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Dear Pilgrim,

When my parents still squeezed my sister and me into frilly square-collared dresses every Sunday and marched us off to church, I’d get to sit on the floor under the pews during Mass. I’d watch the soles of the feet of the people in front of me when everyone knelt for the serious parts. The angle of their feet looked like pedals on a go-kart.

The part of Mass that brought me up off the floor was when the priest goes through the phases of the Last Supper. While I had no idea what was going on, I knew what he was doing was important. People shifted less in their seats and fussed less with candy wrappers.

I’d pop my head up to watch just as the priest lifted the host above him and said, “Do this in memory of me.” The sentence bewildered me, but as a people-pleasing kid, I wanted to be respectful. I thought he meant that I should imagine him doing this in my memories. So, I’d go back through the scant memories I had at age five—playing in the backyard, running on the beach, brushing my teeth—and imagine the priest standing there with a small chip above his head. I did it, I’d think, pleased with myself.

I may never have totally convinced myself of Christianity, I but found peace in the sanctity of its rituals. The singing, the frankincense, the choreographed group movement.

Pilgrimage integrates new rituals into your daily sphere, whether you lost your childhood ones or not. There are the historic rituals—carrying a scallop shell to indicate you’re on the road of St. James, carrying a stone to the Cruz de Ferro, and, if it’s your thing, attending the Pilgrim Mass in Santiago to watch the priests swing the several-hundred-pound incense holder across the breadth of the cathedral.

Then there are all the small routines that build a day on the road. Wrapping your feet in bandages, rolling up your sleeping bag, or setting up your bed at night. Hand-washing your laundry and hanging it on a line. Filling your bottle with fresh water at the entrance of a village. And most importantly, sitting down at a table with pilgrims and your host and sharing a meal, a bottle of wine, and all the stories from the challenges of the day—this is the ritual that rivals them all.

When the sanctity of a moment inspires reverence, there’s no need for mutual religion, only the agreement that the act is more mindful than others. It acts as a reminder that you are alive.

As you move into the longer, emptier, and quieter stretches of the road, do not underestimate these new rituals as guideposts in a day. You are allowed to build your own ceremony in honor of living. Keep a close eye on what feels sacred to you, whether someone else joins you in that feeling or not.