More than a year has passed since my last Camino – Camino de la Plata, a 1,000-kilometre-long journey. So much has happened since then that I could easily squeeze it all into three seasons of an average Netflix drama. The only difference is that my version would be considerably less glamorous, with a lot more sweat, coffee, and moments when I wondered whether this was actually life or just one very long punishment.
Those of you who have been following me regularly know that I had my own business and that, over the past few years, I had been wrestling with one question: Should I keep going down this road, or should I throw it all away and step into the unknown?
This year, surprisingly, my head and my heart finally agreed.
No arguments. No referendum. No coalition negotiations and no voting until three in the morning.
It was time for something new.
The decision was incredibly difficult, but absolutely necessary if I didn't want to end up in a psychiatric ward. Which, by the way, I had almost called to check whether they had a room available.
Apparently, they were fully booked, because I ended up on a waiting list.
That actually made me feel a little better. Apparently, I wasn't the only one whose life had prepared a special package deal:
"Congratulations! You've survived another year. Your reward is a nervous breakdown."
Since the idea of spending my days between four walls and taking a handful of pills wasn't exactly at the top of my bucket list, I decided to start earning money in a different way.
One thing, however, remained unchanged: my love of freedom.
So I stayed a freelancer.
No one gets to tell me how much vacation I'm entitled to. No one gets to tell me what time I have to show up for work. And, most importantly, no one gets to decide when I have to sit at a desk for eight hours a day and pretend to be productive.
For 21 years, I got up at 4:00 a.m. so I could enjoy a quiet cup of coffee before heading to work. My workday started at 5:30 a.m. and often didn't end until 8:30 p.m.
Twenty-one years.
Not twenty-one days.
Not twenty-one weeks.
Twenty-one years.
If hard work were an Olympic sport, I'd have a whole cabinet full of medals, an honorary plaque, and probably a permanent back injury as a souvenir.
After all that, I came to a rather simple realization:
Maybe it was finally time to start living.
Not just surviving.
It was time for shorter working days. More time with friends. More time for myself. More time for all those things you keep putting away in the drawer labelled:
"One day, when I have time."
The only problem is that this drawer has no bottom.
Getting to this point, however, wasn't some romantic journey of personal growth where I sat on a mountain, listened to birds singing and contemplated the meaning of life.
No.
I had to roll up my sleeves.
I was working two jobs at the same time. The plan was simple: gradually put my first business to bed and build my future with the second one.
In theory, it sounded brilliant.
Almost as brilliant as every great idea sounds before you actually have to carry it out.
In reality, I was working 60 or more hours of physical labour every week, simply to maintain financial security.
I was closing one chapter and opening another.
The only problem was that I had to read both books at the same time.
Even though I had mentally prepared myself for this odyssey, it turned out to be one of the most exhausting years of my life.
Day after day, I had no idea whether I would actually manage to get everything done.
My body had been flashing red warning lights for a long time. The alarms were going off, the engine was smoking, and I was still happily pressing the accelerator.
Rest? No time.
And that's when you slowly start becoming a little unbearable.
Irritable. Impatient. Exhausted. Emotionally numb.
You feel like crying because everything is simply too much.
And at the same time, you know you have to keep going because you're doing it so that one day life will be easier.
So that one day you'll be grateful to yourself for not giving up.
There were days I honestly don't remember how I got through them.
Probably on autopilot, fuelled by coffee, stubbornness, and mild signs of mental instability.
My body was saying:
"I've had enough."
My head:
"Just a little longer."
My heart:
"We can do this."
Coffee:
"I've got you."
But at the time, only one thing mattered:
It had to get done.
And then came August 13th.
The day I had been waiting for longer than a child waits for Christmas morning.
My last working day at the studio.
Finally, I could breathe normally again.
No more alarms at inhumane hours. No more marathon workdays. No more feeling like I was living inside an endless movie called Work Until You Drop.
I was over the moon.
A smile spread across my face so wide it could probably have been detected by satellites.
If I'm being completely honest, I started dancing around the room like someone who had just escaped from a minimum-security prison.
For the first time in a very long time, I truly felt free.
And then came the tears.
The good kind.
Tears of relief. Happiness. Pride.
The tears of someone who had survived one of the hardest periods of her life and could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Well...
Or at least the exit door of the studio.
Freedom was waiting for me.
And I embraced it with open arms.
But since I apparently don't know how to live a completely normal life, I didn't celebrate my newfound freedom with a weekend at a spa, a massage, lying on a beach with a cocktail in my hand and absolutely nothing to do.
No.
That would have been far too easy.
Instead, I booked a flight to Alicante.
That's where I will begin my next Camino.
A journey of approximately 1,200 kilometres.
After a year of working 60 or more hours a week, most normal people would probably choose a massage, a wellness retreat, lying on a beach and completely switching off.
I, on the other hand, thought:
"You know what would be really relaxing? Strapping a backpack to my back and walking 1,200 kilometres."
Logic wasn't particularly impressed with the idea.
Neither were my legs.
I haven't had much time for walking this year, so when my legs heard the words 1,200 kilometres, they probably filed an official complaint.
My heart, meanwhile, had already bought the ticket.
And so a new story began.
A story about freedom.
A story about closing one door, even though you have absolutely no idea what awaits you behind the next one.
A story about how, after 21 years of constantly working and pushing myself, I could finally say:
"Now it's my turn."
And, above all, a story about how sometimes the greatest act of courage is simply allowing yourself to start over.
Even when you don't have all the answers.
Even when you don't know exactly where the road will take you.
Even when your legs currently think that 1,200 kilometres is a deeply personal insult.
Because sometimes you simply have to close one door, put on your backpack, and start walking.
Where to?
The road will show you.
Buen Camino. ❤️🥾🎒