Oyofe: A Village Made of Rhythm and Love

I Have Always Loved to Dance.

As a child, dance for me was pure joy, the movements were spontaneous and full of life. I didn’t think too much about it back then; I just knew that dancing made me feel free. But somewhere along the way, though, life got heavier. Responsibilities piled up, relationships shifted, and the version of myself that danced without inhibition got quieter until she disappeared almost completely.

Becoming a mother changed me in meaningful ways, it showed me what unconditional love really looks like but it also challenged me to the core. I was navigating early motherhood while trapped in a toxic and emotionally abusive relationship with my then husband, and I felt like I was losing myself... slowly, silently, piece by piece.

I think many mothers can relate to this feeling… not just fading into the background while tending to everyone else’s needs, but becoming “Mama,” and suddenly that’s who you are to the world and, while it’s a name full of love, it can feel like your own identity, your dreams, your desires, your old self… gets pushed aside and slowly disappears. There’s a silent grief for those parts of you, not because you stopped caring about them, but because there’s simply no space to hold them. Navigating the new version of you while still trying to stay connected to who you were is one of the hardest things to adjust to and, for me, dance became the bridge between the two.

It was during one of those painfully disorienting moments of my life that I returned to dance; not just as a hobby, but as a lifeline to feel whole again.


Dancing as Medicine

I joined an all-styles dance studio, nervously and with no big expectations; I just needed something that was mine, something that reminded me of who I used to be. That space gave me the chance to explore different styles: Hip Hop, Twerking, Sexy, Dancehall… Each one helped me reconnect with my body in a new way. I was waking up again, piece by piece.

But the real turning point came when I took my first African dance class. I still remember that moment so vividly: the rhythm dropped, the energy in the room shifted, and something inside me changed. There was joy in the air and everyone was smiling, moving, celebrating. It didn’t matter if you didn’t know how to do a step because people were cheering each other on, hyping each other up, reminding each other that the most important thing wasn’t perfection, it was joy.

I wasn’t just dancing, I was having fun. The kind that takes you out of your head and brings you fully into your body and makes you forget that you were ever afraid.

It clicked instantly. I knew I had found something I didn’t even know I was looking for.

Beyond that, I came to realize something deeper: dance helps my mental health in a way nothing else does. These last six years have brought a lot of ups and downs. Life, work, single motherhood… it can all become so overwhelming, stress weighs heavily on me, especially when work pressure builds. And yet, when I dance, it’s like everything else pauses. It’s the only thing that truly grounds me. Dance is my therapy... it’s how I survive.


The Day the Music Made Me Brave

After a couple of years of dancing at the studio, I wanted more. I knew I didn’t just want to learn steps; I wanted to understand the history, the meaning behind the movement. I wanted to feel the soul of the dance; not just in my body, but in my bones. I knew that if I was going to continue this journey, I needed to learn from someone who embodied the culture, someone who could teach me not just technique, but also context.

That’s how I found Nico, also known as Oulouy, from Côte d’Ivoire, living in Barcelona.

Funny enough, I had followed him on social media for years. For two whole years, I kept telling myself I wanted to go to his classes while looking at his Instagram stories, but something always held me back; mostly fear, insecurity, and that old voice whispering “what if you can’t keep up?”

In the summer of 2020, I went to a Dancehall and African party at the beach and Nico happened to be there. I remember standing next to him for a moment, watching him move to an Afrobeats song. The way his body responded to the rhythm with so much grace and soul that it left me completely mesmerized. I wanted so badly to say something, to tell him how much I admired his movement… but I didn’t because I’ve always been shy.

Fast forward to September of 2020. That’s when I finally told myself: enough. I needed to stop letting fear hold me back. I decided to show up to his class even if I messed up, even if I didn’t know the steps. So I walked into a small studio in Gràcia, not knowing a single person. I was quiet, nervous, almost shrinking into myself but the moment Nico hit play… everything shifted. The music started, and it was like my body remembered how to breathe and I forgot about fear, about everyone else in the room, and all that was left was rhythm and presence.

From that first class on, I knew I had found something different, Nico introduced me to an entire world of African dance styles from across the continent. He gave me the space to explore, to learn and to grow and, through him, I rediscovered my love for Coupé Décalé and Ndombolo; two styles that now live deeply in my body and heart. He taught me the foundations, the cultural significance, the social nuances… and in doing so, he helped me find a confidence I didn’t even know I was searching for.

Although I had known of Coupé Décalé since I was 17, Nico was the first person who truly taught me how to dance it: with authenticity and purpose. And he didn’t stop there. Without him, I don’t think I would’ve ever dared to go to Abidjan to take private classes with local choreographers and immerse myself at the source but he made that leap feel possible. He didn’t just teach me how to dance but he gave me the courage to own my place in this journey.


The Birth of Oyofe

Nico isn’t just a dancer or teacher. I believe he’s a visionary, and he’s the face, body, heart and mind behind the amazing Oyofe Dance Camp.

