Where Endings Begin

Everyone who has done it told me the same thing:

You won’t come back the same.

They say it with a knowing smile, like they’ve seen something I haven’t.

Like they’ve survived something.

The idea of the unknown, Discomfort. Spontaneity. All in a foreign country.

They are assuming I would want to come back.

But hey, it’s about the journey. The spiritual side. It’s the inside that counts.

That’s what people say. At least the people I admire most. The ones who seem to understand life.

DAY 1

Here I am. Walking. Putting my whole life on pause to… walk.

I follow yellow lines spray-painted onto the road, searching for blue shells that appear on walls when I least expect them. I already know they’ll show up precisely when I’m looking for an excuse to stop. To turn around. To quit.

Come on, Olivia. You didn’t travel all this way to be miserable.

I’m walking the Primitivo Path of the Camino de Santiago. Asturias to Galicia. The Cathedral in Santiago is my finish line, not that this is a race.

Still, I took two weeks off work. That makes it feel serious.

And yet, I’m already questioning everything.

I prepared for weeks. Studied routes, hostel stops, every kilometre. Bought everything the internet insisted I would need: technical backpack, paper map (I’d been warned the signal is unreliable), water bottle, portable chargers, hiking boots, zip-off trousers that turn into shorts.

Things I never knew existed.

Things I suddenly can’t live without.

It’s uncomfortable to admit, but…these objects are everything I own right now.

My whole life weighs 9.26 kilos. Apparently, your pack shouldn’t exceed 10% of your body weight, and I am not 90 kilos.

Maybe I feel heavier than I am, it might be the mental burden I have been carrying.

But I have essentials. Creams. Hair products. Comfort in liquid form.

I’m walking toward Grado, 19.7 kilometres away. Oviedo is now behind me, shrinking into memory. The secondary road stretches ahead, wrapped in endless green. Fields breathe quietly. Tractors rumble past like slow mechanical animals.

The road is forgivingly flat. I know that won’t last.

Step. Step. Step. I keep walking, letting the rhythm of my boots match the rhythm of my thoughts.

DAY 2

Last night, they asked for my Pilgrim Credential and pressed a fresh stamp onto the page.

Evidence that I am moving forward. Physically, at least. Emotionally… I feel unchanged.

I eat breakfast while studying today’s route: 20.5 kilometres. My body is tired, but my mind refused to sleep. Hostels don’t make me feel safe. Too many strangers.

Still, people here smile warmly. Or maybe I just want to believe they do. I understand almost no Spanish.

As I leave, I offer a shy Gracias.

They grin Buen camino!

I step back onto the road. My legs ache with every stride. Trees tower overhead, ancient, unmoving witnesses to thousands of pilgrims like me. Some must be centuries old.

Cyclists glide by. Bags strapped to their bikes, more fellow pilgrims.

A few kilometres pass. Silence settles around me.

Birdsong and water slipping over river stones. Crickets tuning the air as the day warms. Clouds threaten rain. They warned me about that. I’m grateful for the waterproof windbreaker buried in my pack, one “essential” I refuse to regret.

But my bag feels heavier now. Or maybe I’m just weaker.

I keep walking.

It’s louder in my head than in the world around me.

How do I turn the volume down?

A cloud drifts away. Sunlight warms my face. The wind turns soft, almost kind.

Maybe I’m more present than I thought.

Then my mind wanders again. What is he doing right now? Is Paul thinking of me? Or even missing me?

Coming here was the right decision. I needed space. Distance brings clarity, they say.

Will it help me understand my feelings? Will it help him understand his? Is it the end of us?

Two pilgrims appear far ahead, marked by the familiar silhouette of a backpack.

I quicken my pace. I can’t stand the roaring silence anymore.

DAY 3

Yesterday, Maria and Jose walked beside me for two hours. Two Andalusians named like Jesus’ parents, it felt poetic.

Their English is broken. My Spanish is worse.

Still, we understood each other. Laughter doesn’t need translation.

Words arrived slowly, mismatched and improvised, stitched together with gestures and patient smiles. We spoke about simple things, where we started, how far we were going, the weight of our backpacks, the kindness of strangers.

They told me about their grandchildren. I showed them a photo of the sea near my home. We repeated ourselves. Nodded generously.

Walking beside them felt lighter, as if the kilometres loosened when shared. Silence became companionable instead of heavy. Presence without pressure.

In those moments, Paul came into my mind.

The way his laugh used to pull laughter out of me without effort. How we could sit in cafés for hours, talking about nothing and everything. How, in the beginning, we used to really look at each other, not just glance, but truly see.

Like the other person was a landscape worth studying.

I try to remember when that changed.

When eye contact became background. When “How was your day?” became ritual instead of curiosity. When sharing space stopped meaning sharing ourselves.

The path today is quieter.

I’m alone again, following the yellow lines, I’m still going the right way.

But the path is no longer kind. The flat generosity of the first days has disappeared, replaced by a steady, unapologetic climb.

The road tilts upward like a quiet challenge, my breath grows louder, as if my body is learning a new language of effort. I lean forward to keep balance, eyes fixed a few metres ahead, not the summit, just the next safe step.

There is no dramatic peak in sight, only the slow revelation that this is what the journey really asks of you: endurance without spectacle, progress measured in heartbeats instead of kilometres.

