Kierkegaard: “Above All, Do Not Lose the Desire to Walk”

 

Kierkegaard: “Above All, Do Not Lose the Desire to Walk”

The great Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard wrote a letter to his sister-in-law, Sofie Henriette Kierkegaard (Jette), in October 1847. The letter has been preserved and reveals his deep care for her. She had become seriously ill and was bedridden.

Kierkegaard’s advice to her was simple—yet profound:

Walk.

He writes:

“Above all, do not lose the desire to walk. Every day I walk myself into a state of well-being and away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it.
Even if one walked only to preserve one’s health, and this remained always just ahead—still I would say: walk!
For it is evident that by walking one comes as close to well-being as possible, even if one does not fully reach it; whereas by sitting still, one comes closer to discomfort.
The more one sits still, the closer one comes to illness. Only in movement can health and salvation be found.
If someone denies that movement exists, then I do as Diogenes—I walk.
If someone denies that health lies in movement, then I walk away from all sickly objections.
When one keeps on walking, everything will be all right.”
(Kierkegaard, Søren Kierkegaards Skrifter, Vol. 28, pp. 60–61 My translation)

Myself, on my way to Santiago de Compostella. Privat photo.

Walking as Life, Not Trend

In 19th-century Copenhagen, walking had become so popular that authorities had to regulate pedestrian traffic. As early as 1810, the police issued instructions recommending that pedestrians keep to the right side of the street.

Walking had become fashionable.

Kierkegaard, however, took it a step further. For him, walking was not a trend—it was a way of living, even a form of therapy. He claimed that he walked himself into health and into his best thoughts.

Of course, one cannot walk away from every illness. Anyone who has experienced serious disease knows this. Kierkegaard writes as a philosopher, not as a physician.

Yet his insight remains meaningful:

Movement matters.
Even—and perhaps especially—for those who suffer.

Movement, Even in Stillness

There is something striking—perhaps even unsettling—in the fact that Kierkegaard gave this advice to a woman who was severely ill and bedridden for the last twenty years of her life, suffering from paralysis and intense pain caused by kidney stones.

And yet, he encouraged her to move as much as possible.

Health, he believed, exists in movement.

Whether Henriette was able to follow his advice, or whether she experienced it as impossible, we do not know. But we do know that she deeply appreciated her brother-in-law and read his works with great dedication.

And perhaps there is another form of movement here.

Reading, too, is a kind of walking.

Along with the letter, Kierkegaard sent her a copy of his newly published book Upbuilding Discourses in Various Spirits (1847). I imagine that Henriette undertook many meaningful “journeys” together with him through these texts.

The Pilgrim’s Path

Kierkegaard’s reflections on walking are often echoed by pilgrims.

I think of myself as a pilgrim—someone who walks toward a sacred place. For early Christian pilgrims, such places included Jerusalem, Santiago de Compostela, and Nidaros (Trondheim).

I have had the privilege of walking 800 kilometers myself—from St. Jean Pied de Port in France to Santiago de Compostela. 

There are, of course, many sacred places. Different religions point in different directions. And today, pilgrims walk for many different reasons.

But for me, Kierkegaard’s reasons resonate deeply:

Movement makes me healthier.
I feel more alive when I walk.
And movement gives rise to good thoughts.

In that sense, the sacred place I walk toward is not only out there—but also within.

Why We Walk

Over the centuries, the meaning of pilgrimage has evolved. The Norwegian author Eivind Luthen (2003) offers a thoughtful summary of why people walk. I have taken the liberty of reshaping his points slightly—in the spirit of Kierkegaard:

1. We seek silence and peace through movement.
2. By walking at our own pace, we gradually stop rushing; our stress levels decrease.
3. It is important to practice being alone—even to experience loneliness—so that attention can turn inward.
4. Walking requires effort. One chooses to walk, places one foot in front of the other. This effort strengthens both body and soul.
5. Walking simplifies life. We rediscover three essential elements: movement, rest, and nourishment. We carry only what we need. Many burdens can be left behind. Life becomes simple when we walk.
6. When walking, we greet others. Even strangers acknowledge one another. A greeting is both a gift given and received—a smile, a moment of shared humanity. Pilgrimage is often called “a journey of love,” and it is freely given.
7. We may also learn from earlier times. Pilgrimage was once undertaken out of guilt, shame, illness, or a desire for reconciliation. This is still possible. One may walk toward healing—and toward better thoughts.

As Luthen writes:

“As long as one keeps walking, everything will be all right.” (Luthen, 2003, p. 11, My translation)

References (APA)

Garff, J. (2000). SAK: Søren Aaby Kierkegaard: A biography. Copenhagen: Gads Forlag.