I’ve supported him from the very beginning, and I still remember walking into Oyofe Vol. 1 in December 2021 very nervous, intimidated, and unsure of myself. It was in a warehouse studio in Sant Martí. We were maybe 60 dancers, mostly from Spain, coming together for something we didn’t fully understand yet but already loved.

I was scared… scared I wouldn’t be good enough, scared I’d mess up, scared I didn’t belong. We were about to dance with well-known choreographers and incredibly talented dancers. I still don’t know how to do half the things they teach (and I often laugh at myself along the way), but from the moment I stepped into the room, I felt something shift. There was joy in the air, there was warmth, and above all, there was no ego. There were just humans sharing space, learning, growing, and vibing together whilst dancing.

That first Oyofe felt like home and it changed everything.


From 60 to Hundreds: A Family in Motion

Since then, Oyofe has grown into the biggest African dance camp in the world.

At the latest Oyofe Vol. 8, hundreds of dancers from all corners of the globe came together in Barcelona, and somehow, it still felt like family. Every edition, in July and December, familiar faces return to the city, Oyofe has become our our reunion and we count down the days all year long, not just to dance, but to reconnect: with the music, with each other, and with ourselves.

There’s something incredibly special about dancing in a room full of people who may not speak the same language, but who all understand the rhythm. You laugh, sweat, stumble, and push yourself… and you leave feeling more alive than ever.

Dancing with Nico, and being part of Oyofe, didn’t just give me technique or confidence, it gave me community. Over time, I formed deep friendships with people I never would have met otherwise. Some of them have become a true family, these are people I trust, love, and feel deeply connected to. That’s the magic of Oyofe… It brings people together through movement, and before you know it, you’ve built something bigger than yourself.


Breaking Barriers: Bringing Dancers from the Continent

One of the things I deeply admire about Nico is how he never forgets his roots and how committed he is to making sure dancers from the African continent are not only seen but celebrated.

He works tirelessly behind the scenes to bring African dancers directly to Oyofe, not just to teach, but to be recognized as cultural bearers, leaders, and artists in their own right. And I know it’s never easy.. the logistics are exhausting, the visa processes are often dehumanizing, complicated, and unfair because some applications are rejected with no explanation. Some dancers wait months for a decision that never comes, flights must be paid upfront without any guarantee of arrival. And yet, Nico keeps pushing… He fundraises, he advocates, he sends letters, he makes calls, he tries again and again all because he believes in what they bring and because he knows that for Oyofe to truly honor African dance, it has to center the people who live it at the source.

In a world that still creates barrier after barrier for African talent to move freely, share their amazing talent, and be treated with respect, Nico’s fight is not just logistical; it’s political, cultural, and deeply personal.

Because representation and opportunity matter.
Because these dancers deserve to shine on international stages too, not just for their talent, but for everything they carry: culture, spirit, legacy and pride.

And when they do arrive, whether from Côte d’Ivoire, Congo, Nigeria, Ghana, South Africa or beyond, they light up the room. You feel the depth in their steps and you hear the stories in their rhythm… You see generations of knowledge passed down through movement. And suddenly, Oyofe becomes not just a dance camp, but a living archive of African excellence.

Thanks to Nico and the team, Oyofe isn’t just about celebrating African dance, it’s about creating real access, building real bridges, and ensuring that the culture is never separated from the people who carry it.


More Than Dance: Oyofe Is Africanness in Motion

What makes Oyofe so different and sacred is that it’s not just about choreography. It’s actually a celebration of Africanness in all its complexity and beauty.

Each dance class is rooted in foundation and history. You don’t just learn the “moves”; you learn why they exist, where they come from, who created them, and what they mean. Oyofe makes that clear because it teaches respect. Every country, every region, every genre is unique and deserves to be honored as such.

And beyond the dance floor, Oyofe becomes a living, breathing village.

Black and African-owned businesses set up their stalls, selling handmade crafts, clothing, jewellery. The air smells of thieb, dibi, alloco. People sip on bissap and ginger juice between classes, while African music spills into the street. It’s sensory, joyful, alive. It’s not a festival or a dance camp, it’s an experience.

And what makes it even more powerful is that it’s not just dancers or students from the African continent who show up, it’s also the diaspora. Over the years, I’ve seen more and more people from the African and Afro-Caribbean diaspora finding their way to Oyofe. These worlds colliding and reconnecting through rhythm and movement. This last edition, I even met a dancer from Grenada and, if you know me well, you know that’s my favourite island on earth. At one point, I saw the Grenadian flag waving in the air and my whole face lit up. It feels like a full-circle moment: Africa and her children, scattered across oceans, reuniting through movement, music, and joy.

