I didn’t mean to go faster than everyone else.
But as we ascended our first hill out of Parada de Francos and into the forest, I kept looking behind me, eventually realizing that none of the other members of the group were nearby. Somehow, I had pulled ahead.
I had woken up that morning, the final day of our journey, with a sore throat and congestion. A cold had been making its way through our travel companions, and it had finally reached me.
Somewhere ahead of me was the Cathedral de Santiago, the destination of our 75-mile walk. It was hard to believe that just seven days earlier, we had set out from Valença, Portugal.
Despite not feeling well, I had a fire beneath my feet. I moved at a steady pace, passing the charming cafés I might have stopped at earlier in the week.
Today, I would meet my arrival.
My body pulsed with equal parts excitement and exhaustion. Every drop of sweat, every aching muscle and irritated blister, every conversation and every mile had poured into this one day. This one moment.
It wasn’t that I was in a rush.
I was ready.
The First Four Miles
The first four miles, I walked in silence. No chitchat with fellow pilgrims along the trail, aside from the customary “Buen Camino” exchanged as we passed. No podcast. No music. Just me and my thoughts, moving in and out of small towns, up and down narrow cobblestone streets, and along dusty trails through the forest.
I thought about the end of this pilgrimage and how strange it felt to be so close to it. It had been so much harder than I imagined. And yet, so much more special than I could have dreamed.
On the Camino, the days were long, but somehow the week had flown by. Our lives were measured in miles and water intake, constantly gauging the weather. Would we be sweating today or rain-drenched? Regardless, we continued along the trail day in and day out, guided by faithful yellow arrows and scallop shell symbols along the way.
We started walking after breakfast around 8:30 a.m. and didn’t stop until we reached our next destination. Some days stretched 14, 16, even 18 miles. Others were closer to 8. Easy walks, we called those.
You’d think this would allow all the time in the world for deep, spiritual reflection. That’s the whole purpose of the Camino, right? Transformation? Reawakening? But when I wasn’t chatting with other group members, I was mostly focused on surviving. Getting to the next stop. The café for lunch and a break. The mile ahead of me. How steep this hill is. How uncomfortable my waterlogged shoes and socks feel in the pouring rain. How much I’m sweating.
Mornings were reserved for sleeping as long as I could before rolling out of bed and into my walking gear. And dinners in Spain rarely began before 8 p.m., so by the time my head hit the pillow each night, there wasn’t a whole lot left in me.
There had hardly been the space, time, or energy to process one day before we were already moving into the next. What town were we in yesterday? Where are we going tomorrow?
Except now, suddenly, there was no tomorrow on the Camino.
On Monday, I would be back at my desk, sitting in a row of cubicles, and it would be as if none of this had ever happened.
But it did happen.
The aches, sores, knots, blisters, and sunburn told me so. And the people walking beside me, along with those supporting me from across the world, served as witnesses to the journey.
You’ve Survived Tougher
“What did you tell yourself to get through the seven-mile uphill climb?” Our group leader asked us at dinner one night.
It had been a particularly difficult day. We had already walked seven miles before stopping for lunch in the coastal village of Combarro. Ahead of us was another grueling hike, up a steep, winding road toward Armenteira, in full sun and 80-some-degree heat.
Fourteen miles on foot. Half of them uphill.
I listened as the other seven members of our group shared their answers. When it was my turn, I said, “You’ve survived tougher.”
A few years earlier, I had found myself in a difficult season of transition. I was newly single after ending a long-term relationship, trying to support myself through self-employment, and crashing at a friend’s house until I could find a place of my own. I struggled with insecurity, identity, and direction, consumed by the uncertainty of my future as I approached 30.
One winter day, while battling a cold, I unwrapped a cough drop. Printed on the wrapper was a little message:
You’ve survived tougher.
It made me smile despite everything. So I kept the wrapper. I still have it to this day as a reminder that whatever difficult thing is in front of me isn’t the first difficult thing I’ve faced.
Witnesses to Each Other
“Don’t you think it’s funny? This whole time you’ve been saying you don’t really have anything you need to process on the Camino. And now, just weeks before you leave, you’re in a new relationship. Seems like you might have something to think about on that 75-mile trail after all.”
My friend Jenna made the observation a few days before I left for my trip.
She wasn’t wrong. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t trying to find myself, heal something, or force some grand revelation. I didn’t feel like I needed to.