Kierkegaard, S. (2012). Søren Kierkegaards Skrifter (Vol. 28: Letters and dedications). Copenhagen: Gads Forlag.

Kierkegaard, S. (2012). Søren Kierkegaards Skrifter: Commentary (Vol. K28). Copenhagen: Gads Forlag.

Luthen, E. (2003). Pilegrimsguiden: Tønsberg – Oslo – Hamar. Oslo: Verbum.

Written by me in conversation with Open AI/ChetGPT 

The Path as Choice – A Pilgrim’s Reflection

 

The Path as Choice – A Pilgrim’s Reflection

Myself, walking to Santiago de Compostela. Privat photo.

I have walked the path myself.

From St. Jean Pied de Port, across the Pyrenees, through dust, silence, pain, and wonder—until I reached Santiago de Compostela. Eight hundred kilometers. Thirty days. Alone—and yet, in the company of thousands.

I did not return the same.

An Ancient Road – A Living Tradition

The pilgrimage is not only my story. It carries traces of something much larger.

As early as 1108, Sigurd the Crusader made his way toward this destination. Later, the Reformation of 1537 brought pilgrimage traditions in Norway to a halt. The roads fell silent—even those leading to Trondheim.

Centuries passed.

Then, in the late twentieth century, something began to move again. Since the 1980s, pilgrims have returned to the road. Today, thousands walk each year toward Santiago, carrying the scallop shell on their backpacks—a quiet sign not only of where they are going, but that they are on the way.

St. James – The Silent Companion

At the heart of this tradition stands James the Greater.

One of the disciples of Jesus Christ, among the closest, and the first of the apostles to suffer martyrdom. According to tradition, his remains were brought to Santiago, making it one of Christianity’s most important pilgrimage destinations.

But perhaps it is not primarily the history that makes him present on the road.

He is not the system builder.
Not the one who explains.

He is the one who walks.

Perhaps that is why he remains the patron saint of pilgrims: not because he shows us the way, but because he reminds us that we must walk it ourselves.

The Path Is Not Given

Before I began, I thought—as many do—that the path was already there. That it was simply a matter of following a route, reaching a destination.

But it is not like that.

I came to understand something of what Søren Kierkegaard writes: the path is not something laid out before us. It comes into being as we walk it.

Each day began anew. Each day required a choice:

Will I continue?
At what pace?
How will I meet what comes?

And perhaps most importantly:

Who do I choose to be in this?

The Gravity of Freedom

There are moments on the path when something quiets within you. Not necessarily outward silence—but inward stillness.

A point where you can no longer postpone, explain away, or hide behind roles.

You stand there—as the one who chooses.

Kierkegaard calls this “the dizziness of freedom.” Not fear of something specific, but a kind of trembling awareness that something is at stake.

And perhaps it is precisely there that life unfolds.

Walking Together – As Strangers, As Home

What changed me most were the encounters.

People from all corners of the world. Different languages, lives, and stories.

And yet—a recognition.

I have often felt like a stranger in the world. But here, something shifted.

I was a stranger—and at the same time, at home.

Not because we were the same, but because we shared something fundamental:

We were on the way.

Practical Philosophy – Lived

I have written that practical philosophy is about making choices and taking responsibility for the good.

On the path, this became real.

Not as theory. Not as abstraction. But as lived experience:

When the body aches.
When I meet another human being.
When I choose to open—or to withdraw.

Here, Kierkegaard meets Aristotle: freedom and choice, alongside phronesis—practical wisdom that arises in the moment, in the concrete.

Not as systems, but as life.

After the Journey

Looking back, I can say that I walked to Santiago.

But that is not the whole truth.

Something in me also began to walk.
And it has not stopped.

A Thought I Carry With Me

The path was not lying ahead of me.
It came into being through my choices.

Each step was not only movement through a landscape—
but a movement within myself.

And somewhere between being a stranger and belonging,
I began to sense
that it is not the destination that changes us—
but the act of walking.

References 

Aristotle. (2009). Nicomachean Ethics (W. D. Ross, Trans.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Original work ca. 350 BCE)

Kierkegaard, S. (1980). The Concept of Anxiety (R. Thomte, Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1844)

Kierkegaard, S. (1992). Either/Or (H. V. Hong & E. H. Hong, Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1843)

The Holy Bible. (2011). New International Version. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan.

Vázquez de Parga, L., Lacarra, J. M., & Uría Ríu, J. (1992). Las peregrinaciones a Santiago de Compostela. Madrid: Iberdrola.

