Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
The Camino de Santiago
I had heard that the Camino de Santiago was not merely a walk across Spain but a pilgrimage of the soul — a path that calls half a million people from more than 190 countries each year, demanding as much of the spirit as it does of the feet.
For centuries, pilgrims have walked toward the tomb of St. James in Santiago de Compostela, known as the patron Saint, following many routes: the French Camino from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port (SJPP), the Portuguese Camino from Porto, and the Northern Way from San Sebastián in Spain. People call it spiritual, a reflection on life; a renewal of love; and a revival of spirit within you and around you.
When I booked my ticket to Spain in September 2025, I imagined walking the 320-kilometer Camino Frances de Santiago from Leon to the Compostela with a light heart. I had no idea my pilgrimage would begin in grief.
My mother
In May 2025, my almost 90-year-old mother fell in India and fractured her hip for the second time. She was bedridden, with a cast on her right leg. From 10,000 miles, I flew to her, and when the cast came off in June, she was radiant to see me. After I left, “You went away so quickly,” she complained in Odia. “I thought you had gone somewhere and would be back.”
In August, I returned to find her unconscious in a hospital bed, nurses searching for veins near her feet. My proud, self-conscious mother, who gave birth to all her five children at home, would have hated the poking and prodding. On August 18th, just before Ganesh Chaturthi, she passed away.
Relief and grief arrived hand in hand: relief that her suffering was over, grief that I would never again hear her voice ask, “Ma khaichu? To gelha kana karuchi?” — “Did you eat? What is your dear dog Kim doing?”
A new beginning
I returned to California on August 30th, having completed the rituals and endured sleepless nights. In ten days, I was meant to fly to Spain. My family urged me to cancel. My friends tried to dissuade me. “You need rest, not a punishing walk,” they said. But something inside me insisted: I had to go.
I packed hurriedly — jackets, rain gear, sandals, but no knee brace, nothing for foot care. My luggage was heavy. My spirit was heavier still.
On September 10th, I began in León, famous for its cathedral, the starting point for pilgrims on their way to Santiago. The first person I met was Gwen from Santa Cruz. She was walking in memory of her mother, who had died with dementia. Her goal was to reach Santiago by September 30th, the first anniversary of her passing. “It’s the Jewish New Year,” she told me. “A new beginning.”
I felt a kinship immediately. Both of us daughters, both walking with our mothers’ shadows.
The next morning, I stepped out from the León Cathedral, my backpack tugging at my shoulders, my feet already protesting. “What have I done with my time so far? What do I want to do with the time that remains?” The quietness of early morning was the perfect time to ask such questions.
By midday, blisters had peaked under my toes, despite wearing wide shoes. By evening, my legs throbbed. Yet I felt my mother with me, urging, “Chalte raho.“ Keep walking.
Blistering in Spain
The Camino tests you in layers. First your body, then your spirit. On one silent stretch, loneliness swelled, and I was wondering: Why am I here? I should be home grieving, not blistering in Spain.
Then a bird cut the sky with sudden grace. A single wildflower resembling saffron bloomed in an empty field. A stranger’s “Buen Camino” lifted me. I began to notice these small mercies as signs—not coincidences but reminders. My mother’s love had not vanished. It was stitched into the world around me.
On the hardest days, I prayed not to finish but simply for the strength to take the next step. And every time, the Camino sent someone.
One afternoon, as I sat fanning my swollen feet, Elizabeth from New Zealand stopped and studied my toes. “Wait here,” she said. Her husband, Craig, rummaged through his pack and produced sheep’s wool, straight from their country. She wrapped my toes gently. “Line your socks with this. The wool will protect you.”
I laughed through tears. “Today I thank both you and the sheep.” Craig smiled. “That’s the Camino. We take care of each other.” I walked an additional fifteen kilometers without pain.
Shared sorrow
As the days passed, fellow pilgrims shared their losses: Debbie, from Southern California, limping along after her husband’s death. Alfred, completing the journey his wife had dreamed of before she died. Eve, trying to put closure on many sorrows, including the sudden loss of her nephew.
Grief was not mine alone. On the Camino, it traveled beside us all—sometimes heavy, sometimes lightened by laughter, often softened by the kindness of strangers.
One evening, my neighbor Angela from Brisbane sat on the floor of our pension and carefully drained my blisters, applying tea tree oil. Gabriele from Germany handed me a roll of black sheep’s wool. I thought of my mother, who always took care of others’ pains, with the same quiet devotion.
Every act of kindness felt like her hand reaching through someone else’s.
One more step
On a long uphill climb, my knees burning, I nearly gave up. I was nervous. Is it the end of my journey? I would hear my mother’s voice: ‘Chalte raho, chalte raho.‘ One more step. One more breath. I walked on.
By the time I reached Santiago, my grief had not dissolved. But it had changed. I saw that my sorrow was one thread in a vast tapestry of human loss and resilience. I was not walking alone. None of us was.
My mother’s voice
Now, back home, I still hear my mother’s voice when I walk my neighborhood trails. She is there in the sunlight on leaves, in the crow cawing at dawn, in the rhythm of my own footsteps.
The Camino taught me that grief does not erase love. If anything, it reveals it—woven into raindrops, wool, birdsong, the kindness of strangers. The Camino remains with me. Alfred, my German companion, was right: “Everyone should do the Camino.”
It taught me this: grief does not erase love. If anything, it reveals it. Love abides in “Buen Camino,” in sheep’s wool, in the hands of a stranger.
The Camino gave me what my mother always whispered: Chalte raho. Keep walking.
