I’m sitting in a bar less than 5 kilometers from Santiago and it’s finally hitting me that I am making it. I passed by the airport today and thought about the first time I saw Santiago.
The first time I was invited to Europe to model, the person arranging the trip asked me where I wanted to go. I could have said anywhere in the whole world but the only place that came to mind was Santiago de Compostela. I had just watched The Way and re-read The Pilgrimage in May 2013. Something about the walk drew me and I figured if I didn’t know if I could physically handle the walk to Santiago, I sure as shit wanted to see the city in person.
The person I was originally supposed to travel with and I had a massive falling out a couple weeks prior to going. My travel partner was changed and the other girl was given her own trip. She could have picked anywhere she wanted to go but she chose to take the same trip as me. Not sure if it was done as a fuck you or whatever but part of me laughed when I heard it.
“She realizes Santiago is basically a massive church at the end of a pilgrimage route, right?”
When I was in Santiago, I had a hard time leaving the old city. I felt incredibly alive and watching the pilgrims come in took my breath away. You see people from all over the world: some are crying, some are cheering, some are being carried into the plaza and church by others. The sight is really moving.
Part of me wondered if the girl would understand what she was witnessing or if it was just another city to her.
For me, Santiago was more than a city and church. It was a plan, a shining beacon of light that was going to put my life back together. As I sat watching the pilgrims come in, I knew that somehow, someway, I was going to make the walk.
Santiago represented a yes to all the no’s that doctors and the NCAA had told me over the years.
It represented a chance to get back my body and my life, much of which felt stolen from me the first time metal slammed into my body, taken from me with my father’s last breath, and my mother’s forced restart.
It was a fresh start and a chance of letting go. It was finally releasing my breath after my father took his last one. It was taking authority of my life again and getting back to myself.
Over the past 35 days, I have scaled mountains, battled storms, gone through three pairs of boots, and won a lot of scars. I walked 35 kilometers today in the rain and wind but instead of the anger of the cyclone, this time it felt like a baptism. Like all the bad, the anger, and the sadness was being washed away. I was stumbling forward solely by the weight of my pack towards the end. I hurt, I was happy, and somehow my feet knew to keep moving forward.
All the trials of the past 35 days will be wiped clean tomorrow. Tomorrow I walk the last 5 kilometers to Santiago to finish reclaiming my life. It took 800 kilometers to get it back. 800 kilometers of trials and tribulations. 800 kilometers of joy and sadness.
And as I sit at the 5 kilometer mark, I am crying. Only this time, they are tears of joy.