I was simply open to the experience and whatever it might have for me.
And my mom got to be a witness to all of it. In many ways, we became witnesses to each other’s journeys.
We lay side by side in tiny European hotel rooms, praying away bed bugs and getting on each other’s nerves. Then we walked side by side, day in and day out, listening to each other’s complaints, observations, and realizations. What we liked about the day. What we didn’t. What hurt. What surprised us. What we were learning along the way.
She also caught glimpses of a new relationship unfolding. Quick FaceTime calls before bed, catching each other whenever our time zones happened to align. I’d read her funny texts he sent me. We talked about how different this relationship felt from the ones I’d known before.
After more than three years of being single, I had resolved to stay that way for as long as it took.
And then, unexpectedly, there was Dylan.
What We Carry
One evening, halfway through our seven-day journey, I was feeling it. The wall.
I was completely drained. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Four more days of this?
I hadn’t accounted for feeling socially drained. I enjoyed the people I was surrounded by, and I was grateful to have my mom there with me, but I was feeling the lack of space I desperately needed.
At home, I was used to living alone in my apartment. Drinking coffee in the quiet of the morning. Writing, walking, or watching TV in the evenings. Having more control over how I managed my time. But on the Camino, almost every square inch of my days was filled with people and activity.
And the trail itself was much more challenging than I had imagined. For some reason, I had it in my head that the Camino would be one long, relatively flat walk where all you do is contemplate.
It wasn’t.
It was arduous. Hot. An endless series of climbs and descents. It left little time or energy for anything beyond survival.
And I still had four more days to go.
I checked in with Dylan and admitted that I was struggling. I answered messages from friends and family back home, asking how the journey was going. I told them the truth. It was so much harder than I’d imagined. But it was also so beautiful.
What an incredibly unique way to experience another country. Not simply passing through, but becoming part of its landscape. Wandering through villages and vineyards, along cobblestone streets and past colorful houses stacked on hillsides. Through lush forests, alongside streams, and out toward the ocean. Drinking some of the best wine I’d ever tasted.
I wouldn’t describe myself as particularly athletic. I’m not an adrenaline junkie. And you’re probably not gonna catch me running a marathon anytime soon. I’ve always been more comfortable pushing myself mentally.
But over the past few years, and somewhere along my Saturn return, I’ve learned that it’s all connected.
I thought back to my early twenties, when I spent months at a time volunteering in foreign countries, far from the comforts of home. I’d moved across the world to Australia. Climbed an avalanche chute on Big Beehive in Banff National Park. Kept a wood-burning stove alive while battling the anxiety of staying alone in a tiny cabin in the Wisconsin woods.
I’d started a business. Started a blog. Started over.
I’d survived a broken heart. Grief. Uncertainty. Seasons of patience that stretched me.
This is only seven days, I reminded myself. You can do this.
Whatever difficult thing is in front of me isn’t the first difficult thing I’ve faced.
And I have the scars and stories to prove it.
The Final Miles
Jenna was right. I did have a lot to think about on this trail. I just didn’t know it, or really have the space for it, until these final miles.
As I pressed on toward the park where our group had agreed to meet before walking to the Cathedral together, my thoughts began to wander beyond the Camino.
What comes after this? Where is this new relationship going? What decisions lie ahead of me? How will I adjust to being back at work? Will the people waiting for me at home understand the significance of this journey? Would it matter to anyone but me?
In many ways, the trail had become a road between my past and my future. A place to reflect on where I’d been, even as I walked toward whatever came next.
With the final few miles remaining, I put in my earphones and turned on Taylor Swift.
The closer I got to Santiago, the more the streets seemed to swell with excitement. Pilgrims multiplied around me, easily recognizable by their backpacks, walking sticks, and scallop shells. We were all being drawn toward the same destination.
The sun shone brightly against the clear blue Spanish sky, glinting off the orange-tiled rooftops. Hopeful, upbeat songs played in my ears, and with each passing street, I could feel my own excitement building.
I was nearly there.
By now, I was probably half an hour ahead of the rest of our group. My feet just kept moving, carrying me closer to the park and the two statues of Las Dos Marías, where we had agreed to reunite.
All I wanted was to get there. To call Dylan and tell him I had nearly made it.
And I wanted to cry.
Tears of happiness. Of pain. Of excitement. Of everything that had been building over seven long, difficult days.
And perhaps even the weight of all I’d carried through the years.
