When Life Knocks You Down (Hard): What Morocco’s Waves Taught Me About Emotional Safety- Spain & Morocco Part 4

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.

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 unwhimsical, the complete opposite of what I came for.

I step out of the car, and the chilly, windy air coming off the Atlantic Ocean stings my face and immediately deposits a layer of dust all over me. I’ve been outdoors for five seconds and feel like I need a shower already.

Once inside the wall, I am greeted by the retreat owners. This is my fifth surfing retreat with them. The other retreats in Indonesia have been amazing, from the education, the other guests, the location, the accommodations, everything. I fully trust them to provide a great experience, yet I can’t shake this unease.

The hotel manager whisks me off to my room. He opens the door to a small, dull room with three twin beds. My heart sinks to my stomach.

“There are three beds, but there are only two of you in this room,” he clarifies.

Oh. My. God.

I can’t breathe. The other four retreats that I have been on were the exact same price, and I had a single room. When I signed up for this retreat, I was not informed that I would be sharing a room. I don’t share rooms. I need my own space to recharge my energy.

At the same price point of a single room, I never would have come on this trip for the devaluation alone because it was a stretch to afford this trip as it was.

Also, why am I cursed with twin beds on this trip??

The manager leaves me to get settled. I go to the bathroom, which is only a toilet and a shower because the sink is oddly in the room. The space with the toilet and shower is so small that it looks like you could literally be taking a shower while sitting on the toilet. I look around the dingy room and feel the anxiety death-grip on my chest.

I can’t believe this is happening.

I’m not happy. I’m not happy that it’s chilly and dusty. I’m not happy that I’m sharing a room. I’m not happy about the gross room. I’m not happy about a goddamn twin bed again. I’m not happy that I wasn’t told up front about the room share situation.

The Chicago in me wants to march out to the retreat owners right now and crash out about how unhappy I am about all of this.

Breathe. You’re not going to die. It’s only for a week. This is not ideal, but you are here to learn how to surf. Focus on surfing.

The first time I went on a surf retreat was in 2023, and I was so scared to sign up because a retreat sounded like camping, and I do not camp. But all my fears were immediately dissolved once I was there because it was such a magical experience and the beginning of my surfing progression in earnest, because the instruction was so amazing, which is how I ended up going on three more retreats and having similarly amazing times. The irony of this retreat is that this is exactly how I envisioned the very first retreat.

It’s as though my worst fear has caught up to me two and a half years later.

“It’s inside out,” another retreat guest points out as I am stepping into my wetsuit.

“Ooops! Thank you!” I clearly know nothing about wetsuits and already have a bad feeling about this. After a long struggle, I finally pull it all the way on. Instead of feeling like an athletic surfer ready to seize the waves, I feel like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. But with naïve optimism, I am excited to surf in Morocco.

We get down to the shore, and the water is already packed with surfers, mostly large groups of surf schools. The good news is that there are long lines of perfect peeling waves. I envision myself riding one all the way to the shore. This vision is interrupted as I step into the ocean.

Holy f*cking shit.

The water jars my nervous system as if I were getting into an ice bath.

It’s fine. I just need to get some water into my suit to warm up.

As we paddle out, I realize that my nervous system is too shocked to breathe. I internally coach myself to breathe as we paddle. As we get further out, the waves are getting bigger, and it’s harder not to get water on my face as I trailblaze against the grain of the waves. Every point of contact with the water feels like an ice dagger on my face, hands, and feet.

After what seems like an eternity of padding through the breaks of the Arctic, I mean Atlantic, Ocean, we finally arrive on the outside break to catch some waves. I let a few pass to get a feel for the situation, and then my confidence is stirred as I decide to catch the next wave.

Despite being on a surfboard I have never used before and catching a wave in a location I have never surfed before, I catch the wave smoothly, which strokes my ego, until I try to pop up.

