10/09/2025 - Commitment doesn’t steal freedom.

I’m sitting on the terrace in front of my albergue, waiting for my laundry to finish in the dryer, drinking a non-alcoholic beer, and eating a slice of pizza. I just hung up with Antoine, and this morning I spoke with Johanna too, which makes me feel like I connected with people who matter to me, on top of walking 22 km, obviously. And let me tell you about those kilometers: they were the freaking hardest yet.

I woke up at 5:45 to the noise of another pilgrim in the room, quickly followed by many more. I felt depleted the moment my eyes opened. I hadn’t been comfortable at all, spending yet another night with just a sheet as a blanket, which I hate. When I finally got up and put my feet down, I grimaced. They were sore and aching. Still, I pushed through: got ready, packed my bag, and headed out. On the way, I found a small coffee shop open at that early hour, which instantly softened the ache.

I ordered a latte, ate a cinnamon biscuit that reminded me of Christmas, and packed a small ibérico ham sandwich for later. While walking, Johanna called me, she was also on her way to work. We hadn’t properly talked since I visited Sweden, and I’d missed her energy. It felt so good to get an update on her life, what she’s feeling at the moment, and mostly to hear her voice. Even through the phone, I felt comfort in her presence. I was also excited to tell her about my plan to buy a van soon, convert it, and live in it for a while. As well as the Camino, obviously, and my summer overall.

When we hung up, I saw a message from Christian: he had gone to the doctor yesterday, his foot had swollen, and he was deemed unfit to continue walking. He had already booked a flight back to Germany. I was shocked, but a small voice in me already knew he was done. To me, he reacted based on his current emotions, instead of taking the time to rest in Pamplona and see how his body would respond. I believe he could have waited at least two or three days before deciding. That’s what I would have done, but I’m not him.

He made his choice, abruptly, which didn’t surprise me. I often notice that the people who present themselves as the most rational, denying their emotions, are the ones who end up handling them with the least maturity when life goes off-script. No judgment, it’s his path. He told me once that he’s always been non-stop since his youth, an overachiever who fills every pause with another achievement. So maybe it’s a blessing for him to stop now, recover, and actually enjoy some rest.

Talking about discomfort: as I walked on, my shoulders began to ache. Especially my left one, behind the scapula, a familiar pain. I also noticed blisters on both my fourth toes, slowing me down. I asked ChatGPT to look up what meridian in Chinese medicine could be triggered: that’s the gallbladder one, tied to action, audacity, and commitment. Symbolic, isn’t it?

I’ve committed to this journey, to Santiago, maybe even to Fisterra. But have I really? Doubts still creep in. Or maybe I simply leave the door open for them to exist. I prefer to tell myself I might not finish, because fully committing feels like losing a piece of freedom, like claustrophobia. And on a larger scale, I’ve felt this in so many parts of my life: I’ve resisted committing to projects, relationships, places, because I always wanted an escape hatch. But 2025 is about learning what commitment truly means, not 90%, not 99%, but 100%.

I’m realizing that commitment doesn’t steal freedom, it creates safety. To know I’ve chosen something, someone, somewhere, because I like it enough and see growth in it. And by deciding not to leave, my mind can rest and focus elsewhere. That creates new freedom. By committing to the Camino, I free myself from the constant “what if.” There’s no other place I could be, no other thing I should be doing, I’m here, and that’s it. My nervous system is actually loving it.

As for the shoulder pain, I tried to remember the first time it appeared. A memory surfaced: I was with both my parents. My father, distracted with work as usual. We went out, and I wanted their attention, wanted both of them to hold my hands and swing me forward. He did, but pushed too far and hurt me. I cried, it got dramatic, and it irritated him. My mother defended me, which turned into an argument between them.

Later, when I told my dad about this memory on the phone, he didn’t recall it. But he said something that struck me: maybe I internalized that my pain causes conflict around me. That hit a nerve, though at the time I was too caught up in walking to dive deeper.

What I found reading further is this: the fourth toe, gallbladder meridian, speaks of courage and commitment. Pain near the left scapula, along the bladder meridian, touches grief and old imprints. Together they’re like a dialogue between action and release, the gallbladder pushing forward, the bladder asking me to let go of the past so commitment can feel safe instead of suffocating.

Et voilà. Everything connects when I stop blaming my body for pain and start listening to it. I may understand where it comes from, but now I need to release what’s still stored there. What made me unsafe to commit? My father, surely. My ex, too. Other men along the way. I’ll let this thread keep unfolding in the next days.

After three hours of walking, I was already exhausted, enthusiasm gone, desperate to arrive. Then, as if by luck, I bumped into Andrés, a breath of fresh air. We cheered each other up and continued together, talking about authenticity, about how others perceive us, even about social media.

I told him that I want to keep sharing, because I’ve always been drawn to having a digital platform, ever since my Skyblog at 12. I’ve gone through so many phases online, but I remind myself of a simple stat: 10% of people watching will support me and feel inspired. 80% are neutral, they don’t care. Maybe 10% will judge or shame. But even then, their perception of me comes through the lens of their own self-perception. Why should that 10% weigh more than the rest?

Finally, miraculously, we arrived in town. I let out a sharp noise, smiling wide, and went straight to my albergue. A renovated, comfortable place. The rooms weren’t ready until 1 p.m., so Andrés and I grabbed a bite first. When I returned, I carried my bag, and my aching body, downstairs to rest.

That’s when I realized: my period had started. No wonder my mood had been swinging all day. But I wasn’t prepared: no tampons or pads. I stuffed toilet paper into my underwear, crawled into bed, pulled the blanket over me, and tried to rest. But my legs hurt too much. It felt like they were stuffed with blood, and I could feel my heartbeat in my toes, such an uncomfortable sensation.

I propped my legs against the wall, which helped for a moment. But still, no rest. I pulled on all my strength, grabbed a chocolate bar, and prepared to walk fifteen minutes to the pharmacy. Contemplating how my life had resolved to this. On my way out, I asked the receptionist, almost as an afterthought, and she casually handed me two tampons from a box under her desk. A miracle. My whole mood lifted.

I picked up my laundry, skipped handwashing for once, and at the laundromat I met a lady waiting for her machine. We decided to combine our loads since it was just today’s clothes. I sat at a table, ordered a non-alcoholic beer, grabbed a slice of pizza, and later called Antoine.

Here I am now, full circle: sitting outside, writing this entry, ready at last to head back to my room, rest, and relax for the night ahead.

With love, Loune.