But Nico’s work doesn’t stop here. It’s been incredibly moving to witness how he’s also bringing African dance into the world of theater. He’s showing the world that these styles, often dismissed as “just choreography,” are in fact living art forms, full of emotion, story, and cultural depth. On stage, these movements become more than steps because they become narrative, expression, and truth. They belong in theaters and scenarios just as much as in studios or clubs and they deserve to be spotlighted, celebrated, and taken seriously as art.

Watching Nico push those boundaries and elevate African dance into these spaces is a reminder that this isn’t just movement… It’s resistance, and legacy.


Behind the Scenes: Tireless Joy

What most people don’t see is how much work goes on behind the scenes. Things don’t always go perfectly, that’s inevitable with any big event. But Nico and his team carry it all with grace, humor, and relentless heart.

Even when things go wrong, Nico never loses his smile. He meets every challenge with that joie de vivre he has; a joy for life that radiates outwards and becomes contagious. That joy is the reason Oyofe feels so safe and so alive, it is also the reason as to why people keep coming back, edition after edition.

I’ll never forget the time when the electricity went out in the middle of a party. No music, no lights, nothing. For most people, that would’ve meant stopping everything, waiting and definitely stressing. But not Nico.

Within minutes, he turned the moment into magic. One of the musicians grabbed the drums, people circled up, and Nico led us into a spontaneous celebration of rhythm and energy. No playlist, no speakers, just live percussion and pure joy. We danced nonstop for 45 minutes until the power came back, and honestly? This is one of my best Oyofe memories.

It wasn’t just about keeping things going, it was about alchemizing the unexpected into joy. That ability to adapt when facing unexpected chaos, to celebrate in the face of challenge, to turn a problem into a party. It was a moment that showcased that resilient, creative, life-loving spirit that says: no matter what comes your way, you dance and have fun anyway. And that’s what Oyofe is made of.

It’s not just the choreography or the teachers. It’s the energy, the way people are held, the way everyone is encouraged to show up as they are, without fear of judgment. That’s what creates the magic and what makes Oyofe a space that feels like coming home every single time.


We Keep Going

And I know, deep in my heart, this is only the beginning and soon we will be thousands.

What started as a dance camp has grown into a global movement, and it continues to evolve. Oyofe is no longer just a twice-a-year gathering. 

In Barcelona, we keep going with Oyofe Studio, a new chapter where the energy of the festival finds a home all year round. A space where we can continue to train, connect, and grow together. And now, my son Thierry, who’s only 8, has started joining me in this journey. He comes with me to Oyofe, watches, dances, and connects. It makes me emotional to see how something that gave me so much is now becoming part of his story too. To witness him soaking in the music, the community, the culture… It's a full-circle moment I never could have imagined. Oyofe is becoming part of our family’s memories.


Gratitude

I will always be grateful for what Nico and Oyofe have brought into my life. They have given me dance, yes, but they also have given me back myself. They have given me courage, connection, healing, and family. They have reminded me that joy is a form of resistance, that movement is medicine, and that it’s never too late to come home to yourself.

To Nico, to the entire Oyofe team, and to every dancer I’ve met along the way… Thank you, please know that you will forever be a part of me. May this space continue to grow without losing its soul. May it always be a place where people feel safe to be themselves, learn with humility, leave their ego at the door, share openly with one another, dance with joy, and honor and celebrate African cultures with deep respect and pride.

And of course… we’ll see each other soon for our very own Detty December. I am ready to join the Ghana vs Nigeria dance feud and find out which country brings the most heat (because let’s be honest, we all know the best jollof lives in Senegal and Gambia anyway).

“One who eats alone cannot discuss the taste of the food with others.”
Oyofe reminds us of this every day… that the real richness lies in what we share with one another: the music, the stories, the sweat, the joy, the laughter.

And to anyone reading this who feels like they’ve lost a piece of themselves, try moving. Not to be perfect but simply to feel. You might be surprised by what you find: not only your own strength, but a community that welcomes you like family.

Isla de Gorée: Donde la historia nos sostiene y el amor nos guía

Una visita muy esperada

Llegamos a Dakar de noche, y supe de inmediato que la Isla de Gorée tenía que ser una de nuestras primeras paradas. No quería que pasaran los días sin ir. No quería perdérmela. No era un sitio más para visitar, era algo que sentía que necesitaba presenciar desde hacía años.

A la mañana siguiente, un viernes justo antes del ajetreo del fin de semana, fuimos al puerto para coger el ferry. Ese mismo día ya habíamos visitado algunos lugares de Dakar, incluido el impresionante Monumento al Renacimiento Africano. La ciudad apenas despertaba. Y aunque hablábamos poco francés, la gente nos sonreía, nos saludaba con curiosidad y hacía el esfuerzo de conectar con nosotros en inglés, en español, y siempre con una alegría especial al hablar con mi hijo, Thierry. Mientras esperábamos el ferry, algunas personas se acercaban simplemente a conversar. Nos sentimos bienvenidos.