I have zero agility in the wetsuit. I usually pride myself on popping up immediately, but I feel like I can’t even move. I ride the wave on my stomach like a bodyboarder for what feels like forever.

This is so embarrassing. I look like a kook!

With sheer willpower, I manage to pull myself up from a prone position, but I only make it to my knees. My humiliation and determination take the wheel as I finally make it to my feet. This wave is smooth and feels amazing!

The feeling is short-lived because I encounter a large group of people who are just hanging out on the inside and not getting out of anybody’s way. I am forced to pull off the wave. So not only is this spot crowded, but most of these people don’t know surf etiquette. My vision of riding a line to the shore is shattered.

Not in this crowd.

Instead of letting my disappointment bring down my mood, I keep redirecting my focus to staying upbeat and learning more about this spot, this board, and how to move in a wetsuit.

It’s fine. I’m strong. I can handle it.

Usually, when I go to a surf spot for the first time, I take a moment to observe the waves from the shore before even getting in the water. And then once in the water, I will consciously observe the waves and water patterns.

Because I am blindly following the instructors, I didn’t observe from the shore. And now, because my nervous system is in survival mode from the cold plunge, I haven’t really been paying attention to anything other than the water temperature.

Which is why I didn’t see this huge wave coming. It’s still forming, but I can tell it’s going to be about four to five feet. Normally, in this situation, I would paddle like a maniac to get over the wave before it crashes in front of me and tosses me around. Because all my muscles are freezing and I can’t move my arms like I normally can in this goddamn wetsuit, I already know there is no way in hell I can paddle that fast right now.

I look around, and there are people beside me and behind me, so any decision I make right now not only affects my own safety but that of those around me. I don’t want to turtle roll because the thought of going underwater in this ice water right now is as desirable as getting stabbed in the face.

So, I do the next safest thing and slide off my board so that my body weight doesn’t cause it to go flying when I get hit with the wave, and hold on to my board for dear life so that it doesn’t hit anyone else.

The bitterly cold wave hits me and basically feels like getting stabbed in the face, so I regret not turtle rolling. Amidst the cold-water chaos, someone else’s surfboard hits my wrist bone.

Holy f*cking shit!

A lightning bolt of pain shoots up my arm as I see one of the other retreat guests recoil her board that just hit me. The anger rising in my chest rallies my inner Chicagoan.

I can’t believe she was being so reckless!

“Your board just f*cking hit me!” I scream at her.

Letting go of your board while being surrounded by people is worse etiquette than not getting out of the way of someone on the wave. It could have hit my head…or someone else’s head. Surfing accidents are like drunk driving accidents. The person who is reckless walks away unscathed, while the victim bears the brunt of the situation.

I quickly jump back on my board and realize that my entire arm is numb and paralyzed.

Oh my God. My arm is broken!

A wave of anxiety consumes my entire body, stealing my breath, stopping my heart, and focusing my brain on one thing: getting to shore where I can be safe.

The problem with that strategy is that only one of my arms is mobile right now. I alternate between feeling helpless and resilient as I try to catch the swells heading to shore with my good left arm among the war zone crowd of other reckless surfers who have zero concern about surf etiquette or safety.

Making it to shore feels like a relief until I am faced with the reality of carrying my board and getting out of my wetsuit with one functional arm. I start feeling my arm to see if it’s broken. It seems intact, but I need to get to safety to figure everything out. But I have no idea how I can pull that off with a numb arm.

Then, the solution appears. Another retreat guest is getting out of the water too.

“Are you done already?” I ask in surprise because I think we have only been in the water for about thirty minutes, even though it felt like three hours.

“Yeah, I got hit a couple of times and I’m over it.”

“Me too! I need your help.” I explain the situation as she helps me unzip the top of my wetsuit before taking her board back to the hotel. After dropping her board off, she will help me with my wetsuit and board. While she is gone, I manage to peel the sleeve off my bad arm with my good arm. Thankfully, my wrist doesn’t seem broken, and instead of being totally numb, it’s tingling, and I have slight mobility in my hand now.

