the story pilgrim

sharing sacred stories on the pilgrimage through life

Stories

The Captain and The Kia

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Champions keeping playing until they get it right.

Billie Jean King

A few years ago, if somebody had told me that one day I would be standing in a motorway service station discussing the finer points of a Kia Soul with a retired BOAC captain on his way to do a zipline with his grandson, I would probably have smiled politely and backed away slowly.

Yet there I was this past weekend, somewhere up north, plugged into a charging station, wondering why owning an electric car still feels faintly experimental once you leave civilisation behind.

Around town, it has been splendid, quiet, smooth, and economical. I charge it at home overnight and glide around Brighton feeling terribly futuristic. Long-distance driving, however, is another matter entirely. Britain’s charging infrastructure still seems to operate on the principle of “best of luck, everyone.”

I had stopped at a service station to charge the car, grab a coffee, and allow Todd the opportunity to inspect every blade of grass in the Midlands. When we returned, an elderly gentleman was standing at the front of the car staring at it with the concentration of a man trying to remember whether he had once driven one.

“Is this the Series 3?” he asked.

“I’m not entirely sure,” I replied. “I just drive it and hope for the best.”

He nodded immediately.

“Then it’s the Series 3.”

Within moments, we were deep into conversation about electric cars, mysterious dashboard symbols, and the peculiar reputation of the Kia Soul — a vehicle affectionately described by many as a shoebox on wheels. There is something deeply reassuring about two grown men bonding over mutual confusion with technology.

Eventually, he asked what I did for work.

“I’m cabin crew for British Airways.”

His face shifted slightly.

“I flew for BOAC,” he said. “Retired in 1989.”

And just like that, the conversation moved somewhere else entirely.

We spoke about flying, about passengers, about the rhythm of airports and time zones and the strange way aviation people always seem to recognise one another, even decades apart. He told me that after retirement, he joined the police force. Then I asked what had brought him onto the road that weekend.

He explained that he and his wife had shared the same birthday. May 23rd. She passed away last year.

There was a pause then, not awkward, just human.

He told me he had always wanted to do a zipline. She had never wanted to. So now, for the first time, he was travelling with his son and grandson to finally do one.

I remember feeling oddly moved by that. Not because it was dramatic, quite the opposite. It was small, understated, ordinary. The sort of conversation that disappears every day because somebody decides not to ask one extra question.

Before we left, I shook his hand and called him “Captain.” He smiled in a way that suggested he had not heard that word directed at him in quite some time.

Then we carried on with our separate journeys.

That brief encounter stayed with me for the rest of the drive north. It happened because of a car, or curiosity, or timing, or perhaps simply because two people were willing to remain open to interruption.

More and more, I think life speaks quietly, not through grand revelations or cinematic moments, but through these fleeting collisions with strangers who remind us that everybody is carrying a story, a grief, a hope, or a zipline they have not yet taken.

And perhaps that is what I really mean whenever I say:

keep listening.

The Story We Tell Ourselves

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“We are the stories we tell ourselves.”

Joan Didion

When I was twelve, my Grampsie, my favourite relative next to my mum, passed away. He was only 63. I was devastated. And somehow, in my grief and childlike logic, I decided I too would die at 63.

That number lodged itself in my mind, uninvited but powerful. It wasn’t a fear. It was a quiet, steady belief. A script I didn’t remember writing, but followed all the same.

Years later, I shared this with a friend. They said something I’ve never forgotten:
“Well then you will. If you think it, it will happen. Stop thinking that way.”

So, I did.

Not overnight, but steadily. I started changing the script. Because I realised what my friend had seen instantly, that the stories we carry shape the lives we live.

The Power of Narrative

Lately, I’ve been walking a lot with Todd, our rescued Shiba Inu. We’ve got a handful of well-worn routes near the house, fields, footpaths, muddy bridleways.

Recently, on a whim, we walked one of our regular paths in reverse. Same path. Same gates and trees. But everything looked different.

And it hit me: even the familiar becomes unfamiliar when we change our point of view.

It made me think about other “routes” I walk on repeat, the stories I keep telling myself about my health, my relationships, my career.

Some of those stories are kind. Some… not so much.

Why the Negative Sticks

Here’s the thing I’ve noticed (and I bet you’ve felt it too): the bad stuff tends to hang on longer. The missteps. The rejections. The wrong turns.

We replay them in full colour. But the wins? The breakthroughs? The good moments? They often get left behind, like postcards you meant to send but never did.

And yet, I believe this more firmly the older I get:
We are what we think we are.

Not in a motivational-poster sense. But in a deep, lived truth. The beliefs we hold, about our worth, our potential, our future, they steer everything.

So, What Now?

If you’ve been telling yourself a story for a long time, maybe now is the moment to ask: Is it true? Is it helpful? Could I walk this differently?

Whether it’s the idea that you’re not where you “should” be, or that good things don’t last, or that love has passed you by, what would it look like to question that?

Not with a bulldozer. But with a slow, steady step in the other direction.

Because just like that path behind my house, the view changes when you walk it backwards.