El trayecto fue corto, apenas treinta minutos, pero lleno de vida. Un grupo de niños, algo mayores que Thierry, llenaba el barco de risas y conversaciones. Thierry encontró a un grupo de hombres tocando maracas senegalesas y enseguida se unió a ellos. Antes de darme cuenta, ya estaba aplaudiendo al ritmo, sonriendo de oreja a oreja. Cuando me acerqué, gritaban “¡This time for Africa!” mientras bailaban y aplaudían, y hasta le enseñaron a tocar los instrumentos. Fue un momento cálido y alegre, de esos que se quedan contigo para siempre.

Pero cuando la isla apareció ante nosotros, algo dentro de mí cambió.

El silencio de la piedra

El mar estaba en calma y el cielo, completamente despejado. Las buganvillas caían sobre los edificios de colores. Las barcas flotaban tranquilamente junto a la orilla. Gorée parecía tranquila, casi idílica. Pero yo sabía lo que venía. Lo sentía como un peso instalándose en mi pecho.

Y cuando bajamos del ferry, ese silencio se hizo aún más profundo.

Caminamos hacia la Maison des Esclaves, la Casa de los Esclavos. El sol empezaba a calentar. El camino estaba en silencio. No había muchos visitantes, y nadie hablaba demasiado. No hacía falta. Dentro, el aire cambió. Se volvió más denso, no por el calor, sino por el peso de la historia. Se sentía en el pecho. El silencio tenía su propia presencia.

Solo se escuchaban las voces de los guías, suaves, flotando por los pasillos de piedra, contando horrores que aún hoy me cuesta poner en palabras. Caminé despacio, a veces sola. No quería pasar rápido por ahí. Quería escuchar. No solo lo que se decía, sino también lo que callaban las paredes. Pasé la mano por la piedra, sobre todo en la sala donde encerraban a mujeres y niños. Sabía que ese espacio guardaba demasiadas historias para ser contadas.

Un detalle que nunca olvidaré: cómo castigaban a quienes se resistían. A quienes no aceptaban ser tratados como menos que humanos. Los encerraban en un agujero en la pared, en una celda tan pequeña que ni un niño podía estar de pie. Esa imagen todavía me revuelve el estómago.

La puerta del no retorno

Finalmente, llegamos a la Puerta del No Retorno. Un arco sencillo, de cara al mar. Era lo último que vieron miles de africanos esclavizados antes de ser obligados a subir a los barcos, llevados lejos de sus hogares, sus familias, su tierra. Alejados de todo lo que conocían. Lanzados directamente a lo desconocido.

Me quedé allí, con los ojos llenos de lágrimas. No me hice fotos. No podía posar. Y no quería hacerlo. Pero sí tomé una foto de Thierry, con el puño derecho en alto, frente a esa puerta. No se trataba de mí. Quería que él tuviera ese momento. Que lo llevara consigo. Que recordara de dónde viene y que sintiera la fuerza de quienes vinieron antes que él.

Justo antes de eso, dos turistas españoles me pidieron que les hiciera una foto, sonriendo y listos para posar frente a la puerta. Me pareció tan fuera de lugar. Esa puerta no es para sonrisas. Es para el silencio. La reverencia. La memoria.

Allí de pie, con la oscuridad a mis espaldas y el océano delante, algo dentro de mí se rompió. Imaginé a los ancestros de Thierry. Su dolor. Su miedo. Y los imaginé observándonos. Esperé, de algún modo, que se sintieran orgullosos de él y de lo que llegará a ser.

Más tarde, Thierry no dijo mucho. Pero me agarró fuerte de la mano mientras caminábamos de vuelta al ferry. Creo que entendió. No todo, pero lo suficiente como para llevarse algo con él.

A veces visitamos lugares como este pensando que estamos allí para aprender. Pero a veces también estamos para desaprender. Para guardar silencio. Para preguntarnos: ¿Qué necesita de mí este lugar, más allá de mi curiosidad?

Antes de irnos, nos detuvimos en un pequeño puesto de artesanía cerca del muelle. Thierry eligió una maraca hecha a mano. Queríamos contribuir, aunque fuera de forma simbólica, a quienes viven allí.

Pero ese momento también me recordó algo incómodo. No todas las personas que viven en la isla se benefician del turismo que recibe. A pesar del flujo constante de visitantes, muchos habitantes luchan por ganarse la vida. Algunos incluso han sido desplazados por el aumento del coste de vida y por un turismo comercial que se lucra con la historia de Gorée sin reinvertir en su comunidad. La memoria no solo se honra con silencio, también con justicia, con dignidad, y con apoyo real a quienes la sostienen día a día.

La herencia que lleva él

Me fui con el corazón encogido, pero también orgullosa. Orgullosa de haber llevado a mi hijo allí. De haber plantado una semilla: una semilla de historia, de orgullo, de resiliencia. Sé que solo tiene siete años, y que no recordará cada palabra, pero espero que recuerde la sensación. Que estar allí significó algo. Que viene de una línea de personas que sobrevivieron. Que conservaron su música, su lengua, su cultura. Que, a pesar de los intentos por borrarla, la transmitieron para las generaciones futuras.

