The idea of a Camino journey had been with us for years, quietly tucked away in our hearts, waiting for the right time. When that time finally came, the journey unfolded in ways we couldn’t have imagined.
From May 21 to 27, we walked the 100 kilometers of the Camino Portugués—but more than that, we walked through memories, through grief, through hope, and love. This journey was for our son Luijoe, who left us 25 years ago. It was also our way of sending quiet prayers for our two daughters and the people they hold close. Reaching the cathedral on the exact day we lost him didn’t feel like chance. It felt like grace.A circle, gently closed.
We’d been holding onto this dream since 2017. But like seeds, some dreams need the right season to grow. In 2018, our attention turned to nurturing another kind of hope—our coffee farm—and the Camino stayed quietly in the background, waiting.
It wasn’t until October 2024 that we finally felt ready to say, this is the moment. That’s when the real preparations began, knowing the Camino would ask more from us than just determination. It would ask for presence, patience, and heart.
The Camino does not wait for perfect conditions. It tests you, gently at first, then all at once. My husband, who is not used to long walks, found every step a quiet battle. For me, though I walk regularly, the steep climbs were humbling. My confidence faltered more than once. I remember asking myself on one particularly steep stretch, can we really do this? Will our bodies carry us all the way?
And yet, with every step, something shifted.
We walked through still forests, where the only sounds were birdsong and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Each village seemed to breathe history, welcoming us as if they’d been embracing pilgrims for generations. We crossed weathered stone bridges and followed trails worn smooth by the footsteps of countless others who came long before us.
In that quiet, I felt Luijoe. Not through signs or words—but in the pause between each step, in the way the light fell through the trees, in the soft, steady tap of our walking sticks on ancient stone.
When we got tired, we just stopped. A rock, a low wall, a wooden bench—anything we could lean on for a moment of rest. Those short breaks made all the difference. They gave us space to stretch, share a laugh about our sore legs, and notice the beauty we might’ve missed if we hadn’t slowed down.
The Camino gave us more than sore muscles. It gave us clarity. As we walked, memories surfaced. So did regrets. But also gratitude. Gratitude for love that endures, for strength we didn’t know we had, and for moments of pure, grounding silence. We also prayed for our two daughters and their loved ones that they will always be safe and healthy.
This pilgrimage was never just about distance. It was about connection—to each other, to the land, and to our son and two daughters we carry in our hearts every day. The Camino asked us to show up fully, and we did. Tired, aching, hopeful, we kept going. One foot in front of the other. Together.
We actually walked 120 kilometers in total, though the certificate officially records 101 kilometers. What we truly crossed went far beyond distance: an unspoken forgiveness for past mistakes, grief softened by movement, love expressed through each step, and a promise finally fulfilled after all these years.
Looking back, the Camino wasn’t just a path we walked; it was a special place we entered. We arrived with open hearts, tired feet, and a quiet goal to keep moving forward. It showed us that even deep sadness can be carried, bit by bit, especially when you’re not alone.
We started this journey to honor Luijoe. That goal pushed us. But somewhere along the way—in the stillness of the woods, with each step—we found more than we set out for. We felt the steady pull of love, the calm that comes with silence, and the quiet joy of being fully present. Our walk to Santiago may be over, but the lessons it left behind will stay with us, gently guiding us in the days ahead.
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