The yellow arrows give me hope. Small signs, quietly guiding lost people forward.

I imagine the person who placed them. Waking early. Carrying paint. Stopping so others wouldn’t have to. Patient. Invisible. Kind. Someone I’ll never meet has already thought about my steps.

A quiet devotion to strangers. The thought tightens my chest.

For a moment, my mind drifts somewhere softer.

Maybe this is what faith feels like — not certainty, not thunder, but small mercies placed along the way.

Maybe God has been walking with me all along, leaving signs when I need them most. A quiet presence, walking beside me, reminding me I was never invisible.

And yet… I have been feeling invisible for years. Efficient. Reliable. Present.

But unseen.

Has he felt the same? Did we both slowly disappear from each other, assuming the other one was still there?

A breeze moves through the trees, scattering light across the road. For a moment, the shells glow brighter against the stone.

I keep walking toward them.

DAY 4

Morning arrives quietly.

No alarm. No emails. No one needing anything from me.

For a moment, I don’t remember where I am.

Then I feel it, the ache in my calves, the unfamiliar pillow, the stillness.

I’m here to walk.

To think.

To decide.

Outside, the air is cool and wet. It’s that kind of rain that barely looks like rain at all, too fine to see, too soft to hear, yet it slowly settles on my skin, my hair, my clothes, until everything feels quietly soaked.

I think about marriage the way I think about this trail. At the beginning, you don’t question every step. You trust the route. The markers. The promise that it leads somewhere meaningful.

But then the rain comes. Not a storm. Not something dramatic enough to force you to stop. Just a slow, almost invisible drizzle. Easy to dismiss. Easy to walk through pretending it isn’t there.

Until you realise, you’re drenched.

Maybe problems are like that. Small discomforts you postpone. Conversations you delay. Feelings you fold away for later. Ignore them long enough, and they don’t stay small, they settle into everything.

And suddenly, you’re carrying more weight than you remember choosing.

At some point, though, you look up and wonder:

Did I choose this path? Or did I just keep walking because stopping felt harder?

Paul and I didn’t break…We faded.

No explosion.

No betrayal.

Just conversations replaced by logistics. Touch replaced by routine. Two people moving efficiently through the same space.

Like parallel lines. Close. Never meeting.

The same way the yellow lines beneath my feet this past week: constant, dependable, and forever apart.

Was he tired too? Did he feel the distance growing and stay quiet, like I did?

Or was he already somewhere else in his mind?

A steep incline forces me to stop. My breath turns sharp. My heart pounds against my ribs.

The climb and the rain don’t care about my marriage.

Or my confusion.

Or the years we built together.

It just asks one thing: Keep going.

I adjust my backpack and raincoat. It sits differently today. Less hostile. More familiar.

Maybe weight doesn’t disappear. Maybe I am more used to carrying it.

DAY 5

Rain taps softly against my hood, a steady companion.

The world smells green and clean. Mud grips my boots with each step, as if the earth is reluctant to let me go.

I think about vows. For better or worse.

Nobody tells you most of life happens in the “middle”, the quiet, unglamorous middle. The years without milestones. Without drama. Without applause.

Just maintenance. Effort. Choosing each other on ordinary days.

I remember a night years ago, takeaway on the floor, music playing from my phone, both of us laughing too hard at something stupid to even explain. I remember thinking: This is it. This is my person.

Where does that feeling go?

I can see a fork appearing in the trail.

Two possible ways forward. I am getting closer, but no sign of yellow arrows.

My phone has no signal here, no GPS to guide me.

I stand there longer than I should.

This is what it feels like. No sign saying Save it or Leave.

No arrow pointing toward certainty.

Just a choice. And the quiet responsibility of making it.

I take the left path.

Not because I am sure. But because standing still won’t lead to anything.

As I walk, a strange calm settles in. I follow the map.

Maybe love isn’t a lightning strike you chase forever, it’s a practice. A decision made repeatedly. Sometimes painfully. Maybe endings aren’t failures. And staying isn’t weakness.

Maybe both require courage.

My bag shifts as I move. It feels lighter now.

Or maybe it’s acceptance, freedom or even, forgiveness.

The path narrows between stone walls slick with moisture, water threading through the cracks. My steps slow.

Not from doubt this time, but from a gentle awareness that the day is closing.

A small wooden sign appears ahead, the name of the village: Arzúa. The final stretch.

Roofs emerge first, slate and muted red, then the faint clatter of dishes, loud voices drifting through open windows. Life happening indoors.

Left turn.

Short climb.

A lovely church at the end of the lane.

The hostel.

A soft yellow light glows behind the glass door, fogged slightly by the warmth inside. Boots rest by the entrance. Walking poles lean against the wall like tired companions.

I stop for a moment across the street. I think about the fork in the trail.

I took the left path. It brought me here.

A bed. A shower. A place to rest.

Proof, perhaps, that I can choose correctly.

Or maybe not.

Maybe the right path isn’t a single line. Maybe both trails curve through different hills and arrive at the same door. Same destination. Different journeys.

Maybe certainty isn’t the reward for choosing. Maybe movement is.

I push the door open. Warm air wraps around me. Someone looks up and smiles in silent recognition, another pilgrim, another day completed.

I step inside and remove my backpack.

For tonight, this is enough.