The decision to walk 80 to 90 miles began at Starbucks. Two strangers mentioned the Camino de Santiago, and before I had worked out the logistics, I knew I wanted to go.
Planning the trip was easier than explaining why I needed it.
How do you explain feeling that something is missing when you can name so much that is good? I had daughters I adored, friendships that sustained me, businesses I had built, and a home I loved. There was no shortage of reasons to be happy. Yet I felt disconnected from the person living that life.
Admitting that felt uncomfortable. Gratitude can become its own pressure: when you know you’re fortunate, you wonder whether you’re allowed to want something more.
I wasn’t looking for a different life. I wanted to feel present in the one I had.
So I went to walk.
Before leaving, I played tennis with my team. Their hugs and good wishes brought me to tears. I was heading overseas alone, but my departure was surrounded by affection. That stayed with me. So did the messages from people who checked in while I was away.
On the Camino, I met people from around the world. Our circumstances were different, but everyone seemed to be carrying a question. Being among them made my own uncertainty feel less lonely. You could have a full life and still be searching.
The miles were real. So were the tired feet, the laughter, and the tears. But the distance gave me something I hadn’t known how to make room for at home: time with myself, without needing to solve everything.
A friend had once described life’s extraordinary experiences as seeing colors you’d never seen before. I had known those colors through love, adventure, and happiness. After loss, divorce, and heartbreak, I wondered whether I would experience them again.
That question accompanied me to Spain. Gradually, another took its place: how much beauty was I overlooking while waiting for life to feel a certain way?
I didn’t come home with my future figured out. I came home excited to sleep in my own bed and hug my dog. Those ordinary wishes felt significant. The life I had stepped away from was a life I wanted to return to.
My sorority big sister, Kathryn, told me that when she thought of me, she thought of joy. Her words helped me recognize something I’d lost sight of in myself. I could begin finding it again.
As November turns our attention toward gratitude, I keep thinking about the difference between listing our blessings and allowing ourselves to experience them.
For me, that means putting down my phone, taking a walk, and noticing what is here. It means making room for happiness without asking it to answer every question.
The Camino gave me space to begin. Now comes the quieter work of bringing that attention home, into familiar days and relationships, where there is so much to discover.
I’m curious about the colors I’ll notice next.