When my daughter wished for a five-day solo backpacking trip somewhere in Spain, as a mother, it was only natural for me to worry.

I barely travel alone myself, and navigating even my own town sometimes feels like an effort. So the thought of her walking through villages, settlements, and non-tourist areas, where one needs to speak the local Spanish language, was unsettling. I resisted at first. The only compromise I could arrive at was convincing her to stay in pre-booked hostels, so at least there was some accountability if she did not check in by the end of the day, instead of finding a hostel upon reaching a town.

She had to walk 15 to 18 miles every day for five days, carrying her backpack. She did her research thoroughly and packed thoughtfully, balancing need with lightness.

The moment she boarded the flight, my role shifted from a worrying mother to someone ready to guide if needed. I was still worried with no doubt, but somewhere deep down, I tried to overcome my own lack of confidence. That allowed me to hold on to more positive thoughts.

She started at Sarria and aimed to finish in Santiago de Compostela, from where she would take a train back to Madrid to return home.

She landed at the airport and booked an Uber to Sarria. She informed us that she preferred Uber over a taxi so that, through my husband’s linked account, he could track her journey. It was a long ride, and she made small conversation with the driver, practicing her Spanish. I should mention that she has been learning Spanish for some time and was finally ready to put it to use.

The next day, she was ready in her sneakers, with uninformed optimism, to begin her adventure.

At the end of the first day, reality began to settle in. She texted, excited yet exhausted:
“It’s difficult… I do not think it is for me. I want to come home.”

I could have easily, emotionally asked her to take an Uber, catch the next flight, and come back home. In fact, I told her she had that choice, always.

But then, I paused.

Added saying, “You know, when we have the option to quit, and we choose not to, that is empowering. The road less traveled is never easy, but finishing it with willpower is something else altogether.”

I suggested she pay attention to the small details, such as the emotions she felt, the pain she endured, the boredom she fought, and the quietness she experienced. All these are worth journaling later. I even suggested chanting mantras if needed, to keep herself company.

I did not know how much she would listen. But I knew one thing. I did not want to impose my own lack of confidence in traveling onto her.

The second day was harder. She was sore, tired, exhausted, and had made no friends. The walk was longer compared to the first day. At that vulnerable moment, when your child reaches out saying, “I want to quit,” it is so easy to say, “Come back.”

Again, I paused and took a deep breath.

I told her, “I totally feel your pain. For a moment, keep the idea of quitting aside. Allow everything to settle within you. At this point, do not forget to feel proud of yourself. Nourish yourself with good food, rest well, and decide in the morning.”

Deep down, I know she is not a quitter.

Recently, during my book launch, she had shared a story from my own life, one that my mother had once told me.

In that story, I was in high school and had signed up for a 100-meter race. On sports day, when my name was announced, I chose not to participate. I saw the competition, got scared of losing, and quietly hid myself among the spectators.

My mother did not scold me. Instead, she gently said, what you lost that day was not just a race. You lost the chance to know your stamina, to understand where you need to improve, and most importantly, the joy of reaching the finishing line. These are lived experiences and you cannot borrow them from others.

Before ending our chat, I reminded my daughter of that lesson.

The next morning, I kept checking her location, and yes, she had started walking again.

The third day was probably the hardest of all. It was the longest and loneliest one out of the five. But by evening, she had made three friends at the hostel. They shared dinner and celebrated their small victory.

And yet, by night, she again spoke of quitting.

This time, I told her, “Yes, you can definitely quit. But you are already more than halfway there, not just in days, but in miles. The next two days might be easier. And even if they are not, you now have something to compare with. You are almost there to experience the joy of reaching the finish line. I promise it will be something different.”

If I think of an inverse bell curve, her second and third days were the toughest, the rock bottom of informed pessimism. But I knew she is not a quitter. At this point, it was my test too.