When the Tears Finally Came
I pulled out Google Maps to confirm the direction to the park, stepped up from the main sidewalk, and found myself in a mostly shaded courtyard filled with fountains and flowers.
I spotted an empty concrete bench near the center of the park, sat down, and immediately FaceTimed Dylan.
It was six in the morning back home. He answered from the chair in his bedroom, coffee in hand.
I told him I was feeling a mixture of emotions. I was so close to finishing. I had spent much of the morning thinking about our relationship, about the future, and about everything that had brought me to this moment.
“You know that feeling when you really want to cry, but you can’t?” I asked.
“Well, I usually just cry,” he answered.
I laughed.
But as I attempted to explain what I was feeling, the tears finally began to fall.
They were good tears. Hot tears. Tears that had been building for days, perhaps even weeks.
They hadn’t come when the police officer in Porto miraculously returned my stolen backpack, though I’d wanted them to.
They hadn’t come midway through the Camino, when exhaustion had finally caught up with me and I found myself fighting back tears that wouldn’t fall.
And they wouldn’t come later that afternoon, when I finally stood before the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.
Instead, they came here.
On a concrete bench in a park, surrounded by people shuffling along the cobblestone paths and resting beneath the trees. Fallen leaves swirled in the breeze, scraping against the stones as they passed.
“Are you okay?” Dylan asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I paused. “Yes, I think so.”
I struggled to find the words.
“This has been really hard. So much harder than I ever thought it would be. But good. So good.”
And it had been.
A Buen Camino.
I spotted Elice, one of our group members, walking toward me and knew the others wouldn’t be far behind. I told Dylan I’d talk to him later.
I had a pilgrimage to finish.
One by one, the others appeared, and we gathered in Alameda Park, taking a moment to rest after nearly eight miles on our feet and catch up on the day’s experiences.
We stopped for pictures with the colorful statues of Las Dos Marías, a tribute to two sisters, Maruxa and Coralia, who became beloved local figures for their daily walks through Santiago. Behind their brightly colored clothing was a story of hardship and resilience.
Seven days earlier, we had begun this journey as nearly strangers. Now, we were people who had shared a long road, stories of our lives, glasses of wine, words of encouragement, survival tips, ankle tape, and Band-Aids.
And together, we would walk the final stretch toward the Cathedral.
Cathedral de Santiago
As we drew closer, I began catching glimpses of the Cathedral’s towers peeking out above the rooftops. The streets grew narrower and more crowded, and I kept my eyes on the group around me, especially my mom.
We entered the square from the side, and slowly, almost unbelievably, the Cathedral revealed herself to us.
She was the most magnificent thing I’d ever seen. Truly, a sight for sore eyes and sacred ground for sore feet. I rested in her beauty, taking in every intricate detail and savoring the reward of having finally arrived.
My mom and I hugged. Around us, our group embraced, wiped away tears, and congratulated one another with “Buen Caminos!”
Pilgrims poured into the square, arriving at the destination of their long journeys. Some wept openly. Others gathered, embracing one another. I watched friends huddle together and a father and son hold each other close.
I couldn't help but wonder what had brought each of us here. This arrival meant something different to every person standing in that square, each carrying our own stories and struggles.
Now, we could carry this triumph, too.
What Comes After
It took some time to feel like myself again after returning home from the Camino. After everything I had put my body through, everything I had seen, the jet lag and bouts of sickness, I was almost completely depleted.
I had been excited to come home to all of the wonderful things waiting for me. But in the days, weeks, and months that followed, I felt more emotional than usual. I struggled at times to get through the workdays, to stay mentally present. I felt like half a person.
Like I had left some part of myself on the trail.
Or maybe I just hadn’t quite caught up to who I was now, after the Camino.
But as my body slowly adjusted to being home, the aches and knots in my muscles settled. The blisters healed. And with time and a little distance, I finally had the space to begin processing those seven days and what they meant to me.
I keep returning to the richness of earning your arrival.
By car, we could’ve made the trip in an hour. But the experience would’ve been entirely different, and we would’ve missed so much along the way.
There was something deeply rewarding about the process itself. About exercising patience. Pushing through. Committing. Taking the good days with the bad. Moving slowly enough to really take in our surroundings. The vineyards and forests, tiny villages, the ocean. The stillness of a rainy day. Having companions for the journey.
And learning to trust that everything you’ve experienced before has prepared you for the next step. Whatever it might be.