I laid down on a Berber rug, my eyes lost in the sky. I wasn’t looking for constellations. I wasn’t waiting for signs. I was just… breathing. Every thread of that rug seemed to whisper a story. A woman who wove it. A family who laughed, loved, cried upon it. And I, stranger and sister, coming from far away, suddenly became part of that weave. I asked myself: Who was I, before becoming what everyone expected me to be? When did I stop listening to my own heartbeat? And right then, under the moon and above the sand, I remembered myself. Not my name. Not my roles. But the ancient voice that sings within. The one that says: “You are enough. Just as you are. Sit down, sister. You’re home.”
There are moments when silence speaks louder than words.
One month ago, I stood where sand met sky, where the dunes whispered stories older than memory.
I did not need to ask questions. I only needed to listen.
The wind carried the voices of those who had walked before me — Berbers, seekers, wanderers, souls in search of their echo.
In the stillness, I found something unexpected: myself.
Sometimes it’s not the destination, but the step that changes everything.
That silent moment when you pause and look around — and see your life from the outside.
The path is not always forward. Sometimes, it's inward.
I closed my eyes and listened to the wind.
It didn’t speak in words, but in feelings — freedom, longing, memory.
The wind has no borders. Maybe my soul doesn’t either.
Two months ago, cradled by Morocco
In the sacred darkness of the desert, under a moon that does not judge,
I heard my name being called... not with a voice, but with silence.
The wind kissed my skin like a long-lost mother,
and the stars — ancient, alive — recognized my presence.
I was no longer a stranger.
I was part of the night’s breath.
There was a truth there, in that cold, living sand:
that “home” is not a place,
but a state of the soul.
It is the moment you stop searching outside
for what has always lived within.
It is when Morocco embraces you without asking for anything,
and you… surrender.
Walking among the dunes,
with the moon as my lantern and the sky as my shelter,
I remembered that my soul has no walls.
It is made of wind, sand, and dreams.
This is home.
This is truth.
This is me.
Essaouira – May 04, 2025
I sat facing the sea, not asking for anything—just listening.
Essaouira didn’t try to impress me. She didn’t need to. She just was—salt, stone, softness. Wind in my hair, freedom on my skin.
I watched the waves speak in silence. Not a single word, and yet they told me everything: “You don’t have to move to be alive.”
There, with the ocean’s breath around me, I finally exhaled the things I’d been carrying too long. Names I outgrew. Dreams that belonged to someone else. The weight of all I thought I had to be.
And what remained... was presence. And peace.
In Essaouira, I didn’t find a destination. I found my rhythm again. A rhythm too sacred to be rushed.