Title: Overlooked Gifts: Lessons in Gratitude From a Summer Pilgrimage on the Camino

Isabela McNeilly-Anta (SFS’27) is a Georgetown Storyteller and junior in the School of Foreign Service studying international political economy with a certificate in international business diplomacy and a minor in French. She is from New Jersey and is spending the fall semester abroad at SciencesPo Paris.

This summer, I embarked on a pilgrimage inspired by St. James the Apostle’s 9th-century mission to spread Christianity. Every year, more than 400,000 modern pilgrims trace one of its many routes — mine wound from St. Jean Pied-de-Port in France across northern Spain to the resting place of St. James’ tomb.

Growing up Spanish-American, I saw the Camino as an adventure people undertook in moments of change. In Spain, it’s a rite of passage — many high schoolers choose it over luxurious vacations before university — and I often wondered what it might be like to join my former classmates.

This spring, as part of a MAGIS Immersion Seminar that studied pilgrimage, I traveled to Rome for the Catholic Church’s 2025 Jubilee: Pilgrims of Hope. I have never felt closer to Christ than I did traveling with my classmates, celebrating Mass in the Rooms of St. Ignatius, or walking through the Holy Doors. I returned with a full heart, ready to center my life around God.

So when I discovered an all-expenses-paid scholarship for young Catholics that January, it felt like a sign. Between my theology class, my Spanish heritage, and my own curiosity about the Camino, I couldn’t ignore the call. I said yes.

My Journey

“Que el Camino te traiga aquello que no sabías que buscabas.”

“May the Camino bring you that which you didn’t know you were searching for.” 

I first read those words, spray-painted onto the side of a dull gray electrical box in Logroño, halfway across Spain. They etched themselves into my mind, unerasable for all 31 days of my 780-kilometer walk to Santiago de Compostela.

To explain why that line hit me so hard, I have to rewind a bit — back to Georgetown, before I ever set foot on the trail.

If I’m being honest, I spend a lot of time daydreaming about things I don’t have. That’s the curse of being 19 and constantly online. Instagram, YouTube, LinkedIn — they condition us to chase after someone else’s model body, bucket-list vacation or coveted internship. I’ve fallen into that trap more times than I’d like to admit: seeing something shiny and suddenly becoming convinced that my happiness depends on it.

When I arrived at Georgetown in fall 2023, I applied to a lot of clubs. And I was rejected from every single one: soccer, a pre-professional sorority and the tour guide society. At the time, I was crushed. 

Funny enough, those “no’s” ended up creating space for bigger yeses. I found Catholic Retreats, the 1634 Society, Survivor Georgetown and GU Politics. Each brought me friendships, mentorships and purpose I hadn’t imagined. But back then, all I could see was what I lacked.

That tension — between wanting what we don’t have and appreciating what’s already in front of us — isn’t new. St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, wrestled with it centuries ago. After his conversion and a long period of isolation, he wrote the Suscipe, a prayer of radical surrender:

Take Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will… All is yours; dispose of it wholly according to your will. Give me only your love and your grace, for that is enough for me.

It’s a bold claim. We’re wired to crave freedom, control and possessions. In my world, that might mean money, clubs or a perfect GPA. But Ignatius flips the script: Instead of fixating on what we don’t have, he invites us to face reality with gratitude — for God’s love and grace are enough.

The Camino became my classroom for this lesson. Every morning, I woke before sunrise, laced up sore feet and shouldered my backpack to walk 15–20 miles.

While you may start the Camino alone, you rarely stay that way for long. You tend to fall into step with the same faces — strangers at first, but soon companions — meeting again in the next dusty town or crowded hostel. By the end, you know each other’s favorite snacks, pet peeves and life stories as if you’ve been friends for years.

My own little “Camino family” looked like this: an unreasonable number of Italians who somehow managed to cook pasta for 20 every night (while simultaneously belting 2000s hits), a Spaniard casually on his ninth Camino, an Australian veteran with a wild sense of adventure, and a Hongkonger who faithfully shared her cookies — and her Bible study — with me.

We laughed, sang, prayed and limped our way across Spain together. Each night meant washing clothes by hand and running talent shows while we waited for them to dry. And the entire time, I was waiting for my Hollywood epiphany — what was I missing?

But the Camino isn’t a movie, and my insight arrived while I walked.  

I was spending too much time thinking about what I didn’t have, instead of the blessings that had already been endowed upon me. I kept scanning the horizon for some dramatic realization, while failing to see the graces already surrounding me: friends so compassionate and kind, my family, my education, the gift of living in a country not ravaged by war, and most of all, my relationship with Christ.

Ironically, that graffitied quote was dead on. The Camino brought me something I wasn’t even looking for — because I already had it. I just needed to learn how to appreciate it.

Moving Forward

And that’s the challenge I carry back to Georgetown. Student life can feel like a pilgrimage in its own right: long, unpredictable, filled with both detours and grace. But if the Camino taught me anything, it’s that God’s love and grace have already given me more than enough. The real task is to notice — to see blessings where I once saw lack, and to live with the kind of gratitude that Ignatius knew could change everything. For me, that means recognizing grace in the small things: late-night conversations with friends, warm dinners at Leo’s, and professors who care about my future. 

Moving forward, I see my gratitude as inseparable from my vocation. The Camino reminded me that what fills my heart with joy is helping to fill someone else’s — whether by volunteering, taking the time to listen, or simply walking alongside them. My hope is to use the gifts I’ve been given not for myself alone, but in service to others. To me, that is the truest expression of gratitude.