By the time she comes back, my arm can move more, and the situation is diffused. After getting back to the hotel, I take a long, hot shower, which feels pointless because the second I step outside, the chilly, windy air immediately deposits a layer of dust all over me. I resign that I am going to feel like Pig-Pen from Charlie Brown all week.

About an hour later, the rest of the group comes back. I find it interesting that even though I went in because I was injured, nobody seemed concerned that I disappeared without telling anyone. Or even that I got injured.

I survived my second day of surfing, but I am still disheartened by the freezing ocean. I used to be able to power through the cold in Chicago, so I thought I would have the determination to fight through these conditions, but I think living in Hawaii for the past seven years has softened me too much. The water is too jarring, and I hate wearing a full-body wetsuit. It totally takes away the joy of surfing.

I miss Hawaii.

But I did manage to pop up slightly easier and not get hit by anyone’s board today.

We have just finished eating dinner in the hotel dining area, and we’re all sitting around the table still chatting. Suddenly, I feel the urge to throw up. It’s intense, so I need to act now, but I want to act casual so that I don’t cause a scene.

I just need to get to the room and throw up, then I’ll be fine. Then, I’ll come back here and pretend like everything’s okay.

I rise from the table without saying a word. As I walk through the windy, chilly outdoor lounge area, the nausea intensifies, but I am confident that I can make it to the toilet in time.

My eyes groggily open as I feel the cold, white tile of the room floor under my right cheek. I’m lying on my stomach in front of the front door. My brain wants to lift my head, but it doesn’t seem to be communicating that to my muscles.  My partially conscious thoughts are foggy, but the last thing I remember is walking to the room.

What happened?

I suddenly became aware of searing pain on the left side of my neck and face. My brain wants to panic, but I can’t move or think straight.

Oh my God. I’m dying.

(To be continued in Part 5)

Glow Tip:

You can’t control the waves, but you can anchor yourself.

When everything around you feels unsafe, chaotic, or unfamiliar, your nervous system will go into survival mode. You’ll scan for control, safety, or signs that things are okay. That’s what I was doing in Morocco, searching for something outside of me to make me feel emotionally safe again.

But here’s the truth: you are the safety you’re looking for.

Even when I couldn’t control the cold, the room, the crowd, or the chaos, and I was grasping for emotional safety outside of myself, I still created moments of physical safety by choosing to get out of the ocean, asking for help when I needed it, and doing what I could with what I had.

And that’s also how emotional safety starts — small, grounded choices that whisper: I’ve got you.

It’s holding your own hand through discomfort. It’s trusting that you can survive the cold water, the awkward moments, the unknown. It’s remembering that peace isn’t found in perfect conditions; rather, it’s built within you.

Because when you can trust yourself to stay steady inside the storm, you don’t need the world to be calm to feel at home in your body.

And that’s how you glow.

Video version

Ready to feel safe in your own skin again?

You’ve spent a lifetime chasing safety outside of yourself — in other people’s approval, in control, in perfection, and in anything that promised certainty.

But safety doesn’t live in control or approval. It lives inside you.

The more you ground into your own body,
the more you trust your own truth,
the more you stop outsourcing your peace to anyone else,
the safer, freer, and more powerful you become.

If you’re ready to feel safe in your own body again…

Then, it’s time to book your free Find Your Glow session.
👉 https://www.runninginslippers.com/work-with-me

Here’s what you’ll get:

1. Clarity – Identify the hidden patterns blocking your confidence, connection, and joy.

2.  Compassion – Gently reconnect with your emotions and inner voice (without judgment).

3. Confidence – Leave with a personalized next-step plan to reignite your glow.

Because glowing isn’t about looking for certainty outside of yourself, it’s about trusting that you can handle anything external because you create your own internal safety.

With love and fire,

Angie