How the door opened
For most of my life I was a reader, not a writer. I collected other people's words and kept my own carefully inside. It felt safe. It also felt — though I couldn't name it then — a little like being asleep.
Then I walked the Camino. Somewhere between the blisters and the silence, the wall I'd built came down — not dramatically, just quietly, the way a held breath finally lets go. I started noticing things: light on a wall, a stranger's kindness, the particular ache of a good day ending.
I began writing them down — badly at first, then less badly. I started teaching what the road taught me: how to learn, how to speak, how to pay attention. None of it was a plan. It was just the current of life, carrying me somewhere I'd never have chosen and now can't imagine leaving.
If any of this resonates, you already know which door I mean.