I enter the air-conditioned lobby, and the employee at reception eagerly greets me before I arrive at his station.

“Hi,” I respond much less enthusiastically while faking a smile. Although I am happy to finally be at the hotel, I won’t feel better until I eat, shower, and regulate my nervous system from the overstimulation of the day.

“How are you today?” he overzealously asks in a way that seems like he’s being sincere and not going through the motions of a perfunctory greeting.

I don’t know if it’s his perceived genuineness or me being too exhausted to keep of the fake happy façade, but I tell him the truth, “Not good.”

I can tell by his smile immediately disappearing that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. The recovering people-pleaser in me feels the need to over-explain now that I feel responsible for ruining his cheery mood.

Because I’m not surfing anymore on this retreat, Imsouane is cold and dusty, and I don’t want to share a room, I decided to leave a day early to spend an extra day in Marrakesh, which is where I already had plans to cap off this trip anyway.

This means that I have to pay for an extra night at the hotel and my own transportation to Marrakesh since I am not leaving with the retreat group. This wouldn’t be a big deal except the five-star hotel that I already have a reservation at in Marrakesh doesn’t have the same room available a day earlier, so I have to pay for a much higher-end room, which is a significant upgrade, although still cheap for a 5-star hotel in US dollars.

I really don’t care how much it costs to get out of here though. I haven’t had this bad of a trip since I dog sat for five dogs in Guam in 2019.

Is this worse than Guam?

I feel like I’m on a Gen Z car trip.

Oh wait, I am.

I was looking forward to today because anything that doesn’t include dressing in a smelly, marshmallow fit wetsuit and surfing in freezing water and reckless crowds sounds like a treat. But now that we are heading to a local market in Essaouira in a cramped car, listening to girly pop music at an unpleasantly high level, I am equally uncomfortable.

The freezing water to my face feels like I’m in a knife fight with the ocean. Since I didn’t surf yesterday because I couldn’t move my neck to the left, I thought I would be more excited about surfing with the retreat group today. But when I put on my smelly, marshmallow costume, I mean wetsuit, my chest was heavy with dread.

You love surfing. You love the ocean. Just get out there and you’ll be fine.

I do love surfing, and I do love the ocean, but not in Morocco with freezing water and reckless surf schools. Now that I am out in the ocean, I am not excited at all.

The waves are nice here. Just focus on learning more about surfing.

I see a good-sized wave coming and get excited about catching it, especially now that I am feeling slightly more agile in a wetsuit. With much more grace than the last few sessions, I catch the wave and start riding down the line as five other people who aren’t even paying attention take off in front of me. This is the equivalent of a car pulling out into oncoming traffic and not looking. Because I don’t want to hit them, I pull off the wave, even though I had priority.

It's frustrating that I can’t even enjoy surfing here.

Was I drugged?

Because I am half-unconscious and can’t seem to move my body, this terror-fueled thought is only in my brain. I become more coherent ss the sensation of the cold floor intensifies on my right cheek.

What happened? Why am I lying on the floor?

The terror escapes the confinement of my brain and moves into a full-blown panic attack that consumes my entire body as I regain more consciousness but still feel very cloudy and confused. My body still feels limp, but the adrenaline of the panic enables me to use my arms to prop myself on the floor.

The left side of my neck and face are in searing pain. As if in a dream, I reach up with my left hand to touch the painful areas, which confirms that they are raw and tender. My brain frantically scans for any memories of what happened but all I can remember is walking through the longue area.

Finally! I have made it to the surf retreat in Imsouane.

I was expecting to feel relieved, but I feel on edge. I saw pictures of Imsouane on Instagram but in true Instagram vs. reality fashion, the filters and edits distorted what I am now seeing.

The town clings to the mountainside, where tall, beige cliffs, bare of any vegetation, loom over the ocean. The architecture is very basic with a run-down surf town vibe, complete with shacks, surfboard décor, and dust swirling in the wind.

The car pulls up to our hotel, which is surrounded by a protective wall. It’s giving institutional fortress, yet safe. There is a defunct ATM on the outside, which feels ominous, so I look away, searching for an auspicious sign so I can feel relieved about finally making it here. But I am grasping. Everything feels bland and un-whimsical, the complete opposite of what I came for.

After eating my room service, I take a comforting, hot shower which feels extra refreshing after a long day of traveling. After beating myself up for making a few mistakes, I feel proud of myself for making it to the hotel at the originally planned time. If I figured out logistics of today, I can figure out anything. This empowerment is interrupted by the room telephone ringing.

Don’t answer it. You need to relax.

Curiosity killed the cat. I answer the phone. “Hello?”

I am met with a stern, deep voice, “Hello, Ms. Hawkins, you need to come down and give us your credit card. We don’t have it on file.”

Oh my God, leave me alone. I am trying to relax.

