A Note from Jenn 💌

Sunday · September 13, 2026 · Santiago de Compostela

Hey you, it's me.

I made it to Santiago. 🥹🐚

How are you? I have been receiving all the letters from home, and I love each one. We started walking six days ago, and today I saw Santiago from the hillside. It was a moment. I stood there, looking over the city, hearing a priest preaching in a small church just feet away.

After all those miles, there it was. The cathedral in the distance, still far enough away that I had more walking to do, but close enough that, for the first time, I could see where all of this had been leading.

And I started to cry. I was overwhelmed with emotion.

I had God's Plan Is Better Than Mine playing. 🥹

There is a part of the song that talks about the road feeling unfamiliar, not knowing what comes next, and choosing to stop chasing answers and place your worries in God's hands.

That section hit a little differently yesterday. I have been learning to trust God, His timing, and His plan.

Standing there, looking down at Santiago, I couldn't help but think about how differently this journey turned out from the one I had planned. And y'all know I planned this thing. Twenty-three hotels, twenty-two luggage transfers, transportation, routes, rest days, every detail I could think of. Somehow, it all worked. I got us here, even though I sometimes struggled to keep track of which room was ours.

But the experience itself? I couldn't have planned that if I tried.

I walked down that hill and eventually into the square in front of the cathedral, which was packed. People were hugging, crying, taking pictures, laughing, and celebrating. I stood there, looking around at all these people who had walked into the same square, each carrying stories I knew absolutely nothing about, and all I could think was, today, I made it.

I was overwhelmed with joy.

I kept thinking about God moving in every one of those stories, even among people who may not know it yet. We had all walked the path. We had all taken the steps. For some, whatever happened out there may have hit them the second they walked into that square. For others, it may not make sense for days, weeks, or even years. But I believe that moment will stay with every one of us.

I know it will stay with me.

I arrived in Santiago feeling lighter. The grief wasn't gone. I didn't walk into that square suddenly healed of all that hurts, and I don't think that was ever what this was supposed to be.

Along the way, what I started to hear more clearly was something I've spent a lot of my life questioning: trust yourself, Jenn.

That sounds so simple until I consider how often I second-guess myself. Can I pick a good restaurant? Did I choose the right hotel? Did I plan this correctly? Meanwhile, I arranged twenty-three hotels, twenty-two luggage transfers, transportation, and an entire trip across Spain from start to finish, and everything went as planned.

Maybe I can pick dinner without launching a federal investigation into the menu. 😂

I can trust myself.

And then there's my body.

My body carried me to Santiago. My feet hurt. My knee hurt. There were days when my energy was low, and I had to work with whatever my body gave me, but it carried me here. I biked for eighteen days, then walked for six.

The hardest part to explain to someone is that I can do all of that and still have days when I can't get out of bed. It isn't because I don't want to. It isn't because I suddenly became less determined. Sometimes my body simply needs me to sit still.

This Camino didn't make those days any less real. If anything, I think it helped me understand them differently. When my body says, Jenn, we've got this, apparently we can cross Spain. 😂 And when that same body says, I need you to sit still today, I'm learning to trust her then, too.

Maybe I don't have to keep explaining that both can be true. They just are.

I also found my voice out here, and it didn't happen in a big, dramatic moment.

It was in each moment I chose to speak instead of hide. Choosing a restaurant, saying no, and letting go of the things I couldn't control.

That may sound silly after I just told you I crossed Spain by bike and on foot. 😂 But for me, those moments required a completely different kind of courage.

Mountains don't care whether I disappoint them. People do.

And for someone who has lived in fear of rejection or of not being good enough, it's a hard habit to break.

Learning to use my voice has never really been about getting louder. It has been about allowing myself to speak even when I know someone might not like what I have to say.

There's a text on my phone right now from someone close to me. I know I need to answer it. I know there are generational patterns I need to put into words, and I'm still praying for God to give me the right words. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want a fight. Honestly, I would rather avoid the whole uncomfortable conversation. I am a pro at avoidance. 😂

But silence doesn't feel right anymore. Silence keeps you hostage, leaving one person confused when the conversation is never had and another person feeling the sacrifice.

Maybe that's what I understand differently now. Having a voice doesn't mean I have to be loud or disrespectful. I can love someone and still say that something is hurting me. I can want peace and still speak up about a pattern that needs to change. I can be uncomfortable and still tell the truth. I think in midlife, learning to heal is learning to have the difficult conversations.

This trip has been practice. 😂

Now I'm sitting on my hotel bed in Santiago with the window open. The sun is shining, and I can hear the birds outside. After weeks of moving, planning, pedaling, walking, following yellow arrows, checking into and out of hotels, wondering where my luggage is, choosing restaurants, getting lost, and climbing hills I absolutely did not book on purpose, even though somehow every hotel was on one 😂, it's quiet.

And I keep thinking, I did it.

I got a different experience than the one I hoped for, but maybe it was the experience I needed.

I came to Spain expecting to bike and walk the Camino. I knew I wanted to prove to myself I could do something hard. What I didn't know was how much this road would ask me to trust myself, listen to my body, use my voice, sit with grief I couldn't fix, and let God work in places where I couldn't yet see what He was doing.

God is in this story.

I believe that.

Maybe the Camino is something you've seen on TikTok and thought looked beautiful. Maybe you've felt some strange pull toward it and don't even know why. Maybe your Camino has absolutely nothing to do with Spain.

I just believe there is purpose in the roads we can't see yet.

Standing on that hillside, I could finally see Santiago in the distance. But I couldn't see Santiago from Day 1.

It was still there.

I think about that now because there have been so many times in my life when I couldn't see where any of it was leading. I wanted the whole map. I wanted to know the ending. I wanted God to show me why.

This time, I just had to keep taking the next step.

And somewhere along the way, I found my voice.

Not loud or rude.

Just me, my voice.

That's the part that gets me the most.

I wrote a book called Silent to Spoken before I ever took that first pedal, and then I came all the way to Spain to live so much of what those words mean to me.

I found the woman who can say what she needs to say and still be kind. The woman who can trust herself to make a decision. The woman who can keep going when her body says go and sit still when it says rest. The woman who can carry grief without pretending it doesn't hurt.

I found her somewhere along the way.

And today, sitting here in Santiago, listening to the birds outside my window, I think I finally trust her.

I did it. 🥹🐚

Care from the Camino 🤎🐚

Buen Camino. 🇪🇸🐚

I love you; just stay sweet ~ Jenn

The deeper we dive, the sweeter it gets. 🤎🐚

What Road Are You On That You Can't See Yet?

Your Camino may have nothing to do with Spain. Tell me about it. Nobody else sees this.

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