Estar allí como mujer blanca fue incómodo. Y debía serlo. No fui a “entender” de forma superficial. Fui a escuchar. A presenciar. A cargar con ese peso con humildad.

Como madre de un niño mestizo, sentí rabia. Tristeza. Y también orgullo. Porque, a pesar de todo lo que se hizo a personas que se parecen a mi hijo, él está aquí. Vivo. Alegre. Íntegro. Y su historia merece ser honrada, no borrada ni ignorada.

No quiero imponerle respuestas. Quiero darle espacio. Espacio para hacer sus propias preguntas, para descubrir sus raíces, y para llevarlas con orgullo.

Más que una visita

El resto de la isla es hermosa. Tranquila. Llena de flores y brisa suave. Y eso hace que el peso de su historia se sienta aún más fuerte. Porque allí conviven la paz y el dolor. Siempre lo han hecho.

Gorée me cambió.

No porque me enseñara algo nuevo, sino porque me hizo sentirlo. Profundamente. Me recordó que la memoria no es pasiva. No se trata solo del pasado. Se trata de cómo vivimos hoy. De cómo criamos a nuestros hijos. De cómo nos posicionamos en el mundo.

Me recordó que hay que viajar con intención. Apoyar a las comunidades locales, no solo observarlas. Alzar la voz y actuar frente a la injusticia. No solo en relación al pasado, sino también al presente, para que podamos construir un futuro mejor.

Porque el racismo no terminó con la esclavitud. La colonización sigue muy viva. África sigue siendo malinterpretada. Sigue siendo subestimada.

Y porque la memoria, sin acción, no es suficiente.

Si alguna vez vas

Si alguna vez vas a Gorée, ve con el corazón abierto. No vayas solo a tomar fotos. Escucha a las voces locales. Apoya a la comunidad. Camina despacio. Déjate sentir, incluso en la incomodidad.

Y cuando te vayas,
llévatelo contigo.
Cuenta la historia.
Mantén viva la memoria.

Porque Gorée no es solo un lugar.
Es un espejo.
Una herida.
Una lección grabada en piedra.
Un llamado a recordar,
y a hacerlo mejor.

Para que nunca miremos hacia otro lado.
Para que nunca lo repitamos.
Para que honremos lo que se perdió
con la forma en que elegimos vivir,
educar en amor y resistencia,
criar con consciencia,
y mantener la memoria viva. 

Gorée Island: Where History Holds Us, and Love Leads Us

A Visit Long Awaited

We arrived in Dakar late at night, and I knew immediately that Gorée Island had to be one of our first stops. I didn’t want the days to pass without going, I didn’t want to miss it. This wasn’t just another place to visit, it was something I had felt I needed to witness for years.

The next morning, a Friday just before the weekend rush, we made our way to the ferry terminal. Earlier that day, we had already visited a few landmarks in Dakar, including the magnificent African Renaissance Monument. Even though we spoke little French, locals smiled, greeted us with curiosity, and made an effort to connect in English, in Spanish, and always with joy when talking to my son, Thierry. While we waited for the ferry, people came up just to chat. We felt welcomed.

The ferry ride was short, only about thirty minutes, but full of life. A group of schoolchildren a little older than Thierry filled the boat with laughter and chatter. Thierry found a group of men playing Senegalese maracas and quickly joined in. Before I knew it, he was clapping along, smiling ear to ear. When I joined them, they were shouting “This time for Africa!” while clapping and dancing, and they even taught him how to play the instruments. It was a warm and joyful moment and one I’ll carry with me always.

But as the island came into view, something shifted in me.

The Silence of Stone

The sea was calm, and the sky perfectly clear, bougainvillea spilling over colorful buildings and fishing boats floating gently along the shore. Gorée looked peaceful, idyllic even. But I knew what lay ahead... I could feel it, like a quiet weight settling in my chest.

When we stepped off the ferry, that silence deepened.

We walked toward the Maison des Esclaves, the House of Slaves. There weren’t many other visitors, and no one said much, because we didn’t need to. Inside, the air changed. It was heavier with the weight of history, you could feel it settle in your chest as if the silence had its own presence.

Only the guides’ voices moved softly through the stone corridors, speaking of horrors I still struggle to put into words. I walked slowly, sometimes alone because I didn’t want to rush through it. I wanted to listen, not just to the facts being told, but to the silence and the walls. I ran my hand along the stone, especially in the room where women and children were held. I knew that space held too many stories for words.

One detail that will never leave me: how they punished those who resisted, people who refused to accept being treated as less than human. They were locked in a hole in the wall, a cell so small not even a child could stand upright and that image still turns my stomach.

