Camino Day 23 – Santiago de Compostela
I’m sitting at a small sidewalk café, staring at the Cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. The walk is done. The final steps have been taken. The journey that began over 500 kilometers ago — with uncertainty, reflection, aching feet, and quiet hope — has come to an end.
Today’s walk was short, busy, and filled with people. As I entered Santiago, the roads grew thick with fellow pilgrims, many walking in pairs or groups, some singing, some weeping, others simply walking in reverent silence. There was a swell of sound as we approached the square — cheers, laughter, and the general buzz of joy. A cathedral framed in blue sky. A plaza flooded with emotion. And in the middle of it all, me — quietly absorbing the weight of it.
It wasn’t overwhelming. It was just… done.
And that brought peace.
There’s something very honest about finishing. No trumpets, no dramatic moment — just a clear sense that I had walked what I needed to walk. That I had carried what needed to be carried. That I had kept a promise — to myself, and to Angé.
Today, I stopped three times to leave Angé for Sunflowers cards at small shrines along the road. Each time, I paused, stood quietly, and let the moment speak for itself. Each time, I felt the weight of not having her with me — especially today. The closer I got to Santiago, the more I noticed the couples, the friends, the shared moments. Hands being held. Tears being shared. Photographs being taken together.
It wasn’t loneliness I felt — it was absence. That very specific, deeply personal kind of absence that only grief brings.
This should have been our moment. This should have been our walk.
It was one final, sharp reminder: Angé is not here. She’s not walking next to me. I will never again kiss her as we complete a long hike together. We won’t share a hotel room tonight and toast our tired feet. That chapter has closed. Not softly, not gently — but completely.
And yet, as hard as that is to say, I know it is the truth I now carry.
This Camino was not an escape. It was a reckoning. A long, slow, deliberate journey into mourning, memory, meaning — and eventually, movement. It gave me time to feel, time to question, time to let the pain rise and fall without needing to fix it. It gave me time to talk to Angé out loud. Time to cry in forests. Time to laugh at old memories. Time to walk with strangers. Time to be alone.
And now… it’s finished.
I’m not sure what comes next. But I do know this:
I’m glad I did it.
I’m deeply, unequivocally glad that I walked every one of those 23 days.
That I pushed myself to get up each morning, that I faced the hills, the heat, the solitude, the noise, the doubts.
And that I left Angé for Sunflowers cards all along the trail — in places of beauty, in places of silence, in places where I needed to remember her most.
The body is strong. The feet are blister-free. I’m not exhausted — not physically, not emotionally. I feel like something has shifted. Maybe not something huge or loud. But something subtle and steady — like a door that has clicked quietly open, waiting for me to step through.
So what do I do now?
I keep walking — not on the Camino, but in life. I keep building — not just in memory, but with purpose and direction. I keep loving Angé — not in the past tense, but in a way that lives on through memory, through action, through legacy.
And I keep reminding myself that joy is not betrayal. That moving forward is not letting go. That finishing something doesn’t mean it’s over — it just means it has changed shape.
Santiago was never the end. It was the place I needed to arrive at so that I could begin again.
So I sit here, coffee in hand, Cathedral in front of me, strangers celebrating all around me — and I let myself feel what I feel.
Finished.
And glad.
🎵 Song of the Day
“Proud” – Heather Small