In the years since my sons left home, walking has become our shared bond. It all started with a conversation on the Camino de Santiago, where my youngest son challenged the traditional roles within our family. He suggested a more flexible approach to our daily routine, emphasizing that we didn't have to wake up early if we didn't want to. His brother, from his bunk, responded with a playful nod, indicating that this new dynamic was becoming the norm. This shift in dynamics was a result of the changing roles within our family as we navigated adulthood. When we embarked on the Camino a decade ago, it was a significant milestone for both my husband and me. Our sons were transitioning into adulthood, one having just finished school and the other completing his degree. Their lives were about to take them to different cities, countries, and paths, and we were determined to make the most of the limited time we had together. Walking has always been a central part of our family's history. We've walked with our sons since they were babies, carrying them in backpacks, and as they grew, we encouraged them to take on the weight of their own packs. Summer holidays were synonymous with hiking, and winter brought ski touring. This active lifestyle was our family's culture, and while they mostly embraced it, there were moments of resistance. One son vowed never to climb a mountain again after leaving home, only to later break that promise by hiking coast to coast across Britain independently. Our family's adventures have been filled with memorable moments, from getting lost in New Zealand to the flooded tent in Tasmania, and the years-old drama of stolen lollies, which still sparks friendly rivalry between the brothers. By the time of the Camino, walking together was a familiar practice, but the emotional landscape had shifted. We were no longer parents and children; we were four individuals with sore feet and differing preferences. The decision-making process became more democratic, and, in my biased opinion, sometimes flawed. As we realized that our 30-day walk might not be enough, I suggested catching the bus, but I was promptly outvoted. Looking back, this decision was a symbolic transition into a new phase of parenting. It was a time when I began to let go of my authority. Parenting adult children is a complex journey, and the Camino became a ritual that I didn't know I needed. It was a long, unplanned goodbye, marking the end of an era in my parenting role. When I returned home, I had a bittersweet realization. The job of raising children was largely complete, and it was time to embrace a new challenge. The walk had become a blueprint for our family's future, teaching us how to support each other even as we move apart. Since then, we've continued to walk together, at least twice a year, choosing different trails and embracing the shared experience. We hiked the Larapinta Trail, the Three Capes Track, and the K'gari Great Walk, each journey offering a unique perspective shaped by the individuals present. These walks provide us with uninterrupted, shared moments in a world where attention is often fragmented. Phones lose signal, conversations unfold slowly, and we learn about each other's lives. Walking together allows us to enter each other's lives without intrusion. I don't need to ask about work or relationships; instead, I witness them navigating challenges and appreciating the beauty of nature. They see me struggle, adapt, and persist, and they now carry more weight than I do. These journeys are a reminder of the impermanence of time and the importance of cherishing every moment. As we disperse to different cities and countries, the walks become a way to part ways with love and understanding. We are four individuals who have walked a long way together, and now we mostly walk apart, but a few times a year, we reunite, shoulder our packs, and remember how to move forward in harmony.
