Floating Over Morocco While My Nervous System Crashed - Spain & Morocco Part 10
I recently went on a trip to Spain and Morocco that turned out to be one of the hardest experiences I’ve had in a long time. Over the next few weeks, I’ll continue sharing the lessons and stories that came out of it. My intent is not to rehash the drama, but to explore the human experience when life doesn’t go the way we planned.
Sometimes the most beautiful growth hides inside the messiest moments.
These posts will be written in a more personal, I/Me storytelling style, but no matter where you live, where you’ve traveled, or what you’re walking through right now, I think you’ll find a piece of your own story in mine.
They’ll be a bit longer than usual, but don’t worry, here is the link to the audio version if you’d rather listen.
With the warmth of the fire on our faces, the basket lifts off the ground.
Riding in a hot air balloon is a strange sensation. We are floating. It feels magical. And the rising sun, dawn peacefulness, and other hot air balloons in the distance add to the whimsy of it all.
I hate it here. I can’t wait to go home.
There is a drone filming all of us hot air balloon passengers, and I want to buy a video, so I stuff down my feelings and plaster on a smile.
The desert beneath us stretches for miles on end. We can see dried-up river beds, plots of land with mostly vegetation, and mountains in the distance. It’s all very beautiful, but I would rather be home. My heart feels so heavy.
As the hot air balloon touches back on the ground, I officially consider myself on the final stretch of this two-week trip. To get me through the next few days, I have already started compartmentalizing.
1. Massage
2. Eat
3. Shower
4. Pack
5. Sleep
6. Ride to the airport at 2 am
7. Flight to Germany
8. Flight from Germany to San Francisco
9. Flight from San Francisco to Honolulu
I just need to focus on each step at a time until I get back home in Hawaii. I normally don’t like to compartmentalize because I feel as though it’s intentionally suppressing feelings, but at this point, my emotional state is extremely fragile from the chaos of this trip, so I simply need a way to manage my stress and stay functional until I can get home and unpack this trip — literally and emotionally.
This is especially important because in the back of my mind, I am nervous about flight delays on the way home. If any of my flights are delayed even a minute, I might have a total emotional breakdown.
I sweep into the hotel spa, leading with a presence that says: I’m here! And I’m ready to relax, but also excited to get the hell out of Morocco in ten hours.
The young girl at the desk is not the same lady who was here yesterday to book my massage reservation. Her vibe matches that of the curt front desk girl from yesterday.
“Can I help you?” she asks harshly, in a thick French accent, acting surprised that I have the nerve to enter the salon without her approval.
I am excited that this is my last day here, so I am not going to let this spa girl spoil my mood. “Hi! I’m Angie from room 382. I have an appointment for a massage.”
She searches her appointment book as if she wasn’t expecting anybody to have an appointment right now, even though it’s been in the books for over twenty-four hours. After locating my reservation, she doesn’t even look up as she asks, “Will you be paying here or charging to the room?”
“Charging to the room.”
Still without looking at me, she pulls out a piece of paper that has a place for my name, room number, and signature. I promptly fill it out and return it to her. While looking at something on the desk, she gestures to the hallway and says, “You can go that way.”
I’m not sure where she wants me to go, but she clearly can’t stand talking to me or even looking at me, so I’ll figure it out. I start walking down the hall.
“Wait!” she yells after me.
I turn around. She has decided that she wants to look at me now, and her fiery glare is intense.
“You said you were in room 382!” The spa is all quiet and Zen, but her tone is aggressive and very loud.
“Yes. I am.”
“You’re trying to charge room 387! That’s not your room!”
Am I losing my mind? Did I write the wrong room number?
She shoves the paper in my face. It says 382.
“It says 382,” I remind her.
“It says 387.” She points to the two. “This is a seven!”
“That’s a two.”
Right underneath my two with a loop, she writes a standard two.
Are you kidding me?
I take a deep breath and think about this rationally. I can tell English is her second language, but there is no way that would affect her ability to recognize that there are two ways to write the number two. Also, because she works at a hotel that has people visiting all the time from all over the world, I find it very hard to believe this is the first time she has seen this.
