“What is to give light must endure burning.” — Viktor Frankl

Closing the door behind us in St. Jean, Jonah and I felt as if we had already climbed a mountain. We’d arrived at the official starting point of our Camino, tucked into a small room for our first night away. It no longer mattered that we’d struggled to find this place, irritating a housekeeper in the process, and it didn’t matter that we’d already lost something essential—our bastones. The following morning we would sneak down a creaking staircase, exit the building into a damp and sleepy village, and begin our trek into the Pyrenees Mountains.

Inside the room, we had each chosen a bed and a side (Jonah by the window), and begun unpacking our travel toothbrushes and laying out socks meticulously chosen to avoid blisters. We shared an immediate instinct to create a sense of home, if only for the night. Little did we know how foundational this process would become—a rhythm of arrival and nesting that would mark our days like a circadian beat. Pieces of what makes us who we are carried and unpacked at every stop along the way.

It was tempting to collapse right into the beds (and Jonah did for a moment), but there were important tasks that needed completion before we began our first day on the Camino. It was urgent that we replace the walking sticks lost by our airline. If they were critical anywhere along the way, it was on this coming day—the very first—known as one of the most challenging stages on the entire Camino Francés. We had also been advised to visit the Pilgrim’s Office where we could check the forecast and receive any last bits of advice. Finally, food—to fuel up with a hearty meal to replenish the energy already spent traveling nearly 4,000 miles to this point.

In his first act as our navigator, Jonah peered down at a map, leading us away from our hostel and toward the center of the village. The cobblestone hill leading to the Pilgrim’s Office was a fitting foreshadowing—our calves’ first taste of what lay ahead. As we climbed the steep path to the place where pilgrims record their name and country of origin, several gear shops caught our eye.

The office was a small room with a line of three long tables, each with a volunteer—former pilgrims forever bound to the Camino. Colorful posters of trail maps and various iconic Camino images decorated the walls and on a table at the far side of the room was a wooden stand displaying large pink and white shells dangling from strings. A line of pilgrims snaked outside the office door along an iron fence and stone wall. The sun beat down and we were relieved to have left our packs back in the room.

I stepped away from the line and backed across the street to capture a photo of Jonah waiting, noticing the other pilgrims captured in the frame of my lens. There was a seriousness about them and many of their packs seemed cumbersome, their clothing too heavy for the high heat. In the coming days we watched as the weight on their bodies and faces ebbed and shifted—items surrendered at rest stops, worries falling away like heavy blankets left behind. Other concerns erupted, only to pass again. Lighter, then heavier, and then lighter once more.

Long after returning home I looked back at this photo, searching for evidence of the quality of the moment. I wanted to relive the atmosphere—to remember the depth of unknowing we’d felt. Looking closely, I noticed the two women ahead of Jonah in the line. One was holding a substantial navy pack and wearing aviator glasses, the other wore a white sun visor that I immediately recognized. Both were looking forward, stoic expressions upon their faces, expectant. I immediately recognized who they were—a part of our Camino family! When I photographed that moment, we hadn’t yet met, and we wouldn’t for another week or more. But there they were, right with us, in the very beginning.

Inside the Pilgrim’s Office, I hoped to be seated with the volunteer at the first table who seemed to speak fluent English. But when our turn came, the table on the end was free. A lovely French woman greeted us and was quickly taken with our mother-son pairing. Her emotion seemed to transmit between us, and suddenly I felt a catch in my throat. The moment stirred some mix of heightened awareness for exactly where I’d landed, here with my son, combined with the prospect of never returning to this unique moment ever again.

Unfolding a map, she pointed out areas of concern to consider as we exited St. Jean in the morning and pointed out places in the mountains where we should be cautious. Knowing we were through-hikers all the way to Santiago, she offered us a second Pilgrim’s Passport so that we might have enough entries for stamps to collect each day for the entire way. Finally, she pointed out the shells behind us, encouraging us to take one for our packs and to make a donation in exchange.

Shells in hand, we stepped back out into the beating sun, heading back down the hill where we stopped at the first gear shop with walking poles in the window. I immediately noticed the brand I had purchased back at home. But there was something different about this pair. Lifting the white sticks with yellow letters out of a holding case, I noticed the straps dangling from the handles. They were canvas, and they were light. Remembering the bulky leather straps of the pairs we’d lost, I instantly knew we’d been spared their weight. Over the course of hundreds of miles in excessive heat, this lighter quality would make a significant difference.

So often what feels like setback is quiet protection in disguise.

We were in and out of the store quickly, soon equipped with two new sets of poles and a pocket-knife that caught Jonah’s eye.

We found an open-air restaurant by a river where we savored a flavorful stew and drank agua con gas(seltzer)—the first of many bottles. I was beginning to feel more settled, more ready. We had the things we needed to begin—pieces of ourselves carried forward once again.

Back at the room we had gotten ourselves into bed when we heard the first rumbles of thunder. I imagined us from a distance—far from home, at the base of a mountain, a storm brewing around us. The thunder grew louder by the moment, followed by a heavy rain. It was difficult to believe this was weather that would pass by morning.

Despite the commotion of the downpour, Jonah had hit a wall and was ready for sleep. He was tucked in a twin bed next to mine and had turned out his light. He didn’t seem to be worried at all about the discrepancy in the room number, a concern that continued swirling around the back of my mind. Even so, my primary concern was the day ahead.

What if the storm continued?

We had such a long way to go.

Trying to allow Jonah to sleep, I turned down all of the lights except a small paper lantern that I propped by my side in order to write. I thought maybe if I released my thoughts onto the page, the weight of worry might lift allowing me a few hours of sleep before sunrise. I wrote and wrote, wanting to capture every detail of the day. Just as I was finishing and beginning to feel more at peace, I heard multiple footsteps climbing the stairs and hushed voices conversing. There was a question about room numbers and the mention of our specific room—106.

I was frozen, my hand stopped in motion, holding my journal in a precarious position. The light was balanced beside me. I thought if I was silent, the people in the hallway might decide not to disturb us with any questions or suggestion of switching rooms. Next I heard the sound of keys. Holding my breath, I waited, wondering if they were coming to our door. There was more whispering about which room, then I heard the sound of another door opening and clicking shut. Like a mouse, I closed my journal and set it on the bedside table without a sound, returning the lamp to its place, and switching off the light. We were safe.

By morning, the rain had fully stopped. Walking toward the stairs we passed room 109, and I was overcome with a sense of relief for what had passed us by. Outside, the air was damp and alive.

Pre-dawn awaited—the first of many.

It was an invitation further into the unknown, further into what would be. ✨