The Door of No Return

Eventually, we reached the Door of No Return. A simple arch, facing the sea. This was the last thing thousands of enslaved Africans saw before being forced onto ships, taken far from their homes, their families, their land. From everything they had ever known, straight into the unknown.

I stood there with tears in my eyes. I didn’t take pictures of myself, I couldn’t pose, and I didn’t want to. But I did take a photo of Thierry, with his right fist raised, standing in front of that door. This wasn’t about me but I wanted him to have that moment, to carry it with him, to remember where he comes from, and to hold the strength of those who came before him.

Just before that, two Spanish tourists asked me to take a photo of them, smiling and ready to pose in front of the door and it felt so wrong. I believe that door is not for smiles but it is for silence, reverence and memory.

Standing there, with only darkness behind and ocean ahead, something in me cracked open. I imagined Thierry’s ancestors and their pain, their fear and I imagined them watching us now. I hoped, somehow, that they would feel proud of him, and of what he will become.

Later, Thierry didn’t say much but he held my hand tightly as we walked back to the ferry. I think he understood, not everything, but enough to carry something with him.

We often visit places like this thinking we’re there to learn but I believe sometimes, we’re also there to unlearn, to be quiet, to ask ourselves: "what does this place need from me, beyond my curiosity?".

Before we left, we stopped at a small artist’s stall near the dock and Thierry picked a handmade maraca. We wanted to contribute, even in a small way, to the people who live there.

But that moment also reminded me of something uncomfortable... Not everyone on the island benefits from the tourism it receives. Despite the steady stream of daily visitors, many locals struggle to earn a living. Some have even been pushed out due to rising costs and the growth of commercial tourism that profits from Gorée’s history without reinvesting in its community. Memory must also be honored with fairness, dignity, and support for those who keep that memory alive.

The Lineage He Carries

I left feeling heavy, but also proud. Proud to have taken my son there and to have planted a seed, a seed of history, of pride and of resilience. I know he’s only seven, and he won’t remember every word, but I hope he remembers the feeling, that standing there mattered. That he comes from a line of people who survived, who carried music, language, and culture and who passed it on for future generations, despite people trying to erase it and demonize it. 

Being there as a white woman was uncomfortable, as it should be. I wasn’t there to “understand” in a superficial way. I was there to listen, to witness, and to carry the weight with humility.

As a mother of a mixed-race child, I felt anger, sadness but also pride. Because despite everything that was done to people who looked like my son, he is here alive, joyful, whole and his story deserves to be honored, not erased or ignored.

I don’t want to impose answers on him. I want to give him space to ask his own questions, to discover his roots, and to carry that with pride.

More Than a Visit

The rest of the island is beautiful, calm, full of flowers and soft breeze. And that makes the weight of its history feel even sharper because both peace and pain live there, side by side. They always have.

Gorée changed me.

Not because it taught me something new, but because it made me feel it deeply. It reminded me that memory is not passive, it is not just about the past but about how we live now, how we raise our children and how we show up in the world.

It reminded me to travel with intention, to support local communities, not just observe them, to speak up and stand up against injustice, not just about the past, but about the present, so we can create a better future together.

Because racism didn’t end with slavery. Colonization is still very much alive. Africa is still misrepresented and underestimated.

And because memory without action is never enough.

If You Ever Go

If you ever go to Gorée, go with your heart open. Don’t just take pictures. Listen to the local voices. Support the local community. Walk slowly. Let yourself feel in your discomfort.

And when you leave,
carry it with you.
Tell the story.
Keep the memory alive.

Because Gorée is not just a place.
It’s a mirror.
A wound.
A lesson carved into stone.
A call to remember,
and to do better.

So that we never look away.
So that we never repeat it.
So that we honor what was lost
in the way we choose to live,
to teach,
to raise our children,
and to carry memory forward.

Five Moments the Sahara Left in Me

This wasn’t just another trip. The Sahara went deep inside me through my eyes, my skin, straight into my heart. It gave me immense peace, a feeling of freedom that’s hard to explain. And there, in the middle of silence and vastness, I felt something I’d never felt anywhere else: absolute presence… and a deep sadness that pierced my soul.

This post is not a guide, nor a list of “things to see.” It’s an emotional journey through the moments that marked my time in the Sahara, and in many ways, transformed me. 

1. The Soul and the Shadow of The Sahara
   
   

   The desert is a living presence. It’s not just a landscape, it’s an experience.
   
   
   

   
   
   
   Almost a year later, I can still see myself there: sitting on the sand, barefoot, the wind brushing against my face. In front of me, nothing… and everything. The infinite horizon before my eyes. Dune after dune, the landscape stretched endlessly, as if the world were only made of sand. Time slowed down, softened, became almost irrelevant. And the silence filled everything… and kept me company.
   
   
   In that vastness, I found a peace I’ve rarely felt. My body relaxed, my heart slowed down, my gaze became clearer. The beauty of the Sahara isn’t decorative; it’s deep, magnetic, infinite. At one point, I felt as small as I did feel free, as if the desert embraced me effortlessly and invited me to get lost in it.
   
