I just walked across Spain. Here's my feeble attempt to start.

I just got back from walking the Camino de Santiago.

Two and a half weeks. A group of college students, a few professors, a couple of other parents, and me — walking across Spain, mile after mile after mile.

I have so much I want to say about it that I almost said nothing at all.

That's the old me. The old me would've waited. Tried to make some epic video, some sweeping blog post that captured everything, all of it, perfectly. And then — knowing me — I never would've finished it. I would've sat on it until the feeling faded and the moment passed and you never would've gotten to be astonished alongside me.

So here's my feeble attempt to just start.

If you know anything about the Camino, you know the phrase.

Buen Camino.

You say it as you pass people on the trail. As you walk into a café. As you leave one. Strangers say it to strangers, all day long, in every language and accent you can imagine.

I don't know its exact translation. But I know what it means underneath. It means something like: I see you. And I'm rooting for you.

That was the thing that cracked me open out there. Not the scenery — though the scenery was staggering, all that beauty God packed into one stretch of country. It was the people.

I had deep, honest, soul-level conversations with almost everyone in our group. And then there were the strangers. People from all over the world — and I mean all over the world — who'd come to walk for their own reasons. I got to hear why. I got to hear what they were carrying, what they were grieving, what they were hoping for. Person after person, story after story.

The power of seeing people. And being seen.

We talked about that a lot as a group — what we wanted to carry home. And for me, that was it. That feeling. That openness. The thing that happens when you slow down enough to actually notice the human in front of you.

Here's the hard part.

It's easy to be open like that when you've got nothing to do but walk. It's a lot harder at home, where I've got a daily mission and a list and a place I need to be by a certain time.

Before the trip, our group leader, Mark, shared a line from Mary Oliver. It ran through the entire two and a half weeks like a thread:

Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

For someone like me — driven, goal-oriented, always three steps into the next thing — paying attention is the hard one. Being astonished takes a kind of stillness I'm not naturally good at. And telling about it? Well. That's the thing I've been trying to get better at for months now, ever since I realized my own story actually matters and that I should be sharing what I'm learning, even the small stuff, instead of keeping it all in my head.

So that's what this is. Me paying attention. Me being astonished. Me telling about it — before it's perfect, before I've figured out the neat ending.

What I'm praying sticks with me is the willingness to let God stop me in my tracks. To share a smile. To offer a stranger a word of encouragement. To let someone know, even for a second, that I'm rooting for them.

Those tiny gestures turn into moments people carry for the rest of their lives. I want to be the kind of person who's open to giving them.

A few other things from the trip, since I'm telling about it.

While I was gone — fully gone, trusting my team to run everything without me — we closed almost fifty thousand dollars in business.

I didn't do that. My team did.

This trip had been on the calendar for a while, and the deadline forced us to get our systems right so that work could happen and jobs could be won whether I was in the building or walking across a different continent. They pulled it off. I'm so proud of them, and honestly, it tells me something big about where this business is headed.

(Don't tell them I'm already secretly planning the next Camino. Also don't tell my wife. Kidding. Am I?)

Now for the contradiction I'm still sitting in.

I love technology. I always have.

It started when I was seven, reading computer magazines and typing the BASIC code out of the back pages line by line so I could run these ridiculous little word games on my computer. I'd lose hours to it. Then building computers at a little shop as a teenager. Then starting college thinking I'd be a computer engineer. Then the internet, YouTube, digital marketing, all of it. Technology has always been captivating and fun for me to dabble in.

But the deeper I get into it, the more I feel this pull in the other direction.

A longing not to miss real life. A nostalgia for analog. For the strange simplicity of dial-up and AOL Instant Messenger, back when life felt slower and smaller in a way I miss more than I expected to.

I don't want to miss the simple moments. I don't want my kids to miss them either — the meals, the long conversations, the in-person, no-algorithm, being-fully-yourself kind of moments. The real ones. The ones with substance.

And here's my bet: I think that's where the meaning is. I think that's where the fulfillment is. And I think — as just about everyone else doubles down on more automation, more content, less connection — I think it's also going to be the thing that sets me apart.

I'm curious what you see. What you're experiencing. What you're hoping for. Hit reply and tell me. I read every one.

I know this is a thin recap of something that felt life-changing. There's so much more I want to get into over the next few months. But I had to start somewhere, and the old me would've let "somewhere" become "never."

So — buen camino.

Wherever you're walking right now, whatever you're carrying: I see you. And I'm rooting for you.

Ryan

P.S. — My book is almost done!! The goal is September. I'll be guesting on more podcasts and stages to help get it out into the world, so if there's a show you love or someone you think I should talk to, hit reply and let me know. I want this book in as many hands as possible — it's all about storytelling, authenticity, and going all in on the one thing that's actually, unfakeably yours: your own story and perspective.