NL Action Network

Jay’s Story

I remember that evening clearly—the day I finally decided to take a walk around my neighbourhood.

I knew I was obese. My clothes didn’t fit. My back hurt. And the person staring back at me in the mirror felt like a stranger. It was a not-so-chilly fall evening, and with equal parts hope and denial, I stepped outside.

I made it past my driveway. Victory.

Then onto the sidewalk. Less victory.

I had already started panting, but I told myself, Just keep going. By the 200-metre mark, sharp, needle-like pains were piercing my lower back, and my legs felt like solid wood. But I’m stubborn—so I decided to go just a few more feet.

That’s when my body staged a full-blown protest.

As I took my next step, I collapsed on the sidewalk in agony. It was excruciating. And of course—because life enjoys irony—I didn’t have my phone. No calling for help. No dramatic rescue.

Hot tears streamed down my face. How is it possible that I can’t even walk?

There was a streetlight post nearby. I reached for it, pulled myself up slowly, and said a prayer. I calmed myself and decided to turn back. Every step felt like labour pains. I kept whispering to myself, If you survived labour, you can survive this.

Eventually, I made it home and collapsed on my living room floor, staring at the ceiling.

What had I done to myself?

I knew how I got there. I was unemployed, caring for children, isolated, emotionally attached to food—eating my way through self-pity and loneliness. Food had become my comfort, my companion, my coping mechanism.

I knew I needed help.

So I booked an appointment with my nurse practitioner.

She didn’t sugarcoat it.

“You are morbidly obese—BMI 42 kg/m². You are hypertensive. You are prediabetic. And you need to see a specialist.”

I was crushed. Disappointed. Ashamed. Food—and the lack of movement—had brought me here.

The specialist wanted a stress ECG. He wanted me on Ozempic.

Ozempic.

I had reservations. I knew the root of my problem, and deep down, I knew no injection could fix what only I could change.

So I started small. Painfully small.

I did walk-at-home videos—15 minutes at a time. That helped, but my eating habits were still out of control.

Then came my unexpected turning point.

I had to travel to the United States for academic work—for two months. Suddenly, I didn’t have to cook. I had no car, so I was using public transport. Which meant… walking. A lot.

It was summer. The streets were beautiful. Walking felt less like punishment and more like freedom.

I started eating once a day. Sometimes, to save money, I ate once every two or three days. I drank plenty of water, ate apples and chewed gum. And slowly—miraculously—things began to change.

I stopped panting.
The weight started dropping.
My skin looked fresher.
I felt alive again.

Soon, I was walking 5,000 steps a day. Then an hour a day. Then more.

When I returned to Newfoundland, I kept walking. I started eating again—because life—but I made sure I walked every single day.

Every time I completed my circuit, I felt gratitude.

Because once upon a time, I couldn’t walk.

And now, I can—without fear, without pain.

A Public Health Reflection

Here’s the twist: my personal journey reflects a much bigger picture in Canada.

Despite knowing how vital physical activity is for our health, less than half of Canadian adults meet the recommended 150 minutes of moderate-to-vigorous physical activity each week. Only about 1 in 2 adults (18-64) and 1 in 4 older adults (65-79) in Canada are meeting this guideline

At the same time, physical inactivity isn’t just a personal fitness issue—it’s a public-health concern. Inactivity costs Canada’s health-care system billions of dollars each year and contributes to chronic diseases like heart disease, diabetes, and hypertension—the very conditions I was grappling with.

And this isn’t just statistics on a page—it’s people’s lives. Many Canadians face barriers that make moving more difficult: neighbourhoods without safe walking spaces, jobs that keep them sedentary, emotional stressors, caregiving demands, mental health struggles, and limited access to supportive environments.

That’s why public health isn’t about lecturing people to “just walk more.” It’s about creating environments that make walking safe, enjoyable, and accessible for everyone—people of all ages, abilities, incomes, and communities.

Walking isn’t trivial.
It’s prevention.
It’s rehabilitation.
It’s dignity.

And for me?
It became my way back to life.

Once upon a time, I couldn’t walk.

Today, I walk—with joy, with gratitude … and with a deeper understanding of why movement matters not just for me, but for all of us.

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