Are you okay?

I woke up for my final day on the Camino de Santiago knowing I had about 13 miles to walk. Much like the last few days, my legs felt good. My body had adjusted well, and I was looking forward to a long day on the trail.

But I also knew it would be my last day, and I kept that in mind as I walked.

That day, I met some new people and reconnected with others I had met along the way. The walk was going well, but with two miles left, my feet suddenly started to hurt.

I blamed the miles of rocky roads we had walked. The bottoms of my feet—the soles—ached, and for those final two miles, I had to stop about every half mile to rest my feet.

Eventually, I made it to my hotel.

After showering, the WhatsApp chatter started as people began making dinner plans. A new friend and I selected a place to meet. I posted the location in three WhatsApp groups that I had been added to: Camino Peeps, Camino Friends, and Camino Crew.

These groups had all happened organically, and that night they became a gift.

Before I knew it, about 20 people had gathered at a local restaurant. We spent the next few hours on a banger of a food tour in Logroño, Spain. We were lucky to have a Spaniard in our group who gave us an amazing experience.

There was food, drinks, laughter, hugs, and eventually goodbyes.

The next morning, I had set my alarm for 8 am, but my body woke up ready to walk at 6 am. Apparently, no one had told my internal clock that my Camino was over.

I rested for a while before heading downstairs around 9 am for a breakfast buffet.

This was the nicest hotel of my trip, and the buffet was top-notch. Fresh fruit, pastries, breads, meats, and cheese—all the food I could have wanted.

But no pilgrims were dining with me. Tourists and businessmen filled the room. And somewhere between a bite of watermelon and a fresh chocolate croissant, I began to cry.

These weren't a few sentimental tears. Suddenly, there weren't enough napkins on the table to absorb what had been unleashed.

The emotion surprised me. I found myself thinking, “What is going on? What am I feeling? Why can't I stop crying?” Eventually, my heart settled on two words: gratitude and grief.

I was grateful for the experience. Grateful that I had the financial means to take this trip and grateful for a body that could physically do it. But mostly, I was grateful for the people.

I thought about Maria, the first person I spoke to on day one. We hugged that morning and said we hoped our paths would cross again. Nine days later, Maria was the Spaniard who became our food-tour guide. She was the last person I hugged on my final night.

I thought about Ann's kindness. Julia's courage to get on a plane. Holly's desire to seek clarity and peace. Lincoln's curiosity and enthusiasm. And David, who possesses the rare gift of balancing his head and his heart. The list of names could go on and on.

I thought about the day I was walking when someone called out, "Hey, Molly."

I looked ahead and saw Francisco from Chile, whom I had met a few days earlier. He sat on the ground just off the trail, one sock off, staring at a terrible blister. I had Moleskin in my backpack, and I was grateful to have something I could share to help him get back on the road.

I thought about the late afternoon when I walked into a restaurant alone, and within five seconds, Luca from Italy and his new friends called my name and waved me over to join them.

I thought about the tall, strong Aussie man who, with four miles left, told a few of us that he had run out of water. His face was both pale and bright red, and before he could say more, everyone around him was giving him bottles of water.

And I thought about all the times someone pulled mixed nuts or dried fruit from a backpack and held the bag out toward me. I said yes to their generosity every single time.

Somewhere along those 100 miles, I began to embrace an unspoken invitation on the Camino: We belong to each other.

I experienced that one final time on my last day.

With a half mile to go, I sat on a bench alongside the trail, resting my feet once again. A pilgrim was walking toward me. Instead of walking past me, he stopped. He looked at me and asked, "¿Está bien?" Are you okay?

I told him I was good. My feet just needed a rest. He nodded and continued walking. The entire interaction lasted five seconds.

But that morning, sitting alone at that beautiful breakfast buffet, I couldn't stop thinking about it. A stranger who didn't speak my language noticed me sitting on a bench and cared enough to stop.

And that's when I began to understand the combination of gratitude and grief. I wasn't grieving because I wanted to walk forever. I wasn't grieving because I wanted to move to Spain or because I didn't want to go home.

I was grieving because I had experienced a way of being with other people that I wasn't ready to leave behind. The day before, the soles of my feet had ached enough to make me stop walking. That morning, sitting alone at breakfast, it was my soul that ached.

For 100 miles, I had experienced a world where strangers invited you to their table. Where people shared what they had. Where someone else's empty water bottle became everyone's concern. Where people noticed when someone was sitting on the side of the road, and they stopped and asked, “Are you okay?”

I don't want to simply talk about how special it was to experience that kind of community–I want to help create it wherever I am.

And maybe that's the invitation for all of us, especially those of us who lead. Maybe leadership begins with noticing.

Noticing who has gotten quiet. Who is sitting alone. Who might need something we have to give. Who needs someone to stop long enough to ask, “Are you okay?”

We spend so much time talking about the kind of teams, organizations, and communities we wish existed. We talk about wanting more connection, more kindness, more belonging, more humanity. But maybe we need to ask ourselves–Are we behaving in ways that help create these things?

I don’t believe the world we want to live in is something we find, I believe it's something we will create.

My Camino may be over, but I don't want to leave that way of being in Spain. I want to live as though we belong to each other.

Because I believe we do.