Scotland: From Discomfort to Surrender

A journey into the enchanted Highlands

I could have gone to Italy. Or Berlin. I had invitations to both, warm places with friends waiting.

But something in me — a quiet, persistent tug — pulled me instead toward Scotland. Towards nature. Toward trains and hills and weather that doesn’t care about my plans. I didn’t want airplanes, I didn’t feel like packing, and right up until the night before I left I was asking myself: Why am I doing this?

It wasn’t the most rational choice. But something whispered: Go.

So I booked a sleeper train to Glasgow, a hiking trip through the West Highlands with complete strangers, and I stepped out of my comfort zone. What unfolded was not what I expected — harder, messier, sillier, holier — and it shifted something deep in me.

The trip began with a small kind of luxury: my own sleeper cabin on the train. Two bunks, one for me, and a whole night of gentle rocking through the dark. It was cozy, even comforting, though I couldn’t help but think how nice it would have been to share it with someone…

The next morning, I arrived in Glasgow, visited an old teacher I hadn’t seen in years, and then joined the group — three men, four women, plus our guide. Strangers.

I was the youngest, the forecast promised rain all week, and to make matters worse, I quickly realized I hadn’t packed enough warm clothes. On top of that, my period arrived the very morning of the trip — not exactly the easiest way to begin.

Our first walk started at Rowardennan, passing Ardess with its quiet ruins. The landscape was beautiful, but inside I felt unsettled, tired, and cold. And when we stopped for lunch — supermarket sandwiches, after I’d paid so much for the trip — I couldn’t help but laugh a little bitterly. Really? This is how it starts?

That first night, sharing a room with someone I didn’t know, I went to sleep early, full of doubt.

At first, I thought I wouldn’t connect. Yet slowly, laughter began to weave us together.
One companion brought out childlike silliness in me — we made goat and monkey sounds, laughed at ourselves, and lightened the long walks. Others carried warmth and kindness in quieter ways. Even sharing a room, something I dreaded, turned into a comfort. Despite differences, there was care and respect.

I also discovered something new about myself: I need personal space.

I’d nap in the car, go to bed earliest (9:30!), fall back on the trail to pray my rosary, or simply walk in silence. Gentle boundaries with others gave me a taste of peace.

And for touch, when I longed for comfort, I found I could hug trees. It was grounding and strangely healing, as if creation itself was embracing me.

And yet, little signs began to appear.

At the visitor center, I saw the words: “This is the Gaelic region.” Gaelle — my name. A wink.

That evening, I picked up the book I’d brought, The Course of Love. Only halfway through did I realize it was by Alain de Botton, set in the Highlands, and the main character was Lebanese — like me. Another wink.

Even a thrift shop that appeared just when I needed waterproof trousers — a simple grace, but it changed everything. From then on, I didn’t care if it rained or snowed. I was safe, covered, and free to enjoy.

Enchanted forests, glittering waters, sudden rainbows after rain. God’s winks in colors and light.

On the third day, the colors shifted.

After a night of torrential rain, I woke to a rainbow.

We drove through Glen Ogle and Glen Docherty, stopped at the ancient Drover’s Inn, and later crossed Loch Lomond by ferry for a shortened walk on the West Highland Way.

Wet, tired, but suddenly — at peace.

That afternoon, the sun hit the water until it glittered like thousands of diamonds. It reminded me of the story where Jesus’s disciples glimpse him in full light. In that shimmer, I felt held. At that moment, I was listening to Oceans, with its prayer to be led where trust has no borders. That was exactly how it felt.

From then on, joy came easier. Giggles on the trail. Coffee and goats at Achray Farm. Enchanted forests that felt like they were replenishing my soul. By the fourth day, even a tough 20-kilometer hike felt like the challenge I had secretly wanted.

Somewhere between Inchcailloch Island and the Cashel forest walk, a deeper realization surfaced.

I saw more clearly than before: my life, my companionship, my peace — they can’t be anchored in another person first. They have to be anchored in God. It’s a weight otherwise too heavy for anyone to carry.

It was something I knew in theory, but on this trip I felt it — quietly, deeply. It wasn’t about fixing or solving anything. It was about placing first things first.

Looking back now, the week feels like a map of my soul: starting in resistance and discomfort, moving through little winks from God, and arriving at surrender, laughter, and an unexpected clarity.

Scotland didn’t give me what I thought I wanted — it gave me what I needed. It reminded me that the real path isn’t just the one under my feet, but the one inside me. That comfort can be found in the smallest things: waterproof trousers, the embrace of a tree, the laugh of a stranger.

And that even in the cold, the wet, the silly moments with strangers, there’s light waiting to break through — sometimes in the form of a rainbow, sometimes in a glittering view, sometimes in the quiet voice that says: you are held.