You don’t need a new life.
You might just need a new story.

The Dog Who Didn’t Know What a Television Was

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When we brought Todd home, we didn’t adopt a dog. We adopted a mystery.

A fluffy, fox-like riddle with four legs, deep brown eyes, and absolutely no idea what a television was.

He barked at the screen as if Whoopi Goldberg had just strolled into the lounge uninvited. He didn’t know what stairs were, or why buses moved without barking. He didn’t know what to do with a bone. He’d never seen a sofa, a car, or a postman.

Todd is a Japanese Shiba Inu, rescued from a puppy farm in Slovakia. He spent his first year of life in a kennel at the Dogs Trust after being intercepted at the border. His two sisters were adopted quickly. Todd wasn’t.

He was nervous, confused. Shut down.

And now, a month into living with us, he has the run of our downstairs, three meals a day, and a growing appetite for cuddles. He’s discovered chew toys, cosy corners, and the joy of sleeping on his side in the sun.

It’s been both delightful and, at times, maddening.

Welcome to the Long Game

Bringing Todd home has been like inviting a wild, beautiful question into our lives. We thought we were getting a pet. What we got was a pilgrimage.

Every day with Todd is a walk into the unknown. Not just physically—although the outside world is still a sensory avalanche for him—but emotionally. He is teaching us a new language, one bark and tail flick at a time.

He doesn’t like visitors. He panics at vehicles. He’s unpredictable with other dogs. We still can’t get a harness on him. The car is a no-go zone.

Our world has shrunk—and expanded.

We now think twice about every decision. Can we go out? For how long? What if someone comes to the house? When can we travel again? What is a holiday now?

And yet, every time he nudges his head under our hands for a stroke, every time he trots over for his food, or sits beside us quietly in the evening, we see it: trust, slowly growing.

The Parallel Pilgrimage

There’s something about Todd’s journey that mirrors what the story pilgrim has always been about.

The long walk. The slow reveal. The layered unfolding of something sacred and strange.

Todd isn’t a quick fix. He’s a lesson in patience. In presence. In the kind of connection that only comes when you slow all the way down.

He reminds me that not every path is linear. Some are awkward, circular, filled with barking and backtracking. Some involve cleaning up accidents and cancelling plans.

But these paths? They’re real. They’re messy. And they’re meaningful.

What Todd Taught Me (So Far)

  1. Not all fear looks like fear. Sometimes it looks like barking at the TV.
  2. Progress is invisible until it’s not. One day, you realise he didn’t flinch when you moved your foot. That he asked to go outside. That he wagged his tail when you walked into the room.
  3. Freedom can be frightening. Imagine spending your first year behind a gate. Then being handed a house. A sofa. A world.
  4. Love is not a cure, but it is a start.
  5. Control is a fantasy. Especially when you own a Shiba Inu.

The Journey Ahead

We’ve come a long way. But we’re not there yet. Maybe we never will be.

Maybe the whole point is not to get there, but to walk with each other anyway—to keep showing up, keep learning the strange dance of trust, and keep choosing love over convenience.

Todd is not the easiest addition to our lives. But then, none of the best things have ever come easy.

And as with all pilgrimages, we didn’t choose the shape of the path. But we’re walking it. Together.

One bark, one breakthrough, one beautiful mess at a time.

What Story Are You Carrying Into the Holiday Season This Year?

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The holiday season often invites us to pause and reflect on where we are and where we’ve been. It’s a time of connection, gratitude, and the gentle pull of nostalgia. As I settle more into life back here in England, this question resonates deeply with me.

I recently heard a statistic – one I can’t confirm but that lingers in my mind nonetheless: 80% of people will die within 50 miles of where they are born. It’s not the idea of death that strikes me, but rather the magnetism of home. What is it that draws us back as we age? Is it the safety of the familiar, or something deeper – an unspoken need to return to the roots of our narrative, as though the place where our story began might hold the key to its meaning?

This season, I find myself reflecting on both absence and presence. On those who are no longer with me and those who are here, right now. Life feels fragile, as though it is built on layers of memory, held together by the stories we tell ourselves and each other. I think about the history I share with those close to me – the moments that have become stories – and the ones still waiting to be created. This season, I want to live in the latter.

But reflection is a double-edged sword, isn’t it? On the one hand, it brings clarity. On the other, it can anchor us too heavily in the past. Am I spending too much time reflecting, I wonder? Am I mistaking the act of looking back for progress? What is the balance, and what am I balancing it with?

Philosophers have long grappled with the tension between reflection and action. Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic emperor, reminds us that “it is not death that a man should fear, but never beginning to live.” Reflection should guide us, not paralyze us. Søren Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism, once said, “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” The challenge, perhaps, is to look back with wisdom but walk forward with intention.

As someone prone to overthinking, this interplay between past and future is an ever-present tension. Overthinking can be a trap, but it’s also what gives my creativity its depth and my stories their layers. The trick, I’m learning, is to let reflection inform action, not replace it.

