In a deeply personal journey along the Camino de Santiago, a woman reflects on her grief and the enduring presence of her mother’s spirit as she walks toward healing.
The Camino de Santiago is more than just a walk across Spain; it is a pilgrimage of the soul that beckons half a million people from over 190 countries each year. This ancient path demands as much from the spirit as it does from the feet, leading pilgrims toward the tomb of St. James in Santiago de Compostela. For centuries, individuals have traversed various routes, including the French Camino from Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, the Portuguese Camino from Porto, and the Northern Way from San Sebastián. Many describe the experience as spiritual, a time for reflection, renewal of love, and a revival of the spirit within and around them.
As I booked my ticket to Spain in September 2025, I envisioned walking the 320-kilometer Camino Frances de Santiago from León to Santiago de Compostela with a light heart. Little did I know that my pilgrimage would begin in the depths of grief.
In May 2025, my nearly 90-year-old mother fell in India, fracturing her hip for the second time. After flying 10,000 miles to be by her side, I witnessed her radiant smile when her cast was removed in June. Yet, after I left, she expressed her disappointment, saying, “You went away so quickly. I thought you had gone somewhere and would be back.”
By August, I returned to find her unconscious in a hospital bed, nurses struggling to find veins in her frail body. My proud mother, who had given birth to all five of her children at home, would have loathed the invasive procedures. On August 18, just before Ganesh Chaturthi, she passed away.
In that moment, relief and grief intertwined: relief that her suffering had ended, and sorrow 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?”
Upon returning to California on August 30, after completing the necessary rituals and enduring sleepless nights, I prepared for my upcoming trip to Spain. My family urged me to cancel, and friends advised against it, insisting I needed rest rather than a punishing walk. However, an inner voice insisted that I must go.
I hastily packed jackets, rain gear, sandals, but forgot essentials like a knee brace and foot care items. My luggage felt heavy, but my spirit felt even heavier.
On September 10, I began my journey in León, renowned for its stunning cathedral, the starting point for many pilgrims. The first person I encountered was Gwen from Santa Cruz, who was walking in memory of her mother, who had succumbed to dementia. Her goal was to reach Santiago by September 30, the first anniversary of her passing, coinciding with the Jewish New Year—a time for new beginnings.
Instantly, I felt a connection with Gwen. Both of us were daughters walking in the shadows of our mothers.
The following morning, I stepped out from the León Cathedral, my backpack weighing heavily on my shoulders, my feet already protesting. I found myself pondering, “What have I done with my time so far? What do I want to do with the time that remains?” The tranquility of the early morning provided the perfect backdrop for such introspection.
By midday, blisters had formed beneath my toes, despite wearing wide shoes. By evening, my legs throbbed with fatigue. Yet, I felt my mother’s presence urging me onward: “Chalte raho.” Keep walking.
The Camino tests pilgrims in layers, first challenging the body, then the spirit. On one particularly silent stretch, loneliness enveloped me, and I questioned my purpose: Why was I here? Shouldn’t I be home grieving instead of blistering in Spain?
Then, a bird soared gracefully across the sky, and a single wildflower resembling saffron bloomed in an empty field. A stranger’s cheerful “Buen Camino” lifted my spirits. I began to recognize these small mercies as signs—not mere coincidences but reminders that my mother’s love had not vanished; it was woven into the world around me.
On the most challenging days, I prayed not for an end to my journey but for the strength to take the next step. Each time, the Camino provided support.
One afternoon, while resting my swollen feet, Elizabeth from New Zealand approached and examined my toes. “Wait here,” she instructed. Her husband, Craig, rummaged through their pack and produced sheep’s wool from their homeland. She carefully wrapped my toes, advising me to line my socks with the wool for protection.
Through tears, I laughed and said, “Today, I thank both you and the sheep.” Craig smiled, replying, “That’s the Camino. We take care of each other.” I continued my walk, covering an additional fifteen kilometers without pain.
As the days passed, fellow pilgrims shared their stories of loss. Debbie from Southern California limped along after her husband’s death. Alfred was completing the journey his wife had dreamed of before she passed away. Eve sought closure for her many sorrows, including the sudden loss of her nephew.
Grief was not mine alone; it accompanied us all on the Camino—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, carefully draining my blisters and applying tea tree oil. Gabriele from Germany handed me a roll of black sheep’s wool. I thought of my mother, who had always cared for others’ pains with quiet devotion.
Every act of kindness felt like her hand reaching through someone else’s.
On a long uphill climb, my knees burned, and I nearly gave up. I felt anxious, questioning whether this was the end of my journey. Yet, I heard my mother’s voice urging me: “Chalte raho, chalte raho.” One more step. One more breath. I pressed on.
When I finally reached Santiago, my grief had not vanished, but it had transformed. I realized my sorrow was just one thread in a vast tapestry of human loss and resilience. I was not walking alone; none of us were.
Now, back home, I still hear my mother’s voice as I walk my neighborhood trails. She is present in the sunlight filtering through leaves, in the crow’s caw at dawn, and in the rhythm of my own footsteps.
The Camino taught me that grief does not erase love; rather, it reveals it—woven into raindrops, wool, birdsong, and the kindness of strangers. The Camino remains with me, echoing my German companion Alfred’s sentiment: “Everyone should do the Camino.”
It imparted this lesson: grief does not erase love; it reveals it. Love abides in “Buen Camino,” in sheep’s wool, and in the hands of a stranger.
The Camino gave me what my mother always whispered: Chalte raho. Keep walking.
Source: Original article
