power the working week, they soften the edges, they remind us what matters. And when Monday rolls around again, we show up a little steadier, a little kinder, a little more human, because the hills, the mountains, the woods, and the weather have already done their work, the work that watching Netflix or doom-scrolling can never do. Comparison is the thief of joy.

That’s what our Instagram accounts are really about. It’s not just hiking — it's storytelling, reflecting; it’s how we live. It’s how we find balance, connection, and gratitude in the middle of all the noise. We’re just two people who met by accident in a camping shop, now trying to make the most of every sunrise, every sunset, and every muddy path in between. If we can inspire one person to lace up their boots, we've won. And honestly? We wouldn’t have it any other way.

The famous motivational speaker Les Brown once said that the ghosts of our unfulfilled dreams will be there at our deathbed — all the ideas we never acted on, the chances we never took, the moments we were too afraid to live fully. I think about that a lot. For me, those ghosts wouldn’t be big, dramatic, materialistic things. They’d be the quiet ones. The hikes I never went on because I was “too busy”. The time I never played with my son because I was "too pre-occupied". The sunrise I missed because "I didn’t want to get up early". The places I didn’t explore because "I worried what people might think". The time I never pressed post on something I was passionate about because "I was too worried if it was cringe". The times I played it safe instead of chasing what made me feel alive.

So I ask you reading this: what ghosts will be around your deathbed?

Imagine yourself at the end, looking back. Then take what’s left of your time — the mornings, the weekends, the ordinary days — and live accordingly. I ask you to step outside. While you wait, life keeps moving, and the moments you miss never come back.