04/10/2025 - I’ve been centering men all my life.

Well… I didn’t just skip a day because I didn’t want to write; I skipped it because I simply couldn’t. Let me bring you back with me to yesterday, very early, around 2am. I woke up almost suffocating, my belly rumbling, with that all-too-familiar sensation: the urgent need to throw up. I battled with myself for fifteen minutes, which felt like an hour, before finally walking to the bathroom and vomiting my dinner.

I felt instantly better, as we all know that odd relief, and crawled back into my bed in the dormitory, surrounded by eighteen other pilgrims. Important detail, because that first vomit wasn’t the only one of the night. I kept waking up every hour, dragging myself out of my noisy sleeping bag, and running to the bathroom to empty whatever was left, which by then was basically just bile.

By 5am, I was exhausted and still hopeful that I might feel better by morning, maybe even walk. How naïve. The next stage was a long 26 km, known for its hills leading up to the mountains of Galicia. Around 7am., I woke up again to an empty room. The volunteer had turned on the lights and gave me that look, the kind that silently says, “time to leave.”

I asked her if she had any medicine for my stomach. Her tone softened instantly. She fetched the man in charge, who checked my temperature and told me I shouldn’t walk in that state. He insisted I drink water, even if I’d throw it up, to avoid dehydration. So I did. And threw it up again. But better to purge water than nothing.

I slept through the morning and had to make a decision. I had already booked a nice hotel for Saturday, two nights of rest after two nonstop weeks, but life had other plans. I decided to take a taxi to my next stop, Molinaseca. I felt bad skipping a stage, but there was no way I could stay in a dorm full of twenty people while feeling so weak. I just craved comfort and a bit of intimacy.

So I booked a private room. Nothing fancy, just necessary. Around 1pm, the taxi arrived. I forced myself to get dressed and pack my bag. The drive to Molinaseca felt endless, sinuous mountain roads, my head spinning, fighting not to puke in the car. But I made it. Checked into the hotel, crashed into the bed, and slept all afternoon. The silence and clean sheets felt like heaven.

By 8pm, after a day on an empty stomach except for a burnt toast the volunteers had given me, I went for a walk around town. I found a restaurant with a terrace, but the music felt too loud, the waiter too insistent, and my body too light to be there at all. I was in a trance, but not the kind I like.

I ordered a burger and a Coke. If you know me, you know I never drink sodas. But it was the only thing that sounded remotely good. Two bites of the burger were enough; the taste of the meat was unbearable. I paid, left, and bought a Magnum Almond on the way back. I ate it while walking through the quiet streets, half-dazed.

I thought about writing, but I was too tired. I fell asleep hoping I’d be able to walk the next day, because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s feeling empty, uncomfortable, and bad in my own body.

At 4am, I woke up with a pounding headache, took a painkiller, and went back to sleep. By 7am, I woke up like a new person. Not perfect, but alive. I called my dad and sister, who encouraged me, had a coffee, managed to eat a small breakfast, and decided to try walking again.

As I started walking, my thoughts came back online. The previous day had been pure fog. And it hit me, I hadn’t eaten anything weird before getting sick. Just hummus, crackers, cheese, and biscuits. So what if the reaction hadn’t been physical at all? What if it had been emotional?

What if what I wrote the day before about men who crossed my boundaries and made me feel unsafe had triggered a deep purge in my body? It may sound far-fetched, but it’s not the first time it’s happened to me, or to others I know. The stomach is the second brain, the body’s emotional cradle. Maybe expressing that truth brought up old, rotten emotions that my system needed to release. Fascinating. Or maybe the biscuits were off... lol

I walked slowly, steady, breathing through it all. My mind circled back to the same theme: men. By writing, editing, and reposting my older entries on the blog, I see what keeps resurfacing, the patterns, the obsessions. And I get triggered by how much of it revolves around men and love.

This Camino has been an awakening to that truth: I’ve been centering men all my life. Making love the final destination. As if being loved was proof of my worth. It gave me direction for years, but I can’t unsee it now. The illusion shattered. And beneath it, there’s rage.

Rage for how much I’ve excused, defended, understood. Rage for the men who never once tried to understand me back. Rage for their emotional laziness, their lack of accountability, their weaponized incompetence. Their ugliness, not physical, but of spirit. And maybe even physical too actually because they mostly don't believe they need to make an effort.

I’m always the one who tries to see the good, to empathize, to make them feel better. And today, I just couldn’t. Enough of the men who’ve acted like pricks, with me, with women around me, with the generations before us. My ancestors endured centuries under beings with the emotional maturity of slugs. Sorry, slugs. Maybe more so amoebas. If you don’t know what that is, you may be part of the problem.

If this is what decentralizing men feels like, thank God I made it here. But then what? Am I destined to be the old woman with her cat just because I refuse to accept the bare minimum? Because I expect emotional and intellectual intelligence? Add humor and good looks to that mix and the probability of existence drops to almost zero.

Still, I’d rather be alone than settle. This solitude, these long walks, this silence, they’re rearranging my priorities. Setting them straight again. We’ve normalized too much, excused too much, tolerated too much.

As I said in my last entry, I’m not here for war or revenge, that would only mirror the same ego-driven masculine archetype I’m rejecting. But not accepting, standing firm, and holding people accountable, that is on my agenda. Entering my Karen era. You losers better hide from my ultrasonic bullshit radar.

After that much-needed tantrum, which involved yelling “LES MECS C’EST QUE DES GROS NAZS” into the wind for five solid minutes and ranting to Johana, I finally arrived at my beautiful hotel, where I’ll spend the next two days.

I took a shower, enjoyed my under-the-roof bedroom, and went down to the bistro for a goat cheese salad. Now I’m back in bed, watching Caught Stealing with Austin Butler. Yes, I may hate men today, but I can still enjoy a six-pack on screen. Isn’t that what men do daily, hating women while desiring their bodies? #WomenInMalesDominatedFields

Bye divas, and tcho les nazs. I’m joking. If you’re a man reading this, take it with some flair. Or don’t. At this point, I don’t give a shit. Bisous!

With love, Loune.