One Brave Step at a Time

Learning to be Okay Alone.

How am I okay being alone?

Since I am no longer married, I am — technically — alone.
“I am actually alone.”
What a relief.

For much of my marriage, I was alone. My husband lived in another state for a year, and even when he was home, he traveled constantly. I learned how to enjoy my life without my spouse. And while I could describe the physical solitude of those years, I would be remiss not to mention the emotional solitude as well.

As a married-single woman, I filled my life with things that mattered: volunteering for my community, going to grad school to grow my career, joining a running group to stay fit and sane. I see now that I was upleveling — quietly, steadily, without even realizing it.

When my husband and I separated, we left so much unsaid. Our roles were fuzzy. Our status unclear. And despite being accustomed to being by myself, I felt very, very alone.
The only comfort was this: I knew I could rely on myself.

Loving myself, though — that was harder. My sense of self had been deeply damaged. So there I was: away from home, sad, confused, and alone. All the ingredients for a mental health crisis.

So I chose a new life.

I was alone and homeless.

If I could name the pain, maybe I could heal it. And instinctively I knew I needed to move — literally. I believed that if I took care of my body, my mind would follow. At fifty-seven I was still strong. I could run a half marathon. I could hike for miles. And I loved to hike.

So I set out for the most wonderful hike I could imagine:
The Camino Francés — 500 miles from the Pyrenees Mountains of France to the western coast of Spain.

Starting this journey was terrifying. We had moved to Ireland during Covid and owned very little. Everything I had fit into two bags — and I brought both with me to Spain. Other pilgrims raised their eyebrows.
“What kind of pilgrim has so much stuff?”
“Because I’m homeless and everything I own is with me.”
“Why didn’t you put it in storage?”
“Because I don’t plan to return to Ireland.”

I was alone and homeless.
Talk about stepping outside my comfort zone.

Southern France is heart-stoppingly beautiful. You can feel kings, queens, armies, and ancient stories in every cobblestone. It is magic. But inside me lived a deep darkness — and that darkness nearly won.
Still, I knew: movement releases endorphins, and endorphins change the brain.
So I kept taking small, brave steps.

“The Camino provides,” pilgrims often say. And for me, it did. I was surrounded by strangers who nudged me forward, pointed me in the right direction, and held space without even knowing the weight I carried. The Camino gave me exactly what I needed.
One brave step at a time.

The average pilgrim completes the Camino Francés in about 33 days. That’s a lot of alone time. I was ready for introspection. Ready for self-reflection. And even in my darkest moments, I suppose I was expanding — thank goodness.

Every pilgrim carries something.
Some are there to purge their minds.
Some to heal their souls.
Some — like me — to run from a life that hurt too much.

We carry bones, ashes, memories, remnants, the essence of those we love.
Or perhaps, the ones we love are the ones carrying us.

I walked for days. Once I realized I was capable of completing twenty miles a day, I made it my goal. I kept my routine simple: wake, walk, sleep. My depression lingered, but my anxiety eased — and my self-esteem rose. There is power in slowing down.

My mood softened. I cried less. And I was attempting something spectacular.

“Hopefully I’ll complete this hike,” I told myself.
And one powerful step at a time, I continued.

Thirty-one days later, I arrived in Santiago de Compostela.

My healing had finally begun.

Thank you for reading.

🪷 May your own path unfold with courage, softness, and one brave step at a time.