Morocco Group Travel with Wild Women: A Lesson in Letting Go

It had been five years since I’d travelled.

I don’t mean a weekend trip or a road trip — I mean real travel. The kind that asks something of you. The kind that stretches you, wakes you, and presses against your edges in a way only the unknown can. And while I’d spent those years rooted in the familiar — work, home, routine — something inside me had quietly curled in on itself. I had forgotten what adventure really felt like… until I experienced Morocco group travel with Wild Women Expeditions.

Somewhere between lockdowns, loss, and the slow rebuild of normal life, I had stopped moving. Not physically, but in the way that travel invites: eyes wide open, soul first, a passport in your pocket and possibility in your bones.

When the chance to go to Morocco with Wild Women Expeditions arrived, I wanted to say yes. But beneath the desire, panic stirred. Could I still do this? Could I navigate group dynamics, foreign streets, unfamiliar rhythms — myself — after so long?

But something deeper than my fear answered. It said: Go.

The thought of airports, of logistics, of being with new people — even of just being seen again — nearly unravelled me. My imagination spun out in all directions: what if I didn’t connect with anyone? What if I lost my passport?

From the moment I arrived in Marrakech, something began to shift. The hotel was impossibly stylish — like something out of a movie. With its tiled interior courtyards, trickling fountains, and the scent of mint tea wafting through the air, it felt like stepping into another world. That first night — eating freshly baked bread and lemon chicken with a Marrakchi family, surrounded by the unfamiliar warmth of foreign spices and even warmer smiles — I felt myself begin to soften.

It wasn’t that I suddenly felt brave or adventurous. I didn’t. But I did feel… open.

There’s something powerful about being welcomed—about stepping into a stranger’s home, sharing food with your hands, and connecting through stories. That night, we were strangers, seated around the edges of the room on a long bench. But in that shared space, something shifted. Laura, one of the women in our group, broke the ice with a question, and just like that, conversation flowed. We weren’t just visitors in Morocco—we were part of something bigger.

After dinner, a local henna artist adorned our hands with delicate designs. I watched the ink swirl into symbols I imagined were of luck and protection, and something stirred in me — a memory of the person I was when I used to travel freely. She hadn’t vanished. She’d just been quiet for a while.

The days that followed became a blur of color, movement, connection, and awe.

We crossed the Tizi n’Tichka pass, winding up through the High Atlas Mountains — vast and humbling and wild — and descended into a world that felt like a dream. Aït Benhaddou rose up like a storybook village made of earth and time. We wandered through ksars and kasbahs, climbed ancient staircases, and stood at the top, breathless — from the altitude, yes, but also the beauty. I had a moment of panic atop the mountain, scared of the height, and clinging for safety, climbed back down. I would climb it again anyway.

In Zagora, we drove past palm groves and date orchards, past donkeys and children and crumbling clay walls. I listened more than I spoke. I wrote in my journal every night, and shared my reflections online. I trusted my voice. I found myself drawn to quiet corners, not out of loneliness, but reflection. There was a lot coming up — memories, emotions, longings I’d tucked away during the static years.

This wasn’t a vacation. This was something else. Something deeper. Something that asked for my presence, not my performance.

And then, the Sahara.

Getting to the Erg Chigaga dunes required a 4×4 journey through desolate, gravelly plains that made me feel like I was driving off the edge of the map. There’s something about the timeless desert — the starkness, the silence — that strips you bare. You don’t arrive as a tourist. You arrive as a witness.

We rode camels into the dunes at sunset. I can still feel the sway of my camel’s gait, the labouring sound of its breath, the warm wind on my face, the wobbly descent. The sand turned gold, then rose, then lavender as the sun dipped below the horizon. Time slowed. Words left me.

It was holy. There is no other way to describe it.

The next day was long. Overland through dry riverbeds and argan forests, hours in a van and 4x4s. But even here, trust was growing. In the pace. In the people. In the process. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t trying to connect with the women around me anymore — I just was.

By the time we reached Imlil, high in the Atlas Mountains, I had long since stopped questioning whether I belonged. We all did. Simply by choosing to be there — from wildly different lives, ages, and perspectives — we belonged.

To reach our accommodation, we handed off our luggage to mules and hiked the rest of the way in. I remember looking down at the dirt path, at my feet, at the donkey ahead of me, and feeling joyful.

I wasn’t scared anymore. I wasn’t guarding my heart. I wasn’t worried about my passport. I was here. All the way here.

One of the most memorable experiences of the trip was our time in the High Atlas Mountains, in a peaceful Berber village called Imlil. While most of the group laced up their boots for a 12-kilometre trek, I chose a quieter, if less stable, path.

That morning unfolded slowly—figs and yogurt for breakfast, apricots split open with my fingers, a meander through the stone pathways of the hotel garden. At 11 a.m., my guide arrived with a small, calm-eyed donkey. Together, the three of us began the ascent.

What sounds quaint on paper—a donkey ride through the Atlas Mountains—felt, in practice, like a masterclass in trust. The trail was narrow, the drop beside us increasingly sheer. I could see the village below as a scattering of dots and roofs, and the thin ribbon of trail curling endlessly ahead. The donkey, sure-footed and unbothered, carried on with measured confidence. I, however, gripped the saddle and negotiated with every squeamish instinct I had. At one point, I realized I was holding my breath. I squealed several times, to the amusement of the patient guide.

After more than an hour of this precarious balancing act, we reached a family home built into the mountainside. There, I sat in the sun until the hikers arrived for a traditional lunch and a glass of mint tea, which tasted sweeter than usual.

The return journey was just the guide and me. I’d like to say I was braver on the way down. I wasn’t. But I did learn to lean into the rhythm of it, to look up. The donkey knew exactly where to place his feet. He had an instinct for survival. I trusted that too, after a time.

Back in Marrakech, on our final day, we wandered through the medina — a riot of color and chaos and life—spices stacked in pyramids. Carpets rolled into kaleidoscopic towers. Lanterns glowed like stars in the souk. I bought Moroccan mint tea to take home. And I realized something:

I wasn’t the same woman who arrived here eight days earlier, not because Morocco “changed” me, but because it called me back to myself.

It reminded me that trust isn’t something we collect. Not something we earn. It’s something we practice — moment by moment, step by step, breath by breath.

I left Morocco full. Of stories. Of sand in my suitcase. Of henna and spice and the laughter of women. But more than anything, I left full of trust. In myself. In the road ahead. And in the wild, beautiful unknown.

Learn more about the Morocco Itineraries here.