Airport musings after a shortened Camino

The Comedy of Errors

Picture this: a peaceful pilgrim, fresh from three nights in Santiago de Compostela, checking out of their hostel before 10 AM with the serene confidence of someone who has just walked the Camino. That was me this morning—strolling through Santiago’s ancient streets one last time, breathing in the cathedral’s timeless presence, choosing to skip the four-hour queue I’d already conquered yesterday. I was zen. I was one with the Way. I was… completely oblivious to the travel chaos about to unfold.

Enter Santiago airport, stage left, with my confident bag drop-off swagger. Exit my confidence, pursued by the horrifying realization that I was landing at a different London airport than the one I’d be departing from. Cue the dropped jaw, the sinking heart, and that peculiar sensation of stress mixed with an odd undercurrent of peace—like being in an anxiety smoothie blended with tranquility.

This was mistake number two in only two weeks. What was happening to me? The reformed perfectionist in me was having a field day of self-disappointment while frantically checking flight prices that made my wallet weep. Taxi it would have to be—expensive, yes, but cheaper than bankruptcy via last-minute flights.

Then began the airport Olympics: early boarding (20 minutes ahead of schedule, thank you very much), sprinting through passport control while muttering prayers like a medieval monk on espresso, reclaiming luggage, and discovering ar the new airport that I was queuing in the wrong line. Again. Because why break the streak now?

The pièce de résistance? My perfectly normal luggage got flagged for the oversized section—not because it was oversized, but because that’s where the soft fabrics go now. The security x-ray became an inquisition worthy of the Spanish Inquisition itself, with questions about every single item in my bag. I’m fairly certain they now know more about my packing habits than my own mother.

The Undercurrent of Grace

But here’s the thing that stops me in my tracks as I sit here, waiting for my gate to appear:

Beneath all that stress, beneath the mistakes and the rushing and the what-ifs, there was this extraordinary sense of being held. Like someone had injected liquid trust directly into my veins. I found myself genuinely open to any outcome—if I made my connection, wonderful; if I didn’t, there would be something in that too.

When that boarding announcement came 20 minutes early, I could almost hear it: “I’m taking care of it. I’m taking care of you. Trust me. Everything is going to be alright.”

This is what I’ve been wrestling with these past weeks—this dance between trust and responsibility, between divine providence and human prudence. In 2019, I walked the Camino with the reckless faith of someone who had nothing to lose, counting entirely on God’s provision. I was 100% reliant, fearless in my trust.

Now, with sacramental marriage on the horizon and life becoming beautifully complicated with shared responsibilities, I find myself caught between two worlds. Should I plan more carefully? Be more “responsible”? Is my old way of complete reliance somehow naive now that I’m not walking alone through life?

When I look back at the peaks of 2019—those moments of absolute trust, of counting entirely on divine providence—I ache with missing that version of myself. That person who walked forward with such confidence in being held, such certainty that every step was guided.

The Poetry of Being Held

Today, in the midst of travel chaos and my own mistakes, that trust returned like an old friend. Not despite the stress, but somehow woven through it, transformed by it. Perhaps this is what spiritual maturity looks like—not the absence of anxiety, but the presence of peace beneath it. Not the elimination of mistakes, but the grace that catches us when we fall.

Maybe the question isn’t whether to trust God or take responsibility, but how to trust God within responsibility. How to plan with wisdom while remaining open to providence. How to hold both the practical and the sacred, the human and the divine.

As I wait here for my gate, luggage finally sorted, connections (hopefully) secured, I’m learning that being held doesn’t mean nothing goes wrong. It means that when everything goes sideways, there’s still this unshakeable sense that you’re exactly where you need to be, learning exactly what you need to learn.

The Camino strips you down to essentials, and perhaps that’s what today has done too—stripped away my illusion of control to reveal something far more precious: the bedrock knowledge that I am held, carried, loved, even when I’m standing in the wrong queue at the wrong airport, making all the wrong moves.

Trust me, echoes through the terminal announcements and the boarding calls. Everything is going to be alright.

And for the first time in weeks, I believe it completely.

Written from somewhere between Santiago and home, carried by grace and questionable airport chicken.