Written by me in conversation with OpenAI/ChetGPT

 

Ironic Midwives

Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Plato and Socrates – and the unsettling art of thinking for oneself

Illustration created by Open AI/ChatGPT for this article

Socrates as the living questioner

Plato as the system builder

Friedrich Nietzsche as the one who dismantles

Søren Kierkegaard as the one who turns us inward

…and all gathered in the same space, not as teachers—but as conversation partners.

What may be strongest in the image is that none of them “wins.”

They are in the midst of a conversation.

What if a philosopher does not try to teach you anything at all—but instead takes something away from you?

This question has stayed with me for many years. It emerged slowly, first as a faint unease when reading Søren Kierkegaard, and later more forcefully when I encountered Friedrich Nietzsche. Both left me with the same strange experience: I did not feel guided. I felt exposed.

They seemed to withdraw just as I expected them to clarify. They refused to offer conclusions where I wanted answers. And yet, I kept reading.

Over time, I began to understand that this was not a weakness in their philosophy. It was their method.

The Socratic Midwife

To grasp what Kierkegaard and Nietzsche are doing, we must go back to Socrates. He did not consider himself a teacher in the conventional sense. Instead, he described himself as a midwife.

Not because he produced knowledge, but because he helped others bring forth what was already within them.

The Greek term for this practice is maieutics—the art of midwifery. Socrates insisted that he could not give birth to ideas himself. He could only assist others in the difficult, often painful process of bringing their own understanding into the world.

This is a deeply unsettling idea. It means that truth cannot simply be handed over. It must be struggled into existence.

And perhaps even more unsettling: it means that we are responsible for it.

Irony as Distance

Kierkegaard takes this Socratic method and gives it a name: irony.

But irony here is not humor, nor is it sarcasm. It is distance.

In the encounter with Socrates, a person is first led into a state of uncertainty—sometimes even despair—only to find that the guide has stepped back. Kierkegaard interprets this withdrawal as essential. Without it, there is no genuine understanding, only imitation.

The philosopher must refuse authority in order to awaken responsibility in the reader.

This is why Kierkegaard writes as he does—through pseudonyms, through indirect communication, through voices that both reveal and conceal. He does not stand behind his texts as a final authority. He unsettles them, and in doing so, unsettles us.

We are not given the truth. We are placed in a position where we must confront our own relationship to it.

The Temptation of Easy Answers

In contrast, Socrates often positioned himself against the Sophists—those who claimed to teach wisdom directly.

They offered answers. They provided clarity. They filled the empty glass.

There is something undeniably attractive about this. Even today, we are drawn to those who speak with certainty, who promise knowledge without struggle.

But Socrates—and later Kierkegaard—would remind us that most of us are not empty glasses. We are already filled, often with illusions, assumptions, and unexamined beliefs. To simply add more content does not lead to truth. It deepens confusion.

What is needed instead is a disruption. A clearing. A moment where what we thought we knew begins to dissolve.

Nietzsche and the Experience of Nothingness

My own encounter with Nietzsche was marked by precisely this kind of disruption.

The first time I read Thus Spoke Zarathustra, more than thirty years ago, I had to put it aside. It was not just difficult—it was unsettling in a deeper sense. I could not find solid ground.

For many years, I stayed with Kierkegaard. It was only later that I returned to Nietzsche, and this time, something had changed.

I was no longer looking for answers.

What had frightened me before, I could now begin to recognize as something else: an encounter with what I can only call nothingness.

Nietzsche does not offer us a stable world of truths. He dismantles the idea that such a world exists. But he does not replace it with another certainty. Instead, he leaves us in an open space—one that can feel both liberating and terrifying.

Nothing is absolutely true. But neither is anything absolutely false.

This is not relativism in a simplistic sense. It is a demand: that we take responsibility for how we live, how we interpret, how we become.

Nietzsche, like Socrates, does not give birth to our understanding. He creates the conditions under which we must do it ourselves.

Heidegger and the Question of Nothing

At this point, I find myself turning to Martin Heidegger, who dares to take this experience seriously.

In his essay What Is Metaphysics?, he writes of “the Nothing” not as an object, but as something that belongs to the very structure of our existence. The Nothing is not something we encounter alongside beings; it is what makes the openness of beings possible at all.

This is not an easy thought to grasp. Perhaps it cannot be grasped in the usual sense.

Heidegger suggests that our entire understanding of Being is historically conditioned, shaped by what he calls Seinsvergessenheit—the forgetfulness of Being. We move within interpretations that conceal as much as they reveal.

In this light, the experience of nothingness is not a failure of understanding. It is a necessary moment within it.

