Walking Myself Home – Reflections from a Psychotherapist on the Camino de Santiago

As a psychotherapist, I spend most of my days holding space for others—witnessing their stories, navigating their fears, guiding them through patterns both old and unconscious. It’s sacred work, but it can leave little room for my own inner exploration. So when I set foot on the Camino de Santiago, trading in my therapy chair for hiking boots and solitude, I realized I wasn’t just walking across Spain—I was walking through myself.

The Camino has a funny way of stripping things down. Day after day, it’s just you, your pack, your thoughts and the earth beneath your feet. The routine becomes elemental: walk, eat, sleep, repeat. And in that simplicity, the deeper layers start to speak.

It didn’t take long for me to notice: the way I walked the Camino mirrored the way I lived my life.

1. I started with a plan—then immediately threw it out.

I had every stage mapped out before I began. Lodgings booked and mileage targets. It gave me a sense of control—a way to “do it right.” But within days, the Camino laughed at my carefully crafted itinerary. A foot blister, a conversation with a stranger that turned into an unexpected detour—these unplanned moments became the heart of the journey. Just like life, and just like therapy: we make plans to feel safe, but growth often comes in the deviation.

2. I walked too fast at first.

Driven by ambition and adrenaline, I pushed myself early on—measuring my worth by the distance I covered. It wasn’t sustainable. My body rebelled, and my spirit followed. Slowing down became a necessity. And in the slowness, I noticed things—tiny wildflowers, the rhythm of my breath, the ache in my shoulders that held more than just my pack. I realized I’d spent much of my life moving quickly, afraid of what might catch up if I didn’t. The Camino taught me how to linger. Probably the best piece of advice I could give anyone looking to walk the Camino is due it slowly, take it all in and enjoy it.

3. I needed less than I thought.

I brought too much, of course. Every pilgrim does. My pack held “just-in-case” items—extra clothes, medical supplies, a book I never opened. After a week, I began leaving things behind. There’s something deeply symbolic about physically letting go. We carry so much we don’t need—in our minds, in our hearts. As I shed weight, I felt freer. Therapy often involves a similar process: identifying what no longer serves, then releasing it with compassion.

4. I connected deeply—with others and with myself.

On the trail, strangers become confidants. There’s something about shared struggle and solitude that invites intimacy. I met people I’ll never forget. We swapped stories over shared meals, walked silently side by side, cried together in ancient cathedrals. The Camino reminded me of the therapeutic relationship: two people walking together, sometimes talking, sometimes not, always witnessing. And in the quiet spaces between words, something shifts.

5. I kept showing up, even when it was hard.

Some mornings I didn’t want to walk. My body hurt, the path looked endless, and my mind churned with doubt. But I walked anyway. Step by step. That’s how healing works too. Not in grand moments of clarity, but in the slow, consistent showing up—for yourself, for the process. There’s dignity in the daily effort. The Camino asked for my presence, and I gave it.

6. I didn’t arrive at the end “healed”—but I arrived changed.

When I reached Santiago, I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt quiet. Grounded. The cathedral was beautiful, yes—but the real arrival had happened slowly, somewhere along the dusty trails and broken conversations. Just like in therapy, there wasn’t one epiphany, but a thousand small shifts. A softening. A turning toward myself.

Walking the Camino taught me that the way we walk is the way we live. Are we pushing, rushing, proving? Are we listening, pausing, responding? Do we trust ourselves enough to take the next step, even if we can’t see the whole path?

The Camino isn’t a cure, just as therapy isn’t a destination. But both are journeys of return—to presence, to truth, to the quiet voice inside that whispers: keep going. You’re already home.

And sometimes, the best we can do is put one foot in front of the other, and walk ourselves back to who we’ve always been.