Tomorrow, I fly to Spain together with my daughter Magaly to begin our final 200 km of the Camino Francés to Santiago de Compostela.
It’s been exactly ten years 
since I first set foot on the Camino, taking my first steps up the steep path just outside of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. I remember smiling with excitement—until reality hit. Halfway up the mountain, carrying a heavy backpack and heavier doubts, I asked myself: What were you thinking? I felt very naïve. But day by day, step by step, I grew stronger. I found my rhythm. And in the end, I danced into Santiago—backpack and all—forty days later.
Looking back on that first walk and the ten years that followed, I see how much has changed. Some changes I welcomed with open arms—because I thrive in motion, in becoming. But there were also losses I didn’t choose: people I loved, friendships I cherished, chapters that closed quietly, sometimes without the presence of community to grieve alongside me.
Perhaps that’s one of the deeper reasons I keep returning to the Camino—it offers a path to walk through grief. As grief expert David Kessler reminds us: “The only way out of the pain is through the pain.” On the Camino, many pilgrims do just that. Blisters, exhaustion, swollen ankles—we keep walking. We carry heartbreak, illness, breakups, and farewells. And somehow, by putting one foot in front of the other, we begin to heal.
Conversations with fellow pilgrims often skip the small talk and go straight to the heart. There’s something sacred in sharing sorrow and joy with someone you’ve only just met. In those moments, we don’t just walk—we accompany each other home to ourselves.
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