The reality of my short time in Spain is hitting hard this morning now as I am boarding my flight to Málaga. I have a long day ahead, but I am excited. I am finally taking the ferry from Spain to Morocco! But it comes with a price. I am flying from Mallorca to Málaga, riding a bus from Málaga to Algeciras, taking the ferry from Spain to Morocco, taking a car from Tanger Med to Tangier, train from Tangier to Casablanca, and spending the night in Casablanca. Tomorrow, I have a flight from Casablanca to Agadir, and then a car from Agadir to my final destination of Imsouane.

The tightness in my chest is telling me that something is off. But what? Should I not go on this trip?

It’s rare that I dismiss my intuition but my Uber to the airport will be here in a few minutes, so I don’t have time to interpret what is happening, especially since I can’t not go at this point and I don’t want to know if something bad is going to happen. I remind myself of my intention for this trip:

I am open to receiving.

This trip is special because Spain and Morocco have been on my travel bucket list since the early 2000s. I loved watching Rick Steves Travels Europe, and my favorite episode was when he went to Spain and crossed the Straight of Gibraltar by ferry to Morocco.

In the early 2000s, I loved watching Rick Steves Travels Europe, and my favorite episode was when he went to Spain and crossed the Straight of Gibraltar by ferry to Morocco.

At the time, I was almost fluent in Spanish and dreamed of going to Spain and practicing in the wild.

But this began my fascination with Morocco and the bucket list destination of Spain/Morocco.

I ran the 2011 Chicago Marathon in 3 hours and 31 minutes. My goal was to finish under 3:30. I didn’t miss my goal by 1 minute. I missed it by 1 minute and 48 seconds. And as a perfectionist, I didn’t see the 26.2 miles I conquered. I saw a 1-minute and 48-second failure.

Instead of celebrating, I punished myself. I ran harder, longer, and eventually burned myself out to the point I physically could not run long distances anymore.

Fast forward to a few years ago, and I was stuck in the same pattern, only this time with forgiveness.

There were several people who had hurt me. Deeply. And I wanted to forgive them so I could stop hurting. But no matter how much I tried, it didn’t click.

Recently I posted a video on social media where I was wearing my signature style of statement sunglasses, and I received a critical comment about them. It stung for a minute because I am a human being, and I have feelings. And then I moved on with my life because I don’t care about that person’s taste in eyewear.

There are many older versions of me that would have cared way too much.

I saw it while mindlessly scrolling through my Instagram feed. Intrigued instantly slapped me across the face as I read about a White Lotus Thailand themed murder mystery dinner party.

Do it.

I am my intuition’s bitch, so I immediately went to the event page to sign up. There were two options: participant and spectator.

Sign up for participant.

No, Intuition. I don’t want to participate. I’d rather hide and watch.

Do it.

In 2021, my neighbor, Maria, lent me her copy of The Storyteller: Tales of Life & Music by Dave Grohl. I have read countless memoirs and listened to podcasts and other content of famous and successful people, but this one was different. And it wasn’t because the chapter structure was a creative genius work of art unlike anything I have ever experienced or because his storytelling was curiously specific and mesmerizing.

In early 2017, my boyfriend broke up with me for someone else, and shortly thereafter, my dad passed away. I was 37 years old and had spent every single one of those years running away from my feelings because the underlying shame and belief that I didn’t deserve to be loved was too painful to acknowledge. But with two grief-triggering events so close together, the floodgates opened, and I was forced to face my feelings. I spent the remainder of the year feeling like a hopeless zombie because I didn’t know anything about emotional regulation, and I didn’t understand that a different way of living, or even being happy, was available to me.

“Other People are not Medicine” -Amy Poehler

Have you ever used someone else for emotional support? There is no shame in answering “yes,” because let’s just say…I understand.

In 2017, my boyfriend broke up with me to be with someone else and shortly after, my dad passed away. After my dad died, I was so distraught and desperate for answers that I went to a Spiritual Medium. In our session, she was able to give me messages from my dad, which provided the closure I needed. However, at the end of the session, The Medium touched on my ex-boyfriend.

My healing journey began in earnest when I was 40. Older versions of me would say it started in my late 20’s when I found myself in the metaphysical section of a small bookstore in Chicago and picked up a copy of Ask and It Is Given. I had heard about manifesting but didn’t know much about it. The energetic pull to the book was too strong to ignore, and I devoured the entire book within days. This was 2007, when spirituality was still relatively woo-woo, but it spoke to my soul and it was the beginning of a well-intentioned, yet misguided healing journey.

I feel like something is wrong with me. Maybe following this path is how I can fix myself.

When I was in my early 30s, I had a six-figure job, owned a condo, ran marathons faster than most others in my age group, and had a packed social calendar, but despite looking successful on paper, inside, I was falling apart and didn’t know why. I started listening to Tony Robbins CDs, practicing yoga, reading all the self-help books on the shelf, and even tried going to a Buddhist temple and meditating on a cushion until my legs fell asleep, all hoping to find peace. And yet, there was still something missing.

When will I be happy?