The Pilgrimage that broke me...and built me.

Sometimes life hits you in a way that crushes your spirit. You don't understand why something is happening to you, and you wonder who is to blame.

August 2023 - World Youth Day, Lisbon, Portugal. There had been months of preparation, sacrifice, fundraising and planning as the pilgirmage drew nearer. We were travelling with the Jesus Youth group from the Vicariate of Southern Arabia. Our excitement knew no bounds. My husband's band was fully geared up for their upcoming stage performances, and the dance crew had poured in hours upon hours of practice in the weeks and days leading up to our departure. Every step of the journey felt like it was building up toward something big, something monumental. Little did I know, this pilgrimage would take me down an unexpected path. A path that would test my strength, my patience, my identity, and my faith.

July 29, 2023 - InsideOut’s first performance for the Youth Arise Festival.

Pure excitement pulsed through the air. The whole team was buzzing with adrenaline, soaking in the moment we had all prayed for, worked for, and dreamed of. After months of rehearsals, late-night practices, and prayers, the day had finally arrived. The lights were bright, the crowd was alive, and there was a joy in the atmosphere that felt almost too big for my chest. It was now time for the dance crew to join the band on stage. This was our moment.

On our cue, all of us ran up with a bounce in our stride. We took our positions, counted in, and launched into the choreography with unmatchable energy. And then...two steps in, I felt a sudden pop in my left knee.

In my mind, everything froze, but I kept moving. I did not want to make this look awkward.

Looking out at the sea of smiling faces and hearing the roar of cheers, I tried to brush it off. Surely it was nothing. But the next few steps told me otherwise. My knee wasn’t cooperating. I couldn’t find my balance. Something was very wrong.

A hundred thoughts flashed through my mind in a span of seconds. I made a quiet, split-second decision: step off the stage before things get worse…if it wasn’t already too late.

The moment I stepped behind the curtains, my body gave way and I fell to the floor. A pain I had never felt before shot up my leg, sharp and consuming. Fear gripped me instantly...fear of the unknown.

Was it a sprain?

Did I dislocate my knee?

How could that even be?

I had practiced this routine countless times. I had warmed up before going on stage. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not at our very first concert. Not when there were so many more performances ahead. Not when we were in a foreign country, so far from home. And certainly not when a pilgrimage lay right in front of us.

People from the crowd, and backstage who saw what had happened came rushing to my side.

"What happened?"

"Are you ok?"

"Are you in pain?"

"Should we get you something?"

There were too many questions, and I didn't have the answer to a single one of them. Someone helped me into a chair. I was given pain killers. Someone rushed to get ice. Someone went searching for a doctor. All the while, my mind struggled to keep up with what my body had already declared: something had changed. From where I was, I could see the band performing, the dancers doing their part wonderfully, and the crowd cheering joyfully. And here I was, helpless, and clueless about what had just happened.

In Fatima, near the Marian apparition site

We couldn’t find a doctor that night. I had no choice but to self-medicate and wait until next morning. When I woke up, a small part of me hoped it had all been a bad dream. But the pain met me instantly the moment I tried to stand. The doctor later diagnosed it as a sprain, and I was confined to a wheelchair for the next two days. Family and friends took turns wheeling me around with so much love and care. I took my first few steps again during a visit to a Marian apparition site that I hold very close to my heart. Slowly and painfully we continued the pilgrimage, up and down the cobblestone roads of Lisbon, all the way to the final closing Mass with the Pope.

During the entire pilgrimage, my mind was constantly flooded with questions, questions I tried so hard to silence. "Why now, God?" "Why here?" Every step felt like a negotiation between pain and faith. My body moved slowly, cautiously, every step was calculated and intential. Through the slow pace, my heart felt even more fragile. I had arrived in Portugal with such expectation: to dance, to serve, to give everything I had for His glory. And now, all I could do was limp forward, watching instead of participating, receiving instead of giving.

There was a strange grief in that, the grief of being willing, but unable. Surrounded by thousands of pilgrims singing, praying, weeping, and rejoicing, I felt both deeply grateful to be there and quietly disoriented in my own body. I was present, but not as I had imagined I would be. My plans had been rewritten without my permission, and I didn’t yet know how to make peace with the new script.

And yet, somehow, I kept moving.

Not with confidence. Not with clarity. But with a quiet, stubborn faith. This time my faith wasn't about moving mountains, but rather figuring out a new way to walk up the mountain.

After returning to home base, what I feared was finally confirmed through an MRI. I had suffered a complete ACL tear, and a partial meniscus tear.

There was no dramatic revelation in that moment. No sudden reactions. Just a stillness, and a choice. A choice to believe that even this, especially this, was not outside the knowing of God. It felt ironic to return from a pilgrimage physically broken in a way I hadn’t expected. I went to seek renewal, and instead I met limitation. I went to give my all, and instead I was forced to receive.

But maybe that was the pilgrimage within the pilgrimage.

Not one of crowds, stages and performances, but one of surrender, patience, and learning how to trust God in the loss of control.

I still don’t fully understand why this happened. I still don’t have all the answers wrapped neatly in a box. But what I do know is this: I kept walking. Slowly. Unsteadily. Sometimes in pain. But never alone.

And perhaps that, in itself, was the miracle.