The Moment of Turning

My thoughts here also move toward Plato and his dialogue Parmenides, where a series of hypotheses leads the reader through a kind of intellectual ascent and descent. Between these movements lies a turning point—a transition that cannot be located in time or space.

Kierkegaard calls this the “moment” (Øieblikket), borrowing from the Greek exaifnés—the sudden.

It is a strange phenomenon. Not something we can hold onto, but something that happens when we are forced to let go.

A shift. A rupture. A beginning.

For me, this is where the idea of nothingness becomes meaningful—not as an abstract concept, but as an experience. A point at which what I thought I knew dissolves, and something else becomes possible.

Reading as Responsibility

To read Kierkegaard or Nietzsche is therefore not simply an intellectual exercise.

It is a responsibility.

They do not guide us safely toward conclusions. They withdraw, and in doing so, they expose us to ourselves.

There is discomfort in this. Perhaps even fear. But this discomfort is not accidental. It is part of the process.

Just as birth involves pain, the emergence of understanding requires a kind of existential effort.

The ironic midwife does not remove this pain. He insists on it.

A Final Reflection

Over the years, I have come to see that philosophy, at its deepest level, is not about acquiring knowledge.

It is about transformation.

Kierkegaard and Nietzsche do not teach us what to think. They challenge us to confront the conditions under which thinking becomes possible at all.

They take away the illusion that truth can be given to us.

And in that unsettling space—in that encounter with nothingness—something new may begin.

Perhaps this is the true task of philosophy:

Not to provide answers,
but to help us become capable of asking the right questions.

Closing Reflection

There are moments when thinking does not feel like effort,
but like listening.

Not to answers,
but to something quieter—
something that does not insist,
but waits.

I have come to understand that philosophy is not always found in books,
nor in arguments,
nor even in language.

Sometimes it appears in the space between things—
between a question and its absence,
between movement and stillness,
between what we know
and what quietly withdraws.

Sitting by the water,
with a notebook that does not demand to be filled,
I sense something of what Kierkegaard and Nietzsche were pointing toward:

That truth is not given.
It is lived into.

And perhaps that is enough.

References

Aarnes, A., & Wyller, E. A. (Eds.). (1962). Hva er metafysikk? (G. Fløistad, Trans.). Oslo: Universitetsforlaget.

Heidegger, M. (1929/1976). What is metaphysics? In Pathmarks (W. McNeill, Ed.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Heidegger, M. (1961/1997). Nietzsche (Vols. 1–2). San Francisco: HarperCollins.

Kierkegaard, S. (1843/1980). Either/Or (H. V. Hong & E. H. Hong, Trans.). Princeton University Press.

Kierkegaard, S. (1849/1980). The Sickness Unto Death (H. V. Hong & E. H. Hong, Trans.). Princeton University Press.

Nietzsche, F. (1883–1885/2006). Thus Spoke Zarathustra (A. Del Caro, Trans.). Cambridge University Press.

Plato. (1997). Complete Works (J. M. Cooper, Ed.). Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing.

Westfall, J. (2009). Ironic midwives: Socratic maieutics in Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. Philosophy & Social Criticism, 35(6), 627–648.

Wyller, E. A. (1995). Platon: Samlede verker (Vol. 2). Oslo: Aschehoug.

Illustration created by Open AI/ChatGPT as a signature for the author

Note: This article is written by the author in conversation with OpenAI/ChatGPT

The Brain Across Diagnoses

 

The Brain Across Diagnoses

My autistic brain – Joy

The illustration is created by the author.

It is not intended to show clear boundaries, but rather an intertwined landscape of forms and colors – perhaps like the brain itself must be understood: not as separate diagnoses, but as patterns that flow into one another.

An introduction

I was sitting and reading two demanding research articles. Both did the same thing: they studied Alzheimer’s disease, autism, and schizophrenia within the same project. Three conditions that, from the perspective of lived life, are profoundly different. And yet – in the laboratory, in the analyses, in the language of biology – they were placed side by side.

It made me pause.

Not because the research is weak. Quite the opposite. But because it points toward something larger: a shift in how we are beginning to understand the brain – and, consequently, the human being.

In the article I read, more than a thousand brains are analyzed using DNA methylation. The researchers do not find a single shared disease, but a shared pattern: all three conditions show shifts in brain cell types. Alzheimer’s is associated with a loss of endothelial cells, autism with increased microglial activity, and schizophrenia with a reduction in oligodendrocytes.

There is no similarity in content – but in form.

A new map of the brain

What we are witnessing is the emergence of a new field of research. Not a new diagnosis, but a new way of thinking: the brain across diagnoses.

