11/10/2025 - We normalized 60-year-old men dating 25-year-old women.

It’s official, I’m almost done now. Only tomorrow, and then on Monday I’ll walk into Santiago. Crazy. I can’t believe this is coming to an end. The few days of frustration have passed, leaving only gratitude for this experience and a bubbling excitement to complete it.

I was a little nervous this morning when I left the albergue to get my coffee, thinking about the almost thirty kilometers ahead. But I decided not to overthink it, to take it gracefully. I knew my mindset would make or break the day. And to my surprise, the first three hours flew by.

I reorganized my house and techno playlist, deleting everything I hadn’t listened to in ages. I called my dad again, and we ended up talking for almost an hour because he was finishing his seven-day fast tonight. We talked about how he felt, but what really drove the conversation was another subject: the role of the father.

I realized as we spoke how few men embody that archetype anymore. There are so many men who refuse to inhabit their own maturity, who long to remain boys forever, free of responsibility, yet still wanting power. I’ve met many of them: the ones who look at me with hunger instead of care, who see validation where they could offer guidance, who want to be desired instead of being honorable. Few see me as a young woman who could be their daughter, and feel the instinct to protect rather than possess.

I often get the creeps from men filming me (I got two this morning), or trying to approach me for something they want. Others hide behind their money or their status, believing it should impress me. But it doesn’t. Because I don’t seek protection in that way. What women crave isn’t wealth or power, it’s safety. True, emotional safety. The kind that can only exist when a man’s power is rooted in love, not in control.

Maybe I’m radical for thinking this way. I can live with that. My father dated young women for years, some even younger than me. It used to disgust me, then I just accepted it. But acceptance doesn’t mean admiration. It simply means understanding. Because I saw how those stories ended; the spark fading, the illusion dissolving, leaving only the gap between two worlds that cannot truly meet.

My father always says my mum was the love of his life. And I believe him. She was a woman he could truly build with, mirror himself in, and grow alongside. But I hope for him, he meet someone who can be his mirror once more.

A father is sacred. Not perfect, not holy, but sacred in his presence. He holds space, creates structure, and leads with integrity. He provides, yes, but more than that, he protects what is pure; the becoming of others. A real father doesn’t dominate the world around him; he nurtures it, strengthens it, brings order without suffocating life. He is both the wall and the warmth.

There are too many people raised by men, but not by fathers. Especially women, searching for that missing energy in older men, mistaking attention for safety, desire for love. And maybe it’s not their fault. When a girl hasn’t been fathered with tenderness, she grows into a woman who confuses protection with possession.

My father wasn’t always a father either. He didn’t have one himself. But he made a promise: not to run. And in staying, he learned. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real. He stumbled, faced himself, and over time, became not just my father, but a father figure to many others. Some of my friends still ask about him, fascinated by how he balances strength and vulnerability. He has learned to hold space for others to be themselves. And that, to me, is what true masculinity looks like.

While walking today, I realized how much the archetype of the father has been distorted through time. Religion took that symbol and made it unreachable; the Father in Heaven, perfect, distant, sacred, leaving men disconnected from the real, human version of fatherhood. The kind that gets messy. The kind that listens. The kind that stays. The kind that learns.

So men were left trying to perform roles they didn’t choose, feeling inadequate, hiding behind success, power, or silence. Families became unstable, love became conditional, and we called it normal. Just like we normalized 60-year-old men dating 25-year-old women. Just like I’ve had to normalize being approached in ways that make my skin crawl, and then smile politely. Because somehow, that’s what’s expected.

It’s absurd, but it’s also deeply human. We seek what we never had. We recreate what we couldn’t understand. The lack of intimacy from the father wounds both men and women: one becomes emotionally detached, the other over-attached. And all of us end up chasing wholeness through reflections that will never complete us.

I continued my walk, stopping for coffee here and there, petting a cat on the roadside, taking small pauses. Then I ran into the German guy from yesterday. He was standing in front of a restaurant when I passed by. We chatted for a moment, and he introduced me to one of his friends he’s been walking with since the first week.

I found a smooth way to get his number, suggesting we meet for a beer later, before continuing my walk. I ended up seeing him again a few hours later on the Camino, and we had the opportunity to talk more. He’s 27, a student doing a master’s degree in politics, living in Berlin, and walking the Camino while transitioning in his life.

The more we talked, the more the mystery began to fade. Not because he wasn’t interesting or attractive, he actually seems like a lovely person, grounded, and beautiful in his own way. But as he became more real, the fantasy I had built around him started to dissolve. I could feel my mind quietly dismantling the little projections I had created after our first encounter.

I’ve realized that I often fall for the mystery before the man. When I don’t know someone, I can sense potential everywhere. I build stories out of glances, gestures, silences, and in those imagined spaces, I find desire. But when the veil lifts, when reality starts to take shape, the magic changes. It’s not disappointment, just a quiet recognition that I’m someone who idealizes through mystery, and reality asks for another kind of love.

I arrived at the albergue around 4pm, which is quite late, but it was a big day of walking. Surprisingly, I wasn’t too tired. I did my little routine before settling in bed and writing. I went out for dinner at a nice restaurant, had some lasagna that was decent, and finished with my usual tarta de queso, which has become my go-to dessert lately. Now, I’m going to chill, digest, watch something, and fall asleep before my last day walking. I still can’t believe it.

With love, Loune.