The next day, she chose to have her backpack transferred and continued walking. Day four felt easier. Yes, she was sore, but she found companionship, prepared meals with others at the hostel, and shared laughter.

By then, I was confident she would finish. During one of our chats, she said, “Walking was not bad, but finding ways to pass the free time until the next morning is hard.”

How true that is! In a world that constantly seeks noise and company, learning to sit with oneself is a rare and powerful skill. Solitude, though uncomfortable at first, can become a companion. For a 24-year-old coming from the busy city of New York, that boredom is natural. At our age, we may find such solitude rewarding, though sometimes even that can feel uncomfortable.

On the final day, there must have been excitement to finish. She walked into Santiago de Compostela, collected her “Compostela” certificate, made a few more friends, and celebrated over dinner. The sheer joy of saying “I did it” was a lived experience of informed optimism this time. She owned it completely.

Over five days, her route took her from Sarria to Santiago. On the first evening, she reached Portomarín; on the second, Palas de Rei; on the third, Arzúa; on the fourth, O Pedrouzo; and finally, on the fifth day, she arrived in Santiago, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Walking through lush green farmlands, small hills, rustic village trails lined with stone walls, and beautiful forests, she spotted many gentle, curious cows along the way. She paused at quaint little towns for food or tea to reenergize, visited the Santiago de Compostela Cathedral to experience a piece of history, practiced her Spanish along the way, and had her pilgrim passport stamped at each landmark she covered. Each evening brought its own small joys, enjoying local cuisine with newly found friends, and even cooking dinner together at the hostel one night.

The whole pilgrimage route is traditionally around 800 kilometers, but she completed only the final 115 kilometers (75 miles). I had asked her about the age groups she met and the reasons people were undertaking the walk. She encountered only a few in their twenties and many in the 50 to 70 plus age group, along with a large group of high school students. The evenings were spent socializing with fellow hostel mates.

Although this route has its roots as a pilgrimage, she discovered that today people walk it for many different reasons. Some were in between jobs and seeking reflection, some were coping with loss in the family, one had made a promise to her late brother to walk the trail, and one woman in her 50s had already completed 40 marathons. Another in her 60s described it as a reflective journey after retirement, while someone else said they had spent too many weekends partying and chose this walk to step away from the noise and reset. Interestingly, everyone had a different reason, yet the choice was the same.

I am sure there were many more experiences she absorbed along the way; this is only what I could gather from our conversations. Honestly, it felt as though I lived those moments through her, which in itself was deeply enriching.

As a mother, I am incredibly proud of her decision to take this plunge and her determination to see it through.

But more than that, this was my own test. To step back, to not let my fears define her path, and to trust that she would find her own strength along the way. Perhaps that is the quiet lesson for me, raising a child is not just about guiding their steps, but about learning when to stop holding their hand

Strength is a choice, and she owned it. Though she did all the walking, I felt the hardest walk was mine as a mother to trust her wings.

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PS: The journey had one final twist. The next morning, she had to fly out from Madrid but unfortunately got on the wrong train. Panic followed. Her broken Spanish came in handy and a fellow passenger helped her get off at a different station and helped her buy another ticket for the right train to board an hour and a half later. Before reaching Madrid station, she ordered her Uber to the airport.

The ETA showed just 20 minutes before the gate closed. Then, of course, the Uber driver took a wrong turn, perhaps her anxiety had already reached him. By then, she was convinced she would miss the flight and had already begun exploring Plan B: a next-day ticket, a thousand dollars, and a last-minute hunt for accommodation.

I could feel her stress. I wasn’t worried about the missed flight or the expense as much as I was about this final stretch overshadowing the joy of everything she had accomplished. All I could do was ask her to stay positive.

And thankfully, she made it literally five minutes before the gate closed. Her victory message: “Yesss… I made it to the gate and even bought a snack!” Honestly, it felt like the final scene of a thriller.

She had left Santiago at 7 in the morning and reached her flight around 5 in the evening.
Phew… just in time.