I’d heard about a fire walking event about two hours away, and even though it was something I desperately wanted to do, the combination of distance and terror meant I wasn’t about to show up alone among a group of strangers, and so I asked some guy to come with me, making it an unexpectedly intense second date.
When we arrived, the wooden structure was already assembled, but we got to participate in everything that followed. We crumpled newspaper and stuffed it into the gaps between the logs. Then we took turns coating the paper and wood with oil before lighting it with newspaper torches, watching our collective creation catch flame.
Fire walking has been practiced for thousands of years across cultures—from ancient Hindu rituals in India to healing ceremonies among indigenous peoples in Polynesia and the Americas. What began as a spiritual rite of passage, a demonstration of faith, or a healing practice has endured because it creates such a profound psychological shift. There’s something transformative about doing something your brain screams is impossible.
The science behind it is actually fascinating. While the coals can reach temperatures of 1,000-2,000 degrees Fahrenheit, wood is a poor conductor of heat. The brief contact time (a fraction of a second per step) combined with the insulating layer of ash on the surface means the heat doesn’t transfer to your feet quickly enough to cause serious burns—as long as you keep moving. It’s not magic or mind over matter; it’s physics. Still, that doesn’t make the experience any less powerful, or the act of willing yourself to take that first step any easier. Under proper supervision, with the right conditions and technique, it’s far safer than it looks.
But why do people seek out this experience in the first place? For me, it was about hoping for a new beginning. Years had passed since a devastating breakup, and I was still drowning in sadness, stuck in a grief that had overstayed its welcome. I was desperate to feel something different—not happiness necessarily, but something. Some kind of jolt that would remind me I was still alive, still capable of moving forward. I needed a symbolic reset, a moment dramatic enough to mark a before and after. The guy standing beside me wasn’t going to be part of my new chapter, but maybe the act itself could be. Maybe walking through fire could prove to myself that I was stronger than I felt, that I could do hard things, that I could literally walk through pain and come out the other side.
While we waited two hours for the wood to burn down to coals, we each wrote an intentions card. On one side, I listed what I was walking toward: happiness, love, a life without stress, eventually a husband and children. On the other, what I was leaving behind: self-injury, insecurities, depression. We fed our cards to the fire and watched the words turn to ash.
Before the main event, our instructor had us walk a gauntlet of increasingly challenging surfaces—about 25 feet each of shells, seed pods, and gravel. Then came stepping on Legos (which I absolutely crushed thanks to my nephews), followed by a sheet of something sharper than nails or staples. That part only lasted a few seconds, thankfully.’
Next was 25 feet of broken glass.
And then, with adrenaline flooding my system, it was time: 25 feet of coals burning at 1,000-2,000 degrees.
Did it hurt? A little. You definitely feel the heat. But the people trying to photograph me didn’t capture the moment, so I went again. That picture also came out terrible. So I walked it one more time—resulting in a blurry photo and a dark video. In total, I walked 75 feet on fire that night.
Back in the car, as the adrenaline faded, I felt the tingling start. I discovered four blisters on my feet – no doubt from a brief hesitation half way through my first walk when I though, holy crap, what am I doing – and my foot was on the coals for more than two seconds. Not bad, all things considered; totally worth it.
Another item checked off the bucket list—but this one felt like more than just a check mark. This was an experience I’ll never forget.