Last week, I walked the Camino de Santiago (last 115km of the French route) over 4-5 days to celebrate turning 30.

I came across a girl who was collecting bits of advice from people on the Camino in a small notebook. She asked me to write something, sign and date it.

I hesitated, having long seen the folly of giving advice (it’s too context dependent, too personal). But I capitulated. I paused for a moment, and wrote the first and only thing that came to my mind.

Live in a way that makes the younger version of you proud

I smiled and handed her the book and continued on my way.

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I’ve had a mini tradition of writing a post about what I’ve learned at various ages (20, 25, 27) - but the older I get, the more the value of unlearning comes to mind.

My first point in my ‘20’ post was ‘You know nothing’ - and I don’t think truer words were ever spoken. Your younger self often holds wisdom that wouldn’t be accessible to you currently. Innocence is an un-jaded way of seeing, one that has not been hurt by the world, it’s the lens of a happy childhood (one that I will always be grateful for)

As we age, we inevitably accumulate more experiences, good, bad and all that comes in between. If we think of innocence on one end of the spectrum, then experience must be on the other - the process of ageing is crossing this.

But I want to challenge that view. I think growing older doesn’t mean the loss of innocence. One can choose to live in ways that reveal innocence once more - perhaps a richer, more mature form, one that only comes through the dance of loss and gain, pleasure and pain.

It’s as if the lens becomes blurry as we age, clouded by disappointments, social expectations, the weight of should-haves. If we don’t carefully take time to wipe off the grime and muck, we remain lost in a clouded view.

As I walk the Camino, in silence, 25-30-40km at a time, a certain heaviness drops. Perhaps the heaviness of expectation, or of tightly gripped futures or unchallenged desires.

It’s as if the lens, blurred by busyness and distraction, clears itself, revealing only the strips of golden light streaming through the trees, painting each step of the path ahead.

The silence clears. Because in the silence, you let the stories surface, and let them be fully felt.

An unlearning, as I said. It mirrors what I find in meditation retreats. A clarity beyond words.

I let myself be heartbroken. I let myself be joyous, ecstatic, lonely, sad, angry, forgiving, grateful. Whatever I feel converges onto that last emotion: gratitude.

Morbid as it sounds, I picture the end - and instantly become filled with the wonder of existence. The crunch of leaves under my feet, amidst the chirping birds and wind through the trees, create a grand orchestra playing the eternal tune - a sense of oneness perhaps. Ephemerality, really sat with, turns into awe, gratitude and ultimately peace.

I crack open, little by little, until the tiny rivulets coalesce into larger and larger shards allowing this ephemerality pierce into the centre. I think again of a line that I always revisit: “the cracks are how the light gets in.”

And so on the Camino, I unlearn. Perhaps that is what I can say about turning 30. A listicle of advice turned instead into an admonition: sit and listen to it all, and let yourself be swept away in reality. Feel it all and feel it deeply.

And of course, make your younger self proud.

There Are Cathedrals Everywhere For Those With The Eyes To See