Soul Musings is a weekly or twice-weekly column by Smitha Murthy, the co-founder of MyndStories. These reflections are tiny snippets from her life, vulnerable and intimate, inviting you to pause and reflect with her. 

In May 2019, I set off to walk 800 kilometers along the Camino de Santiago, a historic trail from France to Spain. Like many of my decisions in life, this wasn’t planned. Earlier that year, I had read a book about two best friends who walked the Camino together: “I’ll Push You: A Journey of 500 Miles, Two Best Friends, and One Wheelchair by Patrick Gray and Justin Skeesuck.

And I knew then that I wanted to do this walk, too.

I was fascinated not just by the journey but by the story of these two friends. Skeesuck is in a wheelchair, and Patrick, his closest friend in life, pushes him for 800 km. I wondered if I would have someone do that for me in my own life, and the answer came immediately. I do. I am lucky to have a friendship that few understand but is as vital as breath. As fluid as air.

For my journey, my own best friend didn’t come along. It was a fractious period for us. I was losing my anchor in life, mired in conflict, work was hell, and loneliness a constant. At times like these, I have found that movement helps. I travel. I move from the confines of my mind as much as I can. That year, in 2019, I decided to walk the Camino. Many walk this trail for spiritual and religious reasons. I had a vague reason: to find faith.

I wasn’t sure what faith I was searching for, however. Was faith belief in a ‘higher power?’ Was faith finding yourself? Was faith a search for the meaning of life?

My quest for faith was ambiguous. I didn’t know what to search for, but I wanted to find. Picasso is believed to have said: Ich suche nicht. Ich suche finde.

I am not searching. I am finding.

When I set off in May, I left thinking I was quite fit. The Camino would prove that wrong. The lack of planning meant that my hastily chosen backpack cut into my shoulders. I had assumed that 8kg was easy to manage. Not when you have to walk 25-35km daily with it. On the first day, I was robbed of all my money and spent the day at a Spanish police station. Some journey to find faith, I cursed.

I shook an angry fist at a puzzled blue sky. I stood in my shorts, shivering as I gazed at the unruffled Pyrenees mountains. My shoulders were raw, my back ached, and the money I’d lost was a 40th birthday gift from my family. Life felt unbearably heavy. On the first day, I told myself I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t. I couldn’t walk for a month with a bad backpack, bleeding skinned shoulders, and no money.  

I will go back, I thought. Nothing is worth this.

But remember Patrick? How he pushed Justin for 800 km? I had my own Patrick. She would push me miles away in Dublin with a scratchy phone connection, but she was there, holding the handles of my imaginary wheelchair.

“You have your passport, don’t you? And you can withdraw the money. I will lend you some, too. We will make it. One step at a time.”

I was in a convent when she told me this. The walls were cold stone. The rest of the Camino walkers had already left.

“Let’s walk together,” she said.

This wasn’t just a motivational speech, though. It wasn’t just about getting me to walk again. Somewhere, as I stood there, wind echoing through closed windows, I understood that here was a moment that stood for everything we had lost over the course of our nearly 20-year friendship.

We had come together, blinded by our camaraderie, bound by a companionship that knew no separation until we did separate. Violently. Brokenly. I felt deserted by my friend, lost to marriage, and separated by distance. We had scrapped over every bone in our friendship, love morphing into anger at every imagined slight and actual hurt.

And here I was, staring at the precipice of that hurt, which had accumulated even more that year. I had been hurting that she wouldn’t be there for my 40th birthday, which was coming up in a few days.

“Shall we walk? she asked, breaking into my thoughts.

I looked down at that precipice. I heard the “we.” I heard for the first time that this is what friendship is. Not an arrangement of carefully fixed meet-ups. Not a curated Instagram feed of perfect bonhomie. But this messy walking together.

Even when we don’t. Especially when we don’t.

I took a deep breath, turned away from the curious nuns, looked into the pews of the church, and thought maybe, this is it. This is faith.

To trust another to walk with you.

Maybe it’s faith to trust even when the shards of that trust lie broken, crunched under your feet. Maybe it’s faith to walk toward fear. Maybe it’s faith to leap and hope the net will appear.

Or perhaps faith is just love masquerading as friendship.

I walked 800 km with my friend after that. And we haven’t stopped. The weight of hurt we carry on our shoulders hasn’t changed. We aren’t best of friends. But I know this.

She will push my wheelchair.

Pithy advice: Don’t rush to label people as ‘toxic.’ Disagreements and conflicts aren’t unnatural. Friendships often matter as much—if not more—than romantic relationships. And they require work, patience, trust, and commitment.

Find the people who push your wheelchair. Keep them close.

As a first-person essay, this is not vetted by our team of reviewers.