“I am no longer controlled by my fears. I overcome my fears and act with courage, integrity, and dignity.”

It was 21 degrees Celcius. We walked 9.7 kilometers and covered 18.3 kilometers in total. We had the thought of enjoying too much pizza and too much rosé on the coast of Labruge, Portugal after the bus ride from Lisbon to Porto, the beginning of the Camino.

The bus from Lisbon to Porto was beautiful. We had the entire top tier to ourselves, save one solo, male traveler. I had looked forward to the quiet – stretching out in a row of my own, writing in my journal, sleeping and being with my thoughts. But when you travel with someone, they often have other ideas. Instead of solitude, my travel companion, D, sat next to me and proceeded to chatter away about the trip, the plans, the future and the landscape.

I am aware enough to know that we all have our own stress responses. I am always wiser <now> to understand that a trip of this magnitude should not be done with someone with whom you have never traveled. I didn’t understand D the way I should have to take this journey on. I didn’t know how to communicate clearly with kindness and self-respect about what I needed each day, each step, and each milestone to make this comfortable for me. Instead, I relied on my familiar codependency and accommodated for the sake of peace.

In Porto, we grabbed our Camino credentials, the proof of the journey, the Compostela that will be stamped along the journey. I felt tired from the too-little sleep after 30 hours of travel, including 10.5 hours of waiting in the Munich airport. This mid-COVID world is eerily hypervigilant, and the claustrophobic mask has become our favorite accessory as we kept our legs busy by walking 2 km every other hour and catching up on sleep in an abandoned terminal in the intermediate intervals.

The cathedral in Porto was laid out in fog, a saxophone player in the square competed with the crying seagulls in the airwaves. I was so moved that we were finally on our way – after getting our credentials in the cathedral office, I shed tears in the church. Centuries of people moved through those stone walls by choice or for sanctuary or monastic life. The residue of their energy is embedded in the cobblestones, tiles, and dirt. And here I was, listening to the bells chime, enjoying the privilege of leisure, vacation, and freedom. I was so humbled, I could have stated several days. But we had walking to do.

I studied the CoDA promise that was my devotion for the day on the steps overlooking the city: “I am no longer controlled by my fears I overcome my fears and act with courage, integrity, and dignity.”

I wanted to meditate on the meaning of those words: “control,” “courage,” “integrity,” and “dignity.”

• How had my sheltered, Baptist upbringing ripened me for some, but underdeveloped me for others?
• What did it look and feel like in my body when I was overcome by fear?
• In which ways have I sabotaged myself in the last 38 years because I was overcome, and what are the results now?
• What was truly controlling me when I anticipated needs, pleased those around me, acted in a way from a fear of being disposable and replaceable?
• How is integrity more than knowing right from wrong?

3 hours on the bus was filled with anticipation for the day ahead: our first walking day. We navigated metros, taxis, and buses, and by the time we hit Novo Runa, a local-recommended, seaside restaurant in Labruge, I felt settled into a Portuguese rhythm. That rhythm got me into a bit of trouble as I poisoned my athletically prepared body with wine and pizza, staring at the ocean and believing that walking another 9 km would be possible whilst tipsy.

Beautiful waves, soft coastal breezes full of salt, and warm sunshine joined us for lunch and were our constant companions all along the 8 km boardwalk to our destination. We passed romancing couples, which rang a gong deep in my soul, a place I had boxed and boarded up for walking. Missing my new husband and my 3 young sons would make for longer miles and a heavier heart. My feet carry me less freely then. I turned my eyes and adjusted my mind to the senses before me.

One of these senses was the internal mechanism of digestion – and I suddenly realized that my body was ill-adjusted to the food and drink a few hours prior. With no bathroom nearby, no trees to hide behind, and only a winding boardwalk in sight, we got off the trail before I ruined myself.

Getting into Vila do Conde, we rested in our room, walked the canal, and saw a nearby church. I scrubbed the sand and salt off my skin and out of my hair and put on the one and only dress I brought in my pack. The town was setting up an outdoor concert and I fought the urge to push my body to participate. I stayed in bed, knowing I was acting in my own best interest. I can’t do it all. The desire to do it all is unhealthy and a symptom of a codependent need to be constantly moving: addiction to people, places, and things.

The word in my life for 2020 was “distillation.” The pandemic forced me to curate my life, confront myself, and re-evaluate my relationships. We spend so much time away from home at work, social functions, and vacations, that we rarely appreciate or notice the cocoon in which we grow and rest. It was with this realization that I committed to burning off, or distilling, anything that wasn’t pure or healthy in my life. I saw relationships fall victim to the shallowness I had once ignored. I found new boundaries with unhealthy family members. I invested quiet time with my children and their creativity. I built a life that was not dependent on what others needed, outside of motherhood. It was a horrific time for so many people, and I was aware of my fortunate position to stay employed, stay healthy, and stay safe while the transformation was happening in and around me.

Instead, we opened the window of our tiny room and heard the music and seagulls as we let our bodies melt into sleep. It reminded me of my mother’s wind-up porcelain ceramic figurines all over her oak dresser mirror, and I wondered if our relationship would be helped or harmed by the version of Shellie that would emerge after this pilgrimage. Ultimately, I was comforted by the similarities between this memory and music, and the blow-up pillow under my head held the weight of the day as it turned to night.

Fireworks and nightlife woke me up at midnight and I remembered the bed was too small and too cold, holding just my one shape. Heartsick and grateful in equal measure, I went back to sleep knowing that the distillation would not be comfortable, but surrendering to God rarely is. Whatever was growing as a weed, however comfortable and normalized, would need to be pulled up, roots and all, disturbing the soil of my soul so that something new could be planted. One step at a time, I would allow Him to do that.