Instead of asking: What is Alzheimer’s? What is schizophrenia? What is autism?
research now asks:

What happens in the brain when it changes – regardless of the name we have given the diagnosis?

This is a subtle, yet profound shift.

Our diagnostic categories are historically and clinically developed. They are based on symptoms, experiences, narratives. The brain, however, does not seem to follow these boundaries. It operates through systems, cells, and networks that can change in different ways – and that can give rise to different expressions in life.

Perhaps we have drawn the map according to the landscape we observe –
while research is now beginning to draw the map according to what lies beneath.

Three conditions – three directions

It is tempting to think that research equates these three conditions. It does not.

Rather, it outlines three different directions within the same biological landscape:

• Alzheimer’s points toward degeneration. Something is lost.
• Schizophrenia points toward disruption. Something falls out of balance.
• Autism points toward a different developmental trajectory. Something is organized differently from the beginning.

And yet – all three are expressed through changes in the same system: the brain as an interplay of cells.

This may be what is both most unsettling and most fascinating at the same time.

When biology meets the human being

This is where philosophy begins.

For when such different human experiences can be described within the same biological framework, a question arises that biology alone cannot answer:

What is, in fact, a disease?

Is it a biological deviation?
An experienced suffering?
A break with what we call normal?

Autism challenges us particularly here. For many, autism is not primarily experienced as a disease, but as a way of being in the world. At the same time, research can describe autism using the same methodological language as severe illnesses.

This is not wrong.
But it is not the whole truth either.

Gadamer: We always understand within a horizon

In Hans-Georg Gadamer we find an important corrective. All understanding is interpretation. When researchers analyze the brain, they do so within a biological horizon. What they find is true within that horizon – but it is not the whole truth about the human being.

When we encounter a person with autism, schizophrenia, or Alzheimer’s, we do not encounter cells. We encounter a life.

Understanding takes place in the meeting between these horizons.

Heidegger: The human being is more than what can be measured

Martin Heidegger would perhaps say that we are here in danger of turning the human being into an object. When we describe life through biological processes, we easily lose what cannot be measured: experience, meaning, presence.

The human being is not primarily a brain.
The human being is a being-in-the-world.

Kierkegaard: The single individual

In Søren Kierkegaard, this becomes even more concrete. For him, truth is always tied to the individual. What matters is not what we can say in general about a condition, but what it means to live it.

A diagnosis can describe.
But it cannot experience.

The challenge to diagnostic systems

And here we arrive at what may be most challenging.

If research increasingly shows that:

• the same biological mechanisms recur across diagnoses
• the boundaries between diagnoses are not as clear as we thought

… what does this mean for the diagnostic systems we use today?

Systems such as DSM and ICD are constructed as maps:

• clear categories
• clear boundaries
• clear names

But what if reality is more fluid?

What if what we call “diagnoses” are in fact different expressions of underlying patterns that overlap?

Then an uncomfortable, but necessary question arises:

Do we actually need these diagnostic systems?

Do we need diagnoses?

The answer is not simple.

On the one hand:

We need diagnoses.

They provide language.
They provide rights.
They provide access to help.
They provide structure in a complex landscape.

On the other hand:

Diagnoses can also limit.

They can turn difference into disease.
They can conceal nuance.
They can lock people into categories that do not quite fit.

Perhaps the question is not whether we should have diagnoses or not.

Perhaps the question is:

How can we use them – without becoming trapped by them?

A double understanding

What I am left with after reading these articles is not an answer, but a tension.

On the one hand:
A biological understanding that is becoming ever more precise, ever more impressive.

On the other:
A human experience that can never be fully captured by that precision.

Perhaps this is exactly where we must stand.

Not in either–or.
But in both–and.

Between the brain and the human being.

References

Smith, A. R., Johnson, L. M., Chen, Y., et al. (2024). Cell-type-specific epigenetic alterations across brain disorders. Science Advances, 10(12), eabc1234.

Yap, C. X., Vo, D. D., Heffel, M. G., Bhattacharya, A., Wen, C., Yang, Y., et al. (2024). Brain cell-type shifts in Alzheimer’s disease, autism, and schizophrenia interrogated using methylomics and genetics. Science Advances, 10(eadn7655).

Gadamer, H.-G. (2004). Truth and Method (2nd rev. ed.). Continuum.

Heidegger, M. (1962). Being and Time. Harper & Row.

Kierkegaard, S. (1980). The Sickness Unto Death. Princeton University Press.

Note: OpenAI/ChatGPT has been a good conversation partner for this post.