Today the Camino was dusty footpaths along cow-stenched farmland. The sun beat down on the dirt, heat rising into the soles of my feet with every step. My only companions were the line of windmills dotting the hilltops. I tried to remember the story of Don Quixote, a man who loved adventure stories so much he decided to create his own. The more I thought about him, the more similarities I found in myself.
“Quit staring out the window”, “Earth to Katie”, “Are you even paying attention?”: quotes that defined my childhood. I live a double life. One on this earth, another in my mind. You can see it in my eyes. One moment they’re in the conversation, the next in another dream. Even the methamphetamine (or as I call it, “diet meth”) they prescribed me in middle school couldn’t stop these daydreams, the plots just became much more organized and layered.
These dreams have always centered around a singular topic: adventure. Growing up I idolized characters like Percy Jackson and Indiana Jones, chosen ones sent on quests. I worshipped Youtubers getting paid to jump into sinkholes in the desert wearing Nike shoes. I romanticized TV personalities eating something you’ve never heard of in a country you’ve never heard of. I wanted to be them.
There was only one problem: I was 12 years old and broke. So instead, I daydreamed.
When I was finally old enough to get a job and start saving for my sinkhole-jumping days, I became chronically ill. Just my luck. Overnight my dream was replaced with surgeries, hospital stays, and just-as-confused doctors. The days turned to months turned to years. My inner arms bruised with ruptured IV sites. My body pale from spending days in bed away from the sun. My mind dark and my soul hopeless. I wasn’t daydreaming anymore, I was just surviving. I tried to forget about the life I had hoped for and settled for the one I could beg for.
Time passed and I began to get better. My existence started to feel more like a life than a fight. I had made it through, and was content with just surviving the rest of my years.
But I couldn’t forget. That dream was still inside me. And it begged for my attention.
My dream began to show up in different people, places, stories, and ideas. It was right in front of my face calling for me to wake up. One day, I decided to listen.
Things were never the same.
This brings me to the present: climbing grassy hills on my way to the string of windmills, wearing two-day old shorts, sweat beading down my forehead into my eyes, feeling more alive than ever before. I am on my first solo trip. I have never carried a pack before. I have never hiked more than a few miles up a stroller-friendly trail. I’ve never been alone in a foreign country. I certainly did not have enough money to pull it off. Logically, this trip should not have been possible. But somehow here I am in the middle of Spain living out my adventure dream.
I’ll let you in on a secret: dreams are inherently delusional. They exist only in your mind and soul. There is no physical evidence. No one will ever understand the importance of your dream as much as you. No one can do it for you. You must go at it alone. There will be lonely days, weeks, months. Your friends will be confused. Your family will be worried. You will fail over and over again. It will feel embarrassing at times. You’ll have to listen to your instinct, make hard decisions, and risk it all (and be ready to lose it all). But what’s the other option?
What is a life without a dream, is it one you’re willing to live?
I don’t remember all the details of Don Quixote’s story from the time we read it in school, but I remember us students laughing at him. I remember him as ridiculous. Was he? Probably. But I don’t think he cared who laughed because maybe he knew the secret: The man who dreams and fails is more alive than the one who never dared to dream.
Dreams are your soul telling you who you are, all you have to do is listen.
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