Walking has become the thread that weaves my family together, especially in the decade since my sons flew the nest. It’s a bittersweet truth: as parents, we spend years holding tight, only to realize the real challenge is learning to let go gracefully. And that’s exactly what walking has taught me—how to step back, listen, and walk beside them as equals.
During our trek on the Camino de Santiago, my youngest son dropped a piece of advice that still resonates: ‘Don’t let them push you around. You don’t have to get up early if you don’t want to.’ His brother, lounging on his bunk, quipped, ‘I didn’t know that was an option.’ This playful defiance? It’s the soundtrack of our family now. The old parent-child hierarchy has softened, replaced by four adults navigating the day—and each other—with equal say.
But here’s where it gets controversial: Was our Camino journey a celebration of freedom, or a subtle reminder of the control I was losing? A decade ago, when we embarked on that 30-day walk, my husband and I knew it marked an ending. One son had just finished school, the other his degree. Their futures lay in different cities, countries, lives. The Camino was our borrowed time—a pause before their real lives began. Yet, it felt like a rehearsal for a new kind of parenthood, one where I had to surrender the reins.
Walking has always been our family’s language. From carrying them in backpacks as babies to coaxing them up trails with snacks and stories, hiking was our culture. They tolerated it, though not without rebellion. One son swore he’d never climb another mountain after leaving home—a promise he broke by hiking coast-to-coast across Britain. And this is the part most people miss: Family bonds aren’t built on grand gestures but on shared struggles, like getting lost in New Zealand, surviving a flooded tent in Tasmania, or the never-ending debate over who stole the lollies years ago.
By the time of the Camino, walking together felt familiar, but the dynamics had shifted. We were no longer parents and children—just four people with blistered feet and differing lunch preferences. Decisions were democratic, and, in my humble opinion, often questionable. When I suggested taking a bus to save time, I was outvoted. Looking back, it was a lesson in letting go, in trusting them to lead.
Parenting adult children is uncharted territory. We celebrate births and mourn deaths publicly. Weddings are grand affairs. But when grown children leave home, it’s quiet. One day, their bedrooms are empty, and the daily rhythms of family life fade. The Camino became the ritual I didn’t know I needed—a long, unplanned goodbye. I returned home with a bittersweet clarity: my role as their primary caregiver was over. It was time to redefine what it meant to be their parent.
In the years since, we’ve kept walking. At least twice a year, we choose a trail—the Larapinta, the Three Capes, the K’gari Great Walk—and step onto it as equals. Each journey is unique, shaped by whoever joins, but the purpose remains the same. These walks offer something rare in our distracted world: uninterrupted time. Phones lose signal, conversations unfold slowly, and we rediscover who we’ve become.
Walking together lets us enter each other’s lives without prying. I don’t need to ask about work or relationships; I see them tackle a steep climb, pause to watch the sunset, or share a quiet laugh. They see me struggle, adapt, and keep going. And yes, they now carry more weight than I do—both literally and metaphorically.
Here’s the bold question I’ll leave you with: Is it easier to let go when you’re moving forward together, or does walking side by side just highlight how far apart you’ve grown? These journeys are fleeting, a reminder that our time together is finite. But instead of resisting that truth, we embrace it. We part ways knowing we’ve walked a long road together, and while we may walk apart most of the time, a few times a year, we shoulder our packs, step onto a trail, and remember how to move forward—together.
