Why I Went to Morocco (and Why I’ll Never Be the Same)

By Tania Gonzalez Ortega

A woman, a suitcase, and a lifetime of stories waiting to be rewritten. Morocco was my portal for transformation.

For years, I dreamed of going to Morocco. Not because it was on some “top ten” bucket list, but because one of my closest friends—a true wild hearted woman—had made it her home.

She’s a human firecracker: all dance, theater, music, painting, and passion. The kind of woman who doesn’t ask permission before choosing aliveness. She lives in full technicolor. If she’s fire, I’m water. I’m the gentle presence to her whirlwind. She kicks me into motion. I help her remember to go easy. We’ve been orbiting like that for years.

“She lives in full technicolor. I’m the watercolor beside her.”

So I tried, more than once, to organize a retreat to Morocco. Constellations, energy healing, sisterhood under the stars. But the timing was off. And honestly? I hadn’t been there yet myself. How could I guide others into the unknown if I hadn’t yet walked it?

This year, I stopped waiting. The money was there. I was no longer tied to a classroom. I had my family’s blessing. So I booked the ticket. Seattle → Istanbul → Marrakech → Essaouira.

“I felt teleported. Eleven hours and a whole new dimension.”

Before the trip, I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, a countdown echoing in my bones. It was exhilarating and terrifying. Flying into Istanbul, the world began to expand. The airport buzzed with energy: women in hijabs, luxury shops, a swirl of global presence. I felt teleported. Eleven hours and a whole new dimension.

And then: Morocco.

The chaos of Marrakech traffic. The red earth. Old men on donkeys. Kids hitchhiking from school. Palm trees, argan trees, goats. Essaouira greeted me like a dream: ancient, cat-filled, pulsing with mystery and scents. And then—the call to prayer. A sound that crooned through the air five times a day.“Inshallah,” they say. God willing.

And somewhere in the midst of the unfamiliar, I remembered something: I haven’t left the country since 1997. Pre-marriage. Pre-children. Pre-responsibility.

And oh, how I needed needed this adventure.

What Morocco Showed Me

Spending time in Morroc revealed to me that I’ve been sprinting through life. Obsessed with productivity. Conditioned by a culture that confuses burnout for virtue.

Doing nothing the first week was hard. No work. No social media. Just me, my friend, and the art supplies I’d forgotten I loved. I doodled. I wrote poems. I read books, journaled, watched romcoms and allowed myself to be.

I also ate. I mean really ate.

For years, I’ve been managing a collection of digestive issues, restrictions, and sensitivities. My body a battleground of food rules. In Morocco, I let it all go. Bread. Dairy. Sugar. Pastries from heaven that cost a dollar.

And you know what? I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t die .I didn’t spiral into inflammation and regret.

I felt alive.

I realized most of my food fear was just that—fear. Anxiety in disguise. Control dressed up as self-care. What healed me was the surrender, not the spinach.

And Then There Was Me

What surprised me the most was… me.

How calm I actually am. How patient. How deeply loving. How people see me. Even across cultures, across language.

In a small Berber village, a woman in a black hijab caught my eye. Her gaze locked with mine and pierced straight through me—curious, kind, present. No words passed between us. Just recognition. Just love.

In Morocco, people look into your soul. And I saw myself in their eyes. The grace I often forget. The softness I try to hide. The beauty I didn’t know others could see.

Coming Home

By the third week, I started to miss my people. My land. Our farm. The trees. My husband.

And when I returned, I saw it all differently. The clutter didn’t matter. The bills were still there. The tasks. But I was different.

More open. More trusting. Less frantic. I’d left behind fear. I’d returned with reverence. My husband even said, “It feels like a love rebirth.” And he was right.

I could literally feel in my cells the abundance that had always been there - the pine trees, the wind blowing through leaves, the bird song, the rush of the river, the morning crow of the rooster.

All there, welcoming me back.

The Real Riches

This is the magic of travel, of retreat, of being truly elsewhere.

It disorients the ego. It untangles the hustle.It softens the grip we have on control, identity, and fear.

I used to throw money at supplements and self-help programs. Now? I want to invest in experiences that shift my soul.

So here’s what I’ll say to you:If you feel the pull to travel… go.If you feel called to retreat… do it.If your body is whispering for rest, for beauty, for adventure… listen.

Morocco transformed me.And now that I’ve met the land, the people, and the mystery, I can say with all my heart—I’d love to share it with you.

Maybe next time, you’ll come too.

(To join the waitlist for the next women's retreat to Morocco, email your request to be added to tania@newearthconsciousness.com)