The process is the path: What I discovered on the Camino de Santiago

It’s 104 degrees, and I’m staring at an unshaded path that leads straight uphill with no end in sight. I’m 10 days in on the Camino de Santiago, also known as the El Camino—a 600-plus-mile pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain. My feet are covered in blisters, my skin feels like it’s on fire, and my focus is growing fuzzy. I pull out my phone and do a quick Google search. It confirms my fears—I’m experiencing symptoms of heatstroke. I start to panic.  

A couple of hours ago I made the really silly decision to keep walking beyond the town where most people stay for the night. My life hack had always been to push beyond the point where other people stop and, since that mentality always paid off, I figured El Camino should be no exception. Each day on El Camino I pushed myself to walk as far as I could no matter how many blisters I had or what the weather forecast had in store. That day, though, 20 miles in and my body was in full fire alarm mode. I knew it was not a drill.

I somehow made it through the eight miles to the albergue (the El Camino equivalent of a hostel) in the next town. I immediately collapsed onto the bunk bed. My memory after that is hazy, but broken up by the tartness of yellow Gatorade, the weight of cold towels around my neck, and the relief of ice packs on my forehead. 

A couple hours later, I woke up to a dark room and the smell of boiling pasta coming from the albergue’s kitchen. Entering the room, I saw an elderly Italian woman clap her hands together and exclaim, “Che gioia” and “Bellissimo!” She introduced herself as Valentina and pointed to a chair. “Sit. You still need rest,” she said as she filled my water bottle. 

We were the only two pilgrims staying in the albergue that night, but Valentina was cooking up a feast for 20. Clearly not exhausted by her day’s walk, she regaled me with story after El Camino story as she made quick work of the aubergines and cut into the tomatoes with surgical precision. When she moved on to chopping mushrooms, I asked when she was planning to finish the route. 

Valentina’s quick movements came to an abrupt halt. She gave me a look of complete horror and started wagging her finger at me. “No, no, no, the thinking should not be I must get here, I must get there. You are young,” she said, “and you CAN, but what is the point?" She then explained that she never sets a daily agenda. Some days she walks the suggested distance; other days she rides the bus the whole way. 

I’m not going to lie. Until that point, I had judged those I met who said they were riding buses instead of walking. I mean, the literal translation of El Camino is the walk. If you weren’t walking El Camino, what were you doing? But as I watched Valentina spoon pasta onto our plates, I had a sneaking suspicion that she was also serving me a hefty side of wisdom. I had a lot to chew on that night.  

The next morning I gave Valentina a hug, thanked her for nursing me back to health, and set off on my merry way.  Over the next several weeks, as I processed Valentina’s message and let go of chasing after measurable ways to validate myself (read - through my Garmin), I freed myself to witness, experience, and enjoy the unquantifiable magic that happens on El Camino. I saw it in the pilgrim who waylaid plans for a day or two to help the albergue host with some renovations. I saw it in the pilgrim who walked an extra mile to pick up blister treatment for an injured pilgrim. And I certainly felt it during mornings spent watching sunrises with new friends on the trail. 

Contrary to my pre-pilgrimage conceits, I discovered that El Camino is not about seeing how quickly you can walk the 600 miles. It’s about embarking on a spiritual journey with no clear destination. It’s about letting go of a need to have a predetermined path. It’s about accepting that the process is the path.

Once back in the United States, I thought about my El Camino experience. Why had I viewed taking a bus as cheating—and not the “true” Camino experience? Why had I been so focused on reaching Santiago (the destination) as quickly as possible? Mulling it over, I realized the problem was how I defined toughness. As someone who grew up playing sports and was a D1 athlete in college, I was consistently told to dig deeper, work harder, and not show signs of vulnerability. Over the course of 28 years, I had internalized a belief that toughness means bulldozing through pain at all costs. 

Research has shown, though, that there are negative consequences to this approach. When we push through pain, we flood our body with cortisol and adrenaline; this prevents us from engaging with our prefrontal cortex (responsible for rational decision-making) and leaves us reliant on our amygdala (responsible for emotional processing). In this fight-or-flight state, we react without thinking. And while this response is helpful when you touch a hot stove, it’s less helpful in other scenarios. On El Camino, it led to me, an otherwise healthy 20-something-year-old, almost being taken to the emergency room. Research has also found that sports teams that embrace this type of toughness suffer higher rates of injury, burnout, and failure.

We don’t just see this mentality in sports. It shows up in how we parent and teach our kids, how we lead teams in the workplace, and how we interact with people whose views we don’t share. Study after study indicates that whatever the setting—the office, our social life, on the field—this mentality yields outcomes that are the opposite of what we want. Instead of making progress or effectively supporting others, we actually set ourselves—and our relationships—back. 

Changing mindsets isn’t easy, but it’s entirely possible to reframe toughness from bulldozing through pain to carefully navigating through discomfort. According to this perspective, toughness is about experiencing pain and creating space to understand that pain. It’s a subtle shift that allows us to re-engage our prefrontal cortex, process pain as information, and develop a flexible set of options for how to respond. Through this response, we become better at taking care of ourselves and, as a result, caring for others. 

While I wish I had acquired this life lesson sooner, I’m grateful that it arrived when it did. One month after finishing El Camino, I started a three-year, dual-degree graduate program. The opportunities for burnout at any graduate school are legion—from rigorous coursework to a staggering array of interesting people, professors, clubs, and experiences to discover. Because  I was entering a program at two different schools, across the country from each other, I knew my risk of an El Camino heatstroke was high unless I made substantive changes to my approach. 

And I have—by calling an audible and choosing to ride the bus on multiple occasions. I sequence what’s important to me so that I’m not trying to do everything all at once all the time. And when priorities do collide, I try to prioritize relationships—opting to hang out with friends over spending an extra hour on an assignment. I don’t get it right every time, and it’s not always easy, but I know I’m caring for myself and others a bit better because of it. After 600 miles on the El Camino, I finally learned how to walk the walk—no matter the destination.

Carolyn Bruckmann (2023 cohort) is a Knight-Hennessy scholar pursuing a master’s degree in business administration at Stanford Graduate School of Business and a degree in public policy at Harvard Kennedy School. She aspires to create kinder, more connected communities. Carolyn is currently exploring ways to build belonging among high schoolers through theater/improv. 

Knight-Hennessy scholars represent a vast array of cultures, perspectives, and experiences. While we as an organization are committed to elevating their voices, the views expressed are those of the scholars, and not necessarily those of KHS.