When you are born in a major pilgrimage destination, you grow up with a treasure — a national shrine and sacred image — within reach every day. I was that child, born in Czestochowa, home of the Black Madonna and a beloved place of spiritual refuge for St. John Paul II.

Every August, I watched thousands of pilgrims arrive at the Jasna Góra shrine. Many came with tears of joy, having walked hundreds of miles from every corner of Poland. In this Jubilee Year, I decided it was time to make the pilgrimage myself. I signed up for a 100-mile Dominican pilgrimage from Kraków to Czestochowa, packed my sleeping bag, laced my most comfortable shoes and, on Aug. 12, stood nervously in the Dominican Basilica on Stolarska street. It was the first time I would walk to my own city, to the Black Madonna I had known all my life.

My first thought was, however, less than hopeful: "What am I doing here?"

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The year had been grueling,- but also one where I had a lot to thank for. I had covered a papal death and conclave for OSV News — work that was stressful and exhausting and also extremely rewarding — while also finishing a major book project, which meant 13-hour days, seven days a week, for an entire year. I thought to myself I could have spent my vacation better: sleeping late, going to the beach, doing nothing. Yet something pushed me to take to the road.

Still, my frustration showed in those first hours. When a fellow pilgrim tried to ask why I had joined the pilgrimage, all I said was, "I signed up for the 'silence' group for a reason." At our first stop, after just two hours of walking, I thought bitterly: "Two hours? On a field of grass? What are we supposed to do here?"

Part of my grumpiness came from the fact that, after years as the host of a major Catholic television program in Polish public television, I was hardly anonymous among fellow pilgrims. Here, I couldn't disappear. And yet on pilgrimage, that is exactly what you want to do. You are weak, drenched in sweat, with swollen legs and no makeup. There are no cameras, no stylists, no way to hide. Pilgrimage exposes you — body and soul.

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After 11 miles in the scorching heat, I realized two things: First, you must stretch and rest at every stop if you want to survive the day (something more experienced pilgrims were suggesting). Second, the very people I didn't want to talk to at first would become the heart of the experience.That evening, aching in every muscle, I arrived at our overnight stop — a school gym — only to be recognized by two smiling women. They had met on a previous pilgrimage, become friends, and now walked together each year. Their joy was contagious. That night, while waiting two hours for the single shower, I found myself laughing and sharing stories with new companions — an actress, a mother, a kindergarten teacher, a lab analyst, a doctor. We bonded over the simplest things: hot tea, a floor to sleep on, a shared struggle.

Day two began with Mass, breakfast and coffee, but soon the pain returned. A doctor in the ambulance told me I had pulled a muscle and should rest. But I still had miles to go. Hours later, near the final stop for the day and near collapse, I was distracted from my pain when one of the women asked me about my work as a journalist. Another lent me her son's stroller to lean on. With their help, I made it to the next school.

In the days that followed, I saw my new friends walk through their own pain with humility and generosity. They taught me to encourage others as they had encouraged me. The Rosary, the Divine Mercy chaplet and familiar hymns became the rhythm of our steps.

Finally, I reached Czestochowa's wide "Aleje" — the avenues leading straight to the hilltop shrine of Jasna Góra. Seeing the familiar tower, I was overcome with joy. I felt like hugging everyone, even a homeless man sitting on a bench in my hometown.

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When I knelt before Our Lady of Czestochowa, the Black Madonna scarred with wounds, I had a long list of intentions typed in my phone. But for 20 minutes, I simply knelt in silence, thanking her. Thanking her for letting me walk, for letting me finish, for giving me strength. The problems I carried did not disappear, but I gained a new courage to face them.

That strength came from the community of pilgrims — 1,350 of us willing to sacrifice for every step together — and from the 34 Dominican friars who led us, bruised and weary themselves.This is the Church I saw on the pilgrimage: poor, weak, stripped of pretenses, yet strong in suffering and stronger in Christ. This is the Church I walked with.