   
   Sleeping in a haima was another way of returning to the essential. There, surrounded by silence, under a star-filled sky and the moon, I understood that nature doesn’t need us to fill it with words, it just wants us to listen.
   
   
   But sitting there, I also remembered that not everything in the desert is calm. Amid such overwhelming beauty, I felt a deep sadness. Because for many people, the Sahara isn’t a destination but a border. It is not a place to admire, but an obstacle they must cross on foot, risking everything for a chance at a better life.
   
   
   As I sat there, breathing deeply, grateful and aware of the privilege of being in that place, I thought of those who leave behind their homes, their families, their languages… not knowing if they will ever make it to the other side. There, in the middle of the sand and the wind, that privilege became clearer than ever: a weight that fell on me and crushed my soul.
   
   
   The Sahara is, at the same time, refuge and threat, freedom and a barrier. For me, it was a gift but for others, an open wound crossed with fear… and with hope. I thought of those uncertain steps, the difficult days and nights in the desert, full of anguish, loneliness and exhaustion. And I felt that this, too, is part of traveling: to see the invisible, to let yourself be affected, to not look away. And to speak of it with honesty.
   
   
   
2. Being a Child Was Enough
   
   
   I remember the exact moment with pride and deep motherly love: watching my son sit next to another child as we visited a nomadic family. They didn’t say a word. One picked up a coloring book, the other took my bracelet from Côte d’Ivoire… and just like that, they started playing.
   
   
   They didn’t need to speak. Just being there, sharing curiosity, looking at each other with honesty was enough. It was a silent, natural exchange, one that moved me more than any adult conversation could have.
   
   
   During those days, my son wasn’t just a visitor. He was a child among other children. He laughed, played, banged on drums, hugged baby goats, shared bread, got his hands dirty. And in every gesture, he learned something essential: that the world is much bigger, much closer, and much more accessible than we’re led to believe.
   
   
   
   

   

   
   
   I watched him, feeling that he was experiencing something you can’t learn from books or school. Something you only understand through the heart: that our differences are not walls, they are bridges.
   
   
   Skin color, language, religion, customs… We’ve been made to believe these things divide us. But there, in the middle of the desert, my son learned something far greater: that differences don’t push us apart, they bring us closer, they enrich us and they show us other ways of living, feeling, and being in the world.

   And when we take the time to see those differences, we begin to understand each other better. Because in the end, what unites us is stronger: respect, joy and the simple desire to share and connect with each other. And none of that needs translation.
   
   

3. Amazigh Hospitality
   
   

   We visited a nomadic family, and what seemed like a fleeting encounter turned into one of the most genuine moments of the journey. We sat together under the haima, shared freshly baked bread, warm tea, a few words, and many smiles. And time, that is already slow in the desert, seemed to stop even more.
   
   
   In the vastness of the Sahara, they welcomed us as if we were already known to them. There was no rush, only the warmth of a family connected to the land, to the present moment and to their community.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   That day I understood something simple but powerful: hospitality isn’t measured by what someone has, but by how they give. By how they look at you, by how they make space for you in their life, even if only for a few hours. My son felt at home, too. He played with the children, peeked curiously into the well. He didn’t need guidance to fit in, just an open heart.
   That day I felt that beyond the journey, there is the encounter. Beyond the map, there are people. And in the middle of the desert, among the sandy dust and the silence, we met an Amazigh family who lives with coherence, cares for their roots, preserves their way of life with pride and shares it with open arms.
   
   

4. African Roots in the Heart of the Desert
   
   

   In Khamlia, a small village on the edge of the desert, we weren’t tourists. We were received as guests, as if we belonged.
   
   
   

   

   
   
   That day, there was no loud music or dancing. The community was in mourning. Someone had passed away, and out of respect, the drums remained silent. Still, they offered us a few gentle songs. And that was more than enough.
   
   
   Watching my son sit beside a local musician and play an instrument is a moment I’ll never forget. Not because it was spectacular but because it was intimate.
   
   
   Gnawa music is not just rhythm; it is also memory. It is the echo of those who, torn from their lands as slaves, crossed West Africa and arrived in Morocco. People who, despite the pain and violence of their history, left their soul in every note of the music, every step of the dance, and every word of the stories still told today.

   This small village in the middle of the Sahara is a living reminder of who they were and still are. A vibrant blend of cultures, stories, and deeply African roots. Morocco isn’t just a gateway to Africa. Morocco is Africa. And in that quiet space, I felt it beating.
   
   
   

   
   
   

   Many of us know there’s another reality in North Africa, one that really hurts. A sense of distance from the rest of the continent. A discrimination toward Africans from other regions that excludes and dehumanizes them.

