13/09/2025 - Sometimes what costs me little is a prize for someone else.

Today was a real breath of fresh air. I walked 20 km again, but for once I felt like I had time to settle into myself, into my body. I stayed present, took small steps, stopped often to rest my feet, drank water, and let go of any sense of rushing. That simple shift opened up space for beautiful conversations and connections, and the whole day felt lighter because of it.

I left the albergue around 7:30am after carefully preparing my feet, strapping them tight, securing my bag. I knew I had 12 km before the next town, and therefore, my coffee. I called my dad as I walked and let the conversation carry me across the quiet path. The terrain was manageable, though every so often I had to limp a little to ease the pressure on my left foot. Eventually, I reached a small village square beside a church, ordered a latte, and claimed a sunny spot that felt like pure heaven.

Not long after, the two Canadian sisters from last night’s albergue appeared and asked to join me. I welcomed them gladly. They must be in their 60s or 70s, each carrying such distinct energy. The elder was calm, wise, grounded, like she lived in a world of her own making, one I’d love to visit because it radiated peace. The younger was fiery, assertive, sharp-eyed, with a humor that cracked me up. Watching them walk side by side, I thought of two little geese: matching, adorable.

Our talk was easy, stretching from the Camino to family, writing, spirituality. At one point, the elder said, “Sometimes I stop walking because the sound of my steps prevents me from listening to the silence.” It hit me deep. The younger immediately protested, saying silence was unbearable for her, and I burst out laughing. I left them with a lighter heart, filled with the will to keep walking “to the end of the world.” Funny how a few minutes with present people can rewire a whole day.

The path stretched on through golden wheat fields, straight and endless like a scene from Gladiator. Heat waves rippled over the hills as I drifted into thought. Then a message from my dad popped up. His tone carried that familiar hint of pressure, passive aggressiveness, asking me to finish comments on his book (about freedom, authenticity, and love which I adore) saying it was causing him more work now. What stung wasn’t the request itself but the way he framed it, reminding me he was writing it to buy land and build a house “for us,” saying he personally didn’t need possessions anymore. It felt heavy: a project spoken of mainly in terms of money, and the weight of a home placed on my sister and me.

Old me would have snapped, bitten back, and then rushed to do it anyway to avoid the tension. But these past days have made me more aware of that accomplishment pattern. So this time I answered calmly, from the heart. I told him he can’t put the responsibility for the house on us. That he keeps telling me to slow down on the Camino while sprinting through his own projects. That I can’t let guilt dictate my pace. I reminded him that I have my own priorities: my job, my book, staying present on this journey, filming a personal documentary, and yes, his book too, but not at the expense of myself.

We exchanged voice notes. He listened. He responded with care. And I felt grateful. We’re both learning to be emotionally mature; to see when our energies clash without letting it explode. I believe he just needed reassurance that I love him as much as he loves me, even if he puts myself as an utmost priorities while I have other ones too. And I gave him that. Maybe one day I’ll understand that better when I become a parent.

I reached Sansol around 1pm, right in time for check-in. The hostel turned out to be an old palacio, beautifully renovated. Same routine: shower, bottom bunk, laundry. I tried to nap but the flow of new arrivals kept me awake, so I went to the terrace with a book and my laptop ready for my other part of the day, work. The sun broke through, and the view was stunning.

Later, on my way back from the bathroom, a British woman stopped me, red-faced, breathless, and asked if I’d give her my bed. Her knee was bad, and she would have a hard time climbing up to the top bunk. I froze. Out of all the bottom bunks, why did it have to be mine? I’d picked the best spot in the room, cornered off with a chair for my things. I’d “earned” it by keeping a great pace for my walk today. For a full minute I didn’t answer, torn between pride and compassion. When she said it was fine, she’d take the top, I almost let it go. But in the end, I gave her the bed. Not because I had to, or to be the “good girl.” I chose it. I realized that even if it cost me, it sat right in my heart. I’d want someone to do the same for me if the roles were reversed.

At dinner, we ended up across from each other. She was so grateful, and I knew I’d made the right call. Sometimes what costs me little is a prize for someone else. I studied her as we talked, the way she whispered at the end of her sentences, the faint blue eyeliner, the way she carried both her past and her resilience in her face. I saw her in her colors, her imperfections, her effort. And she was beautiful.

Maybe it’s because I’m learning to see myself that way too, and to judge less harshly. Tonight she was my reflection, not for what she mirrored, but for what I felt witnessing her. I’m proud of her. And I’m proud of me.

With love, Loune.