This holiday season, I’m asking myself: What story am I carrying into the coming year? I hope it’s one of presence, one that embraces the familiar while staying open to the unknown. A story of living fully and meaningfully with the people I cherish.

So, I’ll leave you with the same question: What story are you carrying into the holiday season this year?

Take a moment to reflect—just enough. And then, go live it.

The Power of Connection: Nature, Self, and Others

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Since I walked the Camino de Santiago back in 2017, I’ve been thinking deeply about connection.

That pilgrimage was the first time I truly questioned my connection to a God I wasn’t sure was there. I had no evidence, no grand epiphany—just a feeling, something I couldn’t fully explain. Even now, I’m still confused about what that something is.

But what I learned during those 500 miles is that connection takes many forms. It’s not always about divine clarity or absolute answers. Sometimes, it’s as simple—and as profound—as connecting with nature, with oneself, and with others.

Connecting with Nature

Walking the Camino, I had no choice but to engage with the natural world. The rhythm of my footsteps matched the sway of the trees. The sunrise marked the start of my day, and the cooling dusk signalled rest. It was the first time in years I felt completely present.

Nature reminds us that we’re part of something bigger. It doesn’t judge or demand. It just is. That simplicity was grounding for me, and it’s something I still turn to when life feels overwhelming.

If you’re feeling disconnected, step outside. Not just to tick the box of “being in nature,” but to be in it. Sit under a tree, let the breeze wrap around you, or feel the ground beneath your feet. Nature has a way of offering connection without saying a word.

Connecting with Yourself

Walking alone for hours each day gave me no choice but to sit with my own thoughts. That was both freeing and unsettling. What did I believe? Who was I becoming? Was I running toward something, or away from it?

That inner dialogue hasn’t stopped since the Camino. I still question myself, still wonder what I’m supposed to make of this life. But I’ve realized that connection with yourself doesn’t mean having all the answers—it means being willing to ask the questions.

Start small. Find five minutes of silence in your day, whether it’s in the morning, before bed, or on a lunch break. No distractions, no noise—just you. You might be surprised at what surfaces.

Connecting with Others

The Camino isn’t just about walking; it’s about the people you meet along the way. Strangers became friends, and fleeting conversations turned into moments of shared humanity. Those connections reminded me how deeply we all crave to be seen and heard.

Back in my daily life, I try to carry that lesson with me. Real connection with others doesn’t require grand gestures—just attention. A question asked with genuine curiosity. A moment of vulnerability. A willingness to truly listen.

Next time you’re with someone, take a moment to tune in fully. Put the phone away. Look them in the eye. Ask how they really are. It might seem small, but those are the moments that stick.

The Mystery of Connection

I still don’t know what I felt on the Camino. Was it a divine presence? The energy of the earth? Or just my own mind searching for meaning? Maybe it’s all of those things. Maybe it’s none.

What I do know is that connection matters. To nature, to yourself, to others. These threads are what ground us, even when the world feels uncertain.

So, how will you connect today? Will you step outside and breathe it in? Will you sit quietly and listen to your thoughts? Or will you reach out to someone who might need to be reminded they’re not alone?

Let me know—I’d love to hear your story.

Buen camino,
Darren

When the World Feels Silent

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There you are, sitting with a cup of something warm in your hands, mulling over your career and the choices you’ve made. You’ve been on this path for as long as you can remember, pouring your heart into your craft. But it’s been a while now—too long since you’ve landed a meaningful project. You know what you want, but it seems further away than ever.

You hear it all the time: “The industry is slow for everyone.” “Things are tough all around.” Yet, there it is—another new project announced, another new name in the spotlight. You start to wonder, If things are slow, why is it only affecting me?

You devour books, listen to podcasts, and watch videos from the so-called “successful” ones, each preaching a gospel of risk and reward. “Take a chance,” they say. “Push the boundaries,” they insist. You’ve tried that. You’ve stepped outside the box, doing what felt right in your gut, only to be met with scepticism or outright criticism. Somehow, the risks you’ve taken seem to do more damage to your spirit than good.

It’s a maddening cycle. You know you have to stand out, but every time you try, you feel like you’re further from the mark. You’re left wondering, Am I doing something wrong? You’ve watched others take similar risks and be celebrated for them. And yet, when it’s your turn, the acknowledgment never comes.

So now you’re here, wrestling with the fear that nothing will change, that your bank account will stay as empty as the space where opportunities should be. And the doubt seeps in, whispering that maybe you’re the one exception to all those motivational quotes.

But what if you’re not?

Maybe, just maybe, the silence is not a sign that you’ve gone astray but a part of the process. It doesn’t make the uncertainty any easier, but perhaps it’s worth considering that this is what growth feels like. Not always exciting, not always celebrated, and certainly not always understood. But maybe that’s okay.

Because, deep down, you know you’re not going to give up. You’ll take another risk, and then another. You’ll keep pushing because that’s who you are, even when it seems like the world is too quiet. Maybe the quiet is just giving you space to find your voice, once again.

So, here’s to those who keep going when the applause fades, when the inbox is empty, and when the world feels silent. You’re not alone.