It's Just a Blister

Before leaving for France and Spain to walk 100 miles of the Camino de Santiago, I spent months preparing. I went on long walks, watched countless videos, joined Camino Facebook groups, and went to REI to buy my supplies.

While at REI, I felt like I'd won the lottery. The salesman helping me had walked the exact same Camino route I planned to walk. There I was, face-to-face with some real-life wisdom.

We talked about ponchos versus rain jackets, walking poles, socks, and eventually blisters.

I confidently explained that I wasn't prone to blisters. He handed me two packs of Moleskin and said, "If you don't need this, someone else will."

Three days into my Camino, I learned that I do, in fact, get blisters.

That morning, while putting on my socks, I felt a rough spot on one of my littlest toes. It wasn't painful yet, but I knew what it could become. I pulled out the Moleskin, covered the spot, and headed out for the day.

That evening, at dinner with some new friends, we talked about how crazy it is that something so small–a blister–could be so problematic.

You can have the right gear, the right attitude, and the physical ability to walk hundreds of miles. But if you ignore what's happening inside your shoes, you will quickly learn that a blister can take you out.

Blisters don't appear out of nowhere. They start with friction. But too often, we ignore the irritation and think we can power through.

We don’t stop because we have miles to cover. People are waiting. We’ve made plans. Stopping to deal with something so small feels unnecessary. So, we keep going, and what started as a minor annoyance becomes a big problem.

A few days later, I saw a new friend sitting beside the trail with a massive blister on his big toe. I’ll save you the details, but it was bad! In that moment, I was grateful the REI salesman had insisted I buy two packs of Moleskin. I had plenty to share.

I don't know how far my friend would have made it without stopping. Maybe he would have made it to his next hotel, or maybe the blister would have ended his Camino.

I've thought a lot about blisters since returning home. Not just the ones on our feet, but the ones we develop in our lives, relationships, and workplaces. The expectations that slowly wear us down. The conversations we avoid. The processes that make every day harder than it needs to be.

We tell ourselves it's not a big deal. We can handle it. We just need to push through. But the friction doesn't stop just because we've decided to ignore it.

So often we celebrate resilience in leadership. We encourage people to persevere, overcome obstacles, and keep moving toward the goal. But I wonder how often we ask people to become more resilient when what we really need to do is address what's causing the friction.

Maybe people don’t just need to develop tougher skin; maybe something needs to change.

How often do we recognize something is wearing us down but tell ourselves we don't have time to address it? Or notice someone on our team is struggling but assume they're okay because they're still showing up and getting the work done?

We see people moving forward and mistake their movement for health.

Human-centered leadership invites us to look beyond the people who work alongside us. Sometimes the friction our work creates is experienced by people who don't work for us at all.

A decision that makes life easier inside an organization might make life harder for the people it serves. A company might celebrate its growth while the surrounding community experiences the consequences. From where we're standing, everything looks fine, but that doesn't mean everyone is okay.

I don't believe we can call our leadership healthy simply because we've reached our final destination. We have to pay attention to what the journey costs us, the people doing the work, and the people impacted by the work.

And sometimes, like my friend on the trail, we have to stop to address something we've tolerated for too long. Stop to listen when someone tells us something isn't working. Stop to consider whether the path we've chosen is causing harm.

That REI salesman didn't know me or the people I would meet along the Camino. But he knew enough about the journey to insist that I have something that might help others.

I want to carry that into my leadership.

I want to be someone who notices the small things before they become big things. Someone willing to stop, even when there's still a long way to go.

We spend so much time preparing people for the mountains ahead. Maybe we need to spend a little more time paying attention to what's happening inside their shoes.

Because sometimes the thing that ends the journey isn't the mountain; it's the blister we've ignored for miles.

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