I’m walking. Fast and frantically, and I don’t know where I’m heading. But that doesn’t matter. It’s not important. All I need to do is get away.

My feet move one in front of the other, deftly avoiding puddles and the other pedestrians on the narrow, crowded streets.

I barely notice them, though. Perhaps because dusk has already fallen and their navy and black coats are blending seamlessly into the inky darkness of the night. A more plausible explanation would be that my mind is on other things.

Ever since Matt’s birthday, I’ve been unsettled. Restless. Tetchy. I’m finding it difficult to concentrate. I’m not listening to what people are saying. When we’re taking, I nod in recognition and utter a distracted response, yet ten minutes later it’s as if the conversation never took place: I’ve already erased it from my consciousness.

The walking helps. The rhythmic plodding on the pavement is soothing, like a children’s lullaby. The first twenty minutes are purely about the release of adrenalin as I strike the ground with my feet and move as fast as I can without breaking into a run.

But then, once I’m in my stride, I zone out. My heartbeat slows, my mind empties and the thoughts that have been clogging up my head spill out of me and onto the stretch of pavement I’ve left behind. I’m calm.

This state of stillness is temporary, lasting only as long as the walk. Be that thirty minutes or three hours, I’m grateful. I happily grab at anything that allows me a mental holiday; a chance to distance myself from the relentless thoughts that plague me throughout the day.

The thing is, I don’t know why I’m so on edge. Undoubtedly it’s linked to my brother’s birthday but it isn’t as if this is the first one we’ve marked since his suicide. We’ve got used to him being six feet under, wildflowers marking out his grave, rather than being with us in the here and now.

But, somehow, this year is different. Emotional debris has been washed up, seemingly from nowhere, and I’m aware I need to deal with it now unless I want it to build up and become an insurmountable obstacle in the coming months.

And, perhaps, it’s true that walking is a form of meditation, although I’ve never really considered it like before. In relinquishing control of my thoughts, the answer I didn’t even know I was looking for suddenly comes to me, albeit faintly.

It’s all to do with this new year. Back in 2009 when I was numb with pain, 2013 was three years into a new decade - futuristic and shiny enough to seem a lifetime away.

No matter how thick the fog of bewilderment that surrounded me was, I repeatedly told myself that by 2013 everything would be back to normal. Whatever normal now was. The bereavement period would have passed and I would have a deliciously blank canvas to do with what I wished. I’d never really stopped to consider that heartache and grief could be so stubbornly protracted and wouldn’t easily slip away.

Walking has proved to be my lifeline, so much more therapeutic than yoga ever was. Three years ago, I used to roll out my black mat twice a day and attempt to contort myself into all kinds of positions in the belief that it was doing me some good.

And, in some ways, it was. Physically, my posture was better and I was much more flexible. Some students said I was an ethereal figure gliding around the classroom. Only outwardly, though, because I never did find the inner calm that I was so desperately searching for. Maybe because I was looking too hard. Instead of exuding serenity, I was an emotional wreck; big fat tears rolling down my face for as long as I held a pose.

Walking, however, has been different. There’s no quest for bliss; no end nirvana I’m trying to arrive at, and in that way, it’s non-competitive, even if the only competitor is me. Instead, my feet continue to propel me forward, both in the direction I’m going and the future ahead.

In between my walks, I often think about the 60km challenge facing me in May. It should be daunting because the distance is huge but, actually, it isn’t.

Unlike now, I won’t be walking fast and frantically, more slow and methodically as I push my way through kilometre after kilometre in coppiced chestnut woods, up steep hills and along meandering rivers. I’m not sure what to expect - emotionally or physically - and am doing my best not to think about the deep pain in my hips or the blisters that will undoubtedly torture me along the way.

I’m not underestimating the deep personal significance of completing the walk. Raising £2,000 for Winston’s Wish, the UK’s leading childhood bereavement charity, is as much about putting the past behind me, as it is turning a family tragedy into hope.

I can’t take comfort in knowing that Matt’s organs were donated because it wasn’t something we were able to do, which means using his life to raise thousands of pounds for bereaved children is the next best thing. I’m not sure how I’m going to feel when I eventually cross that finish line late at night.

But the one thing I do know is this: I’ll finally be home.

I’m walking 60km in aid of the UK’s leading childhood bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish. To sponsor me, please click here