“I know a new freedom”

16.07 miles from Vila do Conde to Esposende

This second promise from CoDA was a good meditation as miles flew by. Cobblestones, wooden boardwalks, and farm paths carried me from the sea, to town, back to the sea, along farmland, churches, forests, and then back to the sea. At Mile 7, I had my first cry of the Camino, adding my salt to the sea air on the Portuguese coast.

We sat at a seaside cafe, watching the first group of fellow Caminos pass us on their journey. This soon since the COVID-19 vaccine reached Europe, there weren’t too many pilgrims out, and it felt like we were part of a small club, watching them pass with their seashell patches, face masks, walking sticks, and hushed conversation. I buttered my bread and checked in with my body – the sights, sounds, smells, and sensations. I registered that we were near a playground, the beginning of my undoing. So much feeling happens when you stop to pause, allowing your environment to soak into consciousness.

The sounds of laughter from playing children, the cooing from the mother as she attended to her stroller companion, the freedom they all felt on that afternoon sandy shore – it was as if a steel chain tightened around my waist and kept me grounded to my stool. My husband was far. My kids were far. The coastal cliffs reminded me of Brookings, Oregon, where we loved to escape the heat and hide away for family trips. I ached in my bones to see my kids play in the tide pools as my husband wrapped me up on the shore. It was the first (of many) hard cries on my pilgrimage.

Traveling with a friend who has no children is knowing that you exist with dual citizenship in reality – I was a woman and then I became a Mother. My companion, D, and I had been friends since my first job at the university just after my oldest son was born. 10 years of friendship, in which she watched me sacrifice my time, body, attention, and dreams to build a family. One son. Then two. Then three. Then divorce. Now remarried.

I would “visit” the country of the non-mothers every Wednesday. During this time, she and I would share wine in the backyard and talk about everything that made me “me” other than my kids: things that she and I had in common about life views, religion, politics, recovery, and laughing at all the ways God has covered us in tenderness throughout it all. She was a devoted Auntie and was always kind to any child that crossed her path, but she didn’t know truly the existence of my foreign devotion – the splitting of yourself to create lives independent of your own.

So, as I sat in my chair, gentle sobs shaking my back and snot slowly falling into my napkin, she didn’t know what to say. I heard her make a half-hearted attempt at humor, likely hoping that my shift in mood wouldn’t ruin our whole day of walking. I felt the pressure of that – the reality that my mood was shifting her day. My codependency kicked in, and I felt anger at us both. Her, for making her discomfort known, and myself for allowing myself to care.

Through broken breaths, I tried to explain what it felt like in my body to be so far away from the rest of my soul. What it felt like to try and rebuild personal freedom while tiptoeing around the guilt I was washed in for leaving them behind.

And that’s what it was: guilt. I had watched my own mother sacrifice any and all dreams – if she ever had any – of being a woman apart from her family. I had been groomed to see this kind of sacrifice as an honor, a duty, an inevitable role in life. But being my own person, holding on with white knuckles in the tornado of social pressure & conditioning, was something I was fierce to protect. I didn’t want the guilt. I wanted the freedom. The freedom to do both, be both, to exist fully as mother and woman. The “before” and “after” of Shellie take up so much space in my heart but they rarely have peace with one another. The versions of me that all sit at the same table and watch the future unfold, now inviting new companions along the way when/if she sprouts.

I settled the bill, recalibrated my breath, and kept marching forward. Pounding with each step my scar tissue into the cobblestone. I knew that the version of me that would emerge after this Camino would be the best version to love my husband and children. She was worth this discomfort. She deserved a seat at the table.

At mile 15, my body gave in and could not step any further. So we had more food in Faó before the final crawl. It was a tough day, but I did find the CoDA promise in the end. My version of a new freedom:

• Freedom from “what ifs”
• Freddom from worry
• Freedom to roam empty streets on a Sunday morning
• Freedom to ask for what I need from my body
• Freddom to accept a new challenge
• Freedom to dig deep and admit my vulnerabilities
• Freedom to cry when I needed to, without shame or hedging

Even as I navigated the rest of the day traveling with D, I faced a fear of judgment or upsetting her. With great difficulty, I found a new freedom in our friendship and dared to be accepted and loved as I am. It is a gift I can finally give myself, knowing that some may walk away rather than love me. I can give myself the unconditional acceptance and love I need, rather than looking for it primarily from others. By getting better and better at this, I would strip fear out of my relationships, stop controlling how I am seen and treated, and just accept what is. This Camino is a practical application for this aim.

In recovery, I am slowly unbecoming the version of myself that no longer serves my highest good and my true self. People-pleasing and self-abandoning for others’ comfort were dissolving as I focused on my promises and trusting myself.