I had walked from Salerno to Rome on foot and thought I had done the most I possibly could. But then one of the young men who works with me told me about the Camino de Santiago, and I realized this was something entirely different: despite having walked 276 km to reach Rome, it was nothing compared to the path that leads to Santiago de Compostela—whether from the last village in the Pyrenees or from the southern tip of Portugal.
I started walking because I have a child with autism. Although he still faces some challenges, he continues to overcome many others. I wanted to thank the Lord for these improvements, which we consider true blessings. And I wanted to express that gratitude through something that would challenge me too—something that could, in a way, mirror the sacrifices my son makes every day with all the therapies he follows.
The first time, I walked the Camino alone. Last year, I brought Rosario with me. He’s 16 and has what’s known as high-functioning autism. He’s physically in excellent health. He trained methodically at the gym to prepare, and that effort became a powerful push toward socialization. For someone like him, who easily retreats into the shell of autism, it was a huge step. It’s that shell that makes young people like him appear “different” to those who see them every day.
He trained with dedication every day, and when we finally set off, it was also his first time on a plane—another milestone. He showed no fear, handled it all perfectly. I got to spend many days side by side with my son. I saw him being so precise, so focused, so engaged; he fully understood that each morning, for about eight days, we would wake up and walk a certain number of kilometers.
We had looked at the map together before the trip, but of course, he didn’t fully grasp what it would mean until we arrived. It wasn’t just the two of us—one of our friends also joined us. As soon as he heard I was doing the Camino again with my son, he came all the way from Denmark just to share the experience with us.
When Rosario felt tired, we’d manage to laugh about it together. There were moments I feared he might give up. But instead, he made it all the way (and beyond!)—we even reached Finisterre. Despite the weather and the occasional swollen feet, he was overjoyed with the experience. We ended up sharing our story with many groups and friends once we got back home.
From the bottom of my heart, I wish every parent could have the chance to share an experience like this with their child. My biggest fear was that he’d shut down mentally and refuse to continue walking. But instead, he went all the way—happy and genuinely thrilled to complete his journey. When we returned, the welcome he received from his classmates and school, who had followed his trip online, made him incredibly proud.
Rosario attends the Giffoni Film Institute. Though he’s very introverted, he’s already had his first crushes… Of course, expressing emotions isn’t easy for him, but with those he trusts, he makes himself understood. He uses his phone, sends and receives messages. Rosario loves puzzles and games in general. At home, he’s very tidy and protective of his things. He adores his little brother—they bicker like any siblings, but Rosario can watch him alone and takes care of the dog too. He even helps with small chores.
Many of his improvements are thanks to the center he attends, run by the Giovamente Cooperative in Salerno—a truly remarkable organization in our area. Rosario works on specialized autism-related projects there, and since he’s studying cinematography, the activities at the center are often connected to what he’s doing in school.
One of my dreams is to walk not only with my son but with other young people too. I’d love to travel with other parents who have children like Rosario and share this experience—because living it is entirely different than just hearing about it.
Every now and then, you still hear of children like Rosario being excluded, left out, not invited to parties or events. Some priests even ask them to leave church because they’re “too noisy.” These things hurt more than the diagnosis itself. That, a parent learns to accept and moves forward—makes sacrifices, of course… But the one serious question every parent asks is: “What will happen when I’m no longer here?” If we all start listening—just a little—to this world, everything will become easier. OL
