On day one of the Italian Camino, I was ready. Superbly ready. My backpack was balanced, my socks were elite hiking stock, and my first-aid kit was so well equipped it could’ve supported a small field hospital. I’d prepared for everything - foot blisters, sore calves, aching knees, you name it. I’d even done the research on which brand of blister plasters European hikers swear by.
The morning began beautifully. The sun was soft, the path wound gently through hazelnut groves, and my optimism was almost radiant. Every step felt like a small triumph of planning and preparedness. Until, somewhere between the third hill and the fourth ”oh come on now”, I noticed a faint, unfamiliar sting - not in my feet, but in my hands.
By afternoon, that sting had become a sharp burn. It turned out that while I’d been busy protecting my feet, I’d neglected the one area I hadn’t even thought to worry about: my palms. My trusty walking poles, which I had been leaning on far more than I realised, had rubbed two furious red blisters across the softest part of my hands. In an ironic twist of Camino fate, my legs were perfectly fine - it was my hands that had given out.
So there I was, halfway up a hill on the outskirts of Viterbo, with poles I could barely hold. By evening, I had them wrapped in thick white bandages, which stayed on for the next four days. They trapped heat, trapped sweat, and made the simple act of opening a water bottle a minor logistical challenge. Eating was comical - imagine trying to unwrap a sandwich while wearing oven mitts. Every time I passed another hiker and offered a polite wave, I looked like I’d escaped from a first-aid demonstration.
But, as the Camino tends to do, it turned this small discomfort into a lesson I didn’t know I needed. Because the more I thought about it, the more I realised those blisters had something to say about leadership, particularly the kind we practice in schools.
I’d prepared for the obvious problems. I’d done my risk management, my foresight, my strategy. I’d planned for foot blisters in the same way school leaders plan for the known challenges - student engagement, wellbeing, staff morale, results. But the real pain point came from the unexpected. The small, overlooked friction that built quietly until it couldn’t be ignored.
School leadership is full of those unseen rub points. They’re the places where we overcompensate, lean too heavily, or fail to notice that the thing we think is helping us move forward is also slowly wearing something down. We lean on certain people too much because they’re capable and reliable. We rely on familiar systems because they’ve worked before, even if they’re starting to chafe under new pressures. We keep pushing through because it feels easier than stopping to reassess.
And just like me on that first day, trying to take pressure off my legs by leaning on my poles, we can end up creating strain somewhere else entirely. The friction builds slowly - until it blisters.
There was something humbling about realising that all my careful preparation had missed such a simple detail. Each morning, as I wrapped my hands in fresh bandages, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. I’d been so focused on doing everything right that I’d overlooked what was actually happening. It was a useful reminder that leadership, like walking, isn’t about perfect preparation - it’s about adaptability. It’s about noticing when something hurts and responding with curiosity rather than frustration.
So I started adjusting. I loosened my grip on the poles. I changed my rhythm. I walked a little slower, but with more balance and less force. By the fifth day, my hands were healing, and so was my pace. The journey became less about endurance and more about awareness - of my body, my surroundings, my limits.
The same applies to leadership. Sometimes, the lesson is not to grip harder, but to ease the pressure. Not to push faster, but to walk more lightly. We can prepare meticulously, but the true test comes in how we respond to the unexpected - the hidden friction that no one predicted.
When I look back on that first day now, with my healed hands and slightly bruised ego, it’s easy to see the metaphor hiding in plain sight. In leadership, as on the Camino, it’s not always the mountains that get you. It’s the small, unexamined rubs - the overlooked details that remind you that no amount of preparation can replace awareness, balance, and humility.
So if you find yourself halfway through the term feeling a bit blistered - emotionally, mentally, or metaphorically - it might be worth checking where you’re gripping too tightly or leaning too heavily. Because sometimes the smartest thing you can do as a leader is to stop, rewrap, and walk a little slower under the hot sun.
After all, pain in unexpected places often has the most to teach us.
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