My first Confession led me to the Cathedral of Saint James ...

The sun scorched the cobblestone streets of Santiago de Compostela as I passed the “Fonte dos Cabalos,” where the stone horses sprayed their delicate arcs of water into the blistering air. It offered little respite from the heat, but I did not move, my eyes drawn to the towering presence of the Cathedral of Saint James. I couldn’t loose the feeling that something was calling me inside, beyond just the promise of shade. There was a pull, something deeper, urging me forward.

Tourists milled about in excited murmurs, their voices blending into a distant hum. They flocked toward the cathedral, pilgrims of the Camino de Santiago, driven by a desire for spiritual renewal or self-discovery. I hadn't walked the Camino, but I carried its symbol with me—a scallop shell, inked into my skin, a tattoo on the back of my leg. It marked my journey, one not of physical miles but of emotional depths, a path through mistakes, regrets, and elusive redemption.

The city, this cathedral, had been her choice first. Months ago, as we sat over a bottle of dark red tinted Malbec wine, she told me she was moving here, to Santiago. I hadn’t expected her words to hit me as they did. We’d parted bitterly, the weight of my mistakes pulling us under. Yet, as she spoke of her plans, I felt a flicker of hope. Santiago wasn’t just a fresh start for her; I realized it could be for me, too. Without a word, I had followed her here, needing a second chance. With her and with myself.

Santiago felt like the chance to rewrite our story, one scarred by pain and distance. Here, I hoped we could rediscover each other, rebuild. It was working, to some extent, but there was still something inside me that remained unresolved, something festering beneath the surface. I’d come to Santiago not just for her, but because I had unfinished business with myself. The weight of my past was unbearable, and I needed to find a way to unburden my soul.

The cathedral loomed before me, its ancient stone walls imposing, as if it could see straight through to the sins I carried. Fear gnawed at me, a growing dread that whispered I wasn’t worthy of the absolution I sought. What right did I have to step into a place of such sacred history, to seek forgiveness when I wasn’t even sure I could forgive myself?

I couldn’t turn back now.

Steeling myself, I stepped forward, my legs heavy with the weight of the moment. The massive wooden doors stood wide open, revealing it's history and cool interior. The shift from the blinding heat to the dim, quiet stillness was startling. It felt as if I had entered another realm. My footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as I took in the grandeur of the space. It was humbling, and in that instant, I felt smaller than I ever had.

My gaze wandered, searching for direction, unsure of where to begin. The idea of confessing terrified me. I had never truly opened up about my wrongdoings, not to anyone, not even myself. But the need to release the burden I carried was undeniable. I checked my watch out of nervous habit—15:33. It was a random time, yet it felt significant, like a signal that something was shifting.

As I turned to leave, an elderly priest crossed my path, his white robes bearing the red cross of Saint James. I acted on impulse, words escaping before I could rethink them.

“I need to confess. It’s urgent.”

The priest turned slowly, his tired eyes meeting mine with a look of quiet understanding. “Confessions are over for today, my son,” he said kindly. “I’m afraid it’s time for my siesta, time to rest.”

“Please,” I blurted, desperation cracking my voice. “I can’t wait. I need to confess now.”

He studied me for a moment, then nodded, leading me toward a small confessional tucked into a shadowed corner of the cathedral. As I sat, the enormity of what I was about to do settled over me. The air inside the booth was thick, heavy with the echoes of past confessions. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as the priest settled behind the screen.

“What weighs on your soul, my son?” he asked gently.

I hesitated, my throat tight. “I don’t know where to start,” I said, my voice hoarse. “There’s so much.”

“Start where you can. The rest will follow.”

The number 1533 flashed through my mind again, and the moment I’d stood frozen outside the cathedral suddenly felt more than random. “I’ve made mistakes,” I began, unsure of where the words would lead. “I’ve hurt people. I’ve lied. I betrayed the woman I love, over and over, convincing her—and myself—that I could be someone I’m not. When she moved here, I followed her, thinking I could make things right. But I haven’t been able to let go of the guilt. It’s crushing me.”

The confession spilled out in fragments, words I’d never dared to speak. The silence on the other side of the screen stretched, the priest allowing my pain to settle before he responded.

“You’ve made a brave first step,” he said softly. “Acknowledging the weight of your sins is often the hardest part. But remember, confession is more than simply speaking your guilt—it is the beginning of healing. Forgiveness is not just for others, but for yourself.”

His words struck something deep inside me. “How do I forgive myself?” I asked, the desperation raw in my voice.

“You begin by accepting that you are not your past. You are the choices you make from this moment forward.”

His answer hung in the air, and for the first time, I felt a flicker of release, a loosening of the chains I had wrapped around my soul.

“And the number,” I said, my voice softer now. “1533—it’s been following me.”

The priest shifted slightly. “Some say numbers are messages, signs from the divine. 1533, is an Angel Number, thes numbers often represent change and transformation, a reminder to let go of the past and step into a new beginning. Guided with no fear.”

I let the meaning of his words settle. Perhaps this number was a sign, guiding me toward the transformation I so desperately needed. It wasn’t about following her here to fix things; it was about me changing, growing, becoming someone who could move forward with a lighter heart.

“You have confessed,” the priest said, his voice steady and sure. “Now it is time for you to act. Redemption is not found in words but in deeds. Speak to her. Show her you can be the man you long to be. And most importantly, be patient with yourself. Healing takes time.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. The path ahead was still uncertain, but for the first time in years, it felt possible. As I stood to leave, the priest gave a final blessing.

“Go in peace, my son. And remember, this is only the beginning.”

I stepped out of the confessional, the weight on my chest lighter than it had been in years. The air inside the cathedral felt thinner, more breathable. I walked slowly toward the entrance, the sun spilling through the open doors, and stepped back into the heat. The plaza stretched out before me, and I found myself walking toward the small café where I knew she’d be.

When I arrived, there she was, seated at a familiar table, her face softened by the afternoon light. She looked up as I approached, and for the first time, I didn’t feel the tight grip of guilt around my throat. Instead, I felt ready.

“I need to talk,” I said, my voice steady.

She nodded, her expression open, waiting. This conversation wouldn’t heal everything, but it was a start.

As I began to speak, I glanced at my watch one last time. It was 15:33. The number that had haunted me was now leading me forward. It wasn’t just a number. It was the beginning of my true transformation.