Her demeanor towards me has been combative ever since I walked in, so the only reason I can see for what is happening right now is that she is being petty for the sake of starting shit with me, for whatever reason.
I don’t engage in petty bullshit, so this is going to end here. “If you don’t like my handwriting, feel free to rewrite my room number in your handwriting.”
Furious, she dramatically rips up the piece of paper and throws it in the trash. I am stunned.
What the hell is happening right now?
As if on cue, my massage therapist shows up.
“Ms. Hawkins?”
“Yes!”
She whisks me down the hallway, away from the raging front desk girl.
Oh great, how can I relax after that crazy encounter?
Compartmentalize. Don’t think about it.
Since survival mode has been my M.O. on this trip, I easily dissociate and enjoy the massage without even thinking of her.
After the massage is over, I don’t know what is going to happen with the front desk girl when I leave, but I am so relaxed that I don’t care.
As I walk back down the hallway towards the front door, I see that she is not at the desk.
Whew!
I figure she can simply tape up the paper she ripped up and charge that to my room.
Not so fast.
“Excuse me!” she says as she appears from somewhere in the back. “You need to sign this.” She pulls out a fresh paper form.
I could write the number two how she wants me to but that’s not how I write the number two, and I don’t conform to what other people want me to be anymore. My way is not incorrect. It’s simply different than the way she writes it. And that’s okay.
I fill out the form exactly the way I did the first time and walk away. I guarantee she will have no problem finding a way to charge my room. As a matter of fact, I should probably make sure she doesn’t overcharge me.
Fortunately, I leave with no incident with her. I don’t understand why she hated me so much. Because I am feeling emotionally fragile, I can feel the urge to ruminate and be pulled into her energy and overanalyze why that happened.
But because I am committed to compartmentalizing until I get home, I promise myself I can worry about it later.
This trip is definitely cursed.
I can’t wait to go home.
(To be continued in Part 11)
Glow Tip:
Emotional Containment, Self-Trust, and Not Explaining Yourself When You’re Already at Capacity
That day in Morocco, I floated over the desert in a hot air balloon while quietly unraveling inside. By the time I reached the spa, I wasn’t dramatic or reactive. I was fragile, regulated just enough to function, and deeply protective of what little steadiness I had left.
When the front desk employee turned combative over something as small as my handwriting, I felt the familiar pull to explain myself, smooth it over, make it easier for her.
That old survival wiring of: If I stay agreeable, I’ll stay safe.
But I didn’t need to be understood. I needed to stay intact.
For years, I believed self-love meant being flexible, accommodating, and “nice,” even when my nervous system was fried. But real self-trust looks quieter than that. It looks like not engaging. Not correcting someone’s mood. Not reshaping yourself to be palatable.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t perform. And I didn’t change how I write my name or my numbers to make someone else comfortable. I held my ground without force and walked away.
Self-love isn’t always softness. Sometimes it’s containment, knowing when not to explain, and choosing your own regulation over someone else’s approval.
When you stop contorting yourself in moments of stress, you stop leaking energy, and you start coming home to yourself.
That’s what it means to shine from the inside.
Video Version
If this story stirred something in you…
If you’ve ever held yourself together while quietly falling apart, over-explained when you were already exhausted, or stayed “nice” when your nervous system was begging for rest, this is your invitation to do things differently.
I created The Self-Compassion Reboot as a free 3-day experience (plus a powerful Day 0 and a Bonus Day 4) to help you step out of survival mode and reconnect with yourself, without forcing positivity, perfection, or performance.
Inside the challenge, you’ll learn how to:
Regulate your nervous system when you’re overwhelmed
Soften your inner critic without attacking yourself
Stop abandoning yourself in moments of stress
Rebuild self-trust through awareness, compassion, and choice
There’s no race. No rules. No fixing yourself. Just real tools for real life, especially when you’re tired.
You can find the full Self-Compassion Reboot playlist on YouTube under https://www.youtube.com/@angiehawkins808 or through the link below:
👉https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtihsVOp1d0pHBuWWrF1-SkZqhY6MZefg
Come sit with yourself. Let your body exhale. And start coming home on your own terms. 💛
