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 preparing our children to leave, but when they do, we’re often left grappling with the silence of empty rooms and the sudden absence of daily routines. Yet, for us, walking has turned that void into a bridge—one that connects us in ways I never anticipated.
During our trek on the Camino de Santiago, my youngest son offered a piece of advice that felt both rebellious and profound: ‘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, replied with a mix of surprise and humor: ‘I didn’t know that was an option.’ This playful defiance captures the essence of our family dynamic now—four adults navigating life together, the old parent-child hierarchy softened into something more collaborative.
A decade ago, when we embarked on the Camino, my husband and I knew this 30-day walk was more than just a hike. It was a symbolic end to one chapter of our lives. Our sons were on the brink of adulthood, their futures stretching across different cities and countries. This journey felt like borrowed time—a fleeting pause before their independent lives took hold. But it was also a continuation of a tradition we’d built as a family: walking. From carrying them in backpacks as babies to coaxing them up trails with snacks and stories, hiking had always been our family’s culture. They tolerated it, sometimes begrudgingly, though one son once swore he’d never climb another mountain after leaving home—a promise he later broke with a solo hike across Britain.
And this is the part most people miss: Family bonds are often forged in the mundane and the extraordinary, but for us, they’ve been shaped by the rhythm of footsteps. Our shared myths—getting lost in New Zealand, a flooded tent in Tasmania, the never-ending debate over who stole the lollies—were all born on the trail. By the time we tackled the Camino, walking was familiar, but the emotional terrain had shifted. We were no longer parents and children; we were four travelers with blistered feet and differing opinions on where to eat. Decisions were made democratically, and while I may have disagreed with some (like the unanimous vote against my suggestion to take a bus), it was a lesson in letting go of control—a rehearsal for a new kind of parenthood.
Parenting adult children is uncharted territory. We celebrate births and mourn deaths publicly, and weddings are marked with fanfare. But the departure of grown children often happens quietly. One day, their bedrooms are empty, and the daily rhythms of family life fade. The Camino became a ritual I didn’t know I needed—a long, unspoken goodbye. I returned home with a bittersweet clarity: my role as a parent had shifted. The job of raising children was largely done, and it was time to embrace a new one. What I didn’t realize then was that this walk would become our blueprint for staying connected.
In the years since, we’ve kept walking—at least twice a year, we choose a trail and step onto it as equals. We’ve hiked the Larapinta Trail with one son, the Three Capes Track with the other, and the K’gari Great Walk with both. Each journey is unique, shaped by whoever joins, but the purpose remains the same: to carve out uninterrupted time in a world of constant distraction. Phones lose signal, conversations unfold slowly, and we rediscover who we’ve become. Walking allows us to enter each other’s lives without intrusion. I don’t need to ask about their work or relationships; instead, I watch them navigate a steep climb or pause to admire the changing light. They see me struggle, adapt, and persist—and yes, they now carry more weight than I do.
But here’s where it gets controversial: These walks are both a celebration of our bond and a reminder of its impermanence. At the end of each trail, we part ways, returning to our separate lives in different cities and countries. Instead of resisting this reality, the walks embrace it, giving us a way to part well. We’re four people who’ve walked a long way together but now mostly walk apart. Yet, a few times a year, we shoulder our packs, step onto a trail, and remember how to move forward in the same direction.
So, here’s a question for you: How do you navigate the shift from parenting children to connecting with adults? Do you think shared rituals like ours are essential, or is there another way? Let’s discuss in the comments—I’d love to hear your thoughts.