   But in Khamlia, I discovered that the connection is still alive. Here, African roots are not denied. They are honored. Here, being African isn’t questioned, it’s celebrated.

   That’s why this place meant so much to me. Because in the silence of the Sahara, Khamlia reminded me that there are still communities that resist with dignity, that embrace their African heritage with respect and remembrance.
   
   

5. The flavours of the Desert 
   
   

   In the desert, I learned that food is not just nourishment. It’s also an act of care, of belonging, and of memory. Every dish tells a story of the one who prepared it, of the land it comes from. And it’s an opportunity to connect with those who share each bite with you.
   In the Sahara, we were offered handmade bread, baked beneath the sand, and we also got to try the famous Amazigh pizza; so simple, yet so delicious, full of flavor and history. Yes, we were invited to taste it… but more than that, we were invited to sit, to be part of something, to understand.

   There, between laughter, my parents and I remarked on how alike we were. That Amazigh pizza reminded us of a traditional Spanish empanada, and in that moment we realized something beautiful: we are more connected than we think. That probably we share more cultural heritage than we’re even aware of.
   
   
   

   

   Having tea was another lesson in hospitality. The sound of the liquid being poured, the pauses between one glass and the next, the shared silence… Tea isn’t rushed, it’s savored. You taste the flavour, yes, but also the moment, the presence, the company. In that ritual, there is affection, tradition, and living culture.
   
   
   
   Sharing food was sharing life. With its flavours, its textures, its silences. And although we didn’t understand every ingredient, we understood something far more important: the heart with which it was offered. And that, truly, tastes better than any recipe.

I dream of returning to the desert.
To that overwhelming silence, to that star-filled sky, to that way of being that changes everything.

Today, when I close my eyes, I can still see the infinite horizon of the Sahara, feel the wind on my face, hear the crunch of sand beneath my feet. But more than the landscape, what stayed with me were the people and the moments we shared.

This trip wasn’t perfect or spectacular. It was real. And that’s what made it unforgettable. Because I believe that when we travel with an open heart, the world stops feeling distant and it becomes a reflection of who we truly are, and of how much we share with others, even when our lives are different.

The Sahara changed me in subtle ways.
In how I listen.
In how I observe.
In how I value what truly matters.
And most of all, in how I connect with others.

And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that travel, for me, is not about escaping.
It’s about remembering.
Remembering who I am, where I come from, what I want to honor, and how I want to move through the world.

The Sahara is still with me.
And I know I’ll return.

Cinco momentos que me regaló el Sahara

No fue un viaje más. El Sahara se me metió muy adentro: a través de la mirada, en la piel y directo al corazón. Me regaló una paz enorme, una sensación de libertad difícil de explicar. Y allí, en medio del silencio y la inmensidad, sentí algo que no había sentido en ningún otro lugar: presencia absoluta… y una tristeza profunda que me atravesó el alma.

Este post no es una guía, ni una lista de “qué ver”. Es un recorrido emocional por los momentos que marcaron mi paso por el Sahara. Y que, de alguna manera, me transformaron.

1. El Alma y la Sombra del Sahara 
   
   

   El desierto es una presencia viva. No es solo paisaje, es experiencia.
   
   
   

   
   
   

   Casi un año más tarde, todavía me veo ahí: sentada sobre la arena, con los pies descalzos y el viento acariciándome la cara. Frente a mí, nada… y todo. El horizonte infinito ante mis ojos. Duna tras duna, el paisaje se extendía sin fin, como si el mundo solo fuera arena. El tiempo se volvía más lento, más suave, casi irrelevante. Y el silencio lo llenaba todo… y me acompañaba.

   En esa inmensidad encontré una paz que pocas veces había sentido. Mi cuerpo se relajó, mi corazón bajó el ritmo, mi mirada se volvió más pura. La belleza del Sahara no es decorativa; es profunda, magnética, infinita. En algún momento me sentí tan pequeña como libre, como si el desierto me abrazara sin esfuerzo y me invitara a perderme en él.

   Dormir en una haima fue otra forma de volver a lo esencial. Ahí, rodeada de silencio, bajo el cielo estrellado y la luna, entendí que la naturaleza no necesita que la llenemos de palabras. Solo que la escuchemos.

   Pero sentada ahí, también recordé que no todo en el desierto es calma. En medio de esa belleza abrumadora, sentí una tristeza profunda. Porque para muchas personas el Sahara no es un destino, sino una frontera. No es un lugar para contemplar, sino un obstáculo que deben atravesar a pie, jugándose la vida en busca de un futuro incierto.

   Mientras yo respiraba hondo, agradecida y consciente del privilegio de estar allí, pensé en quienes dejan atrás su hogar, su familia, su idioma… sin saber si llegarán al otro lado. Ahí, en medio de la arena y el viento, ese privilegio se volvió más evidente: un peso que me cayó encima y me aplastó el alma.

   El Sahara es, al mismo tiempo, refugio y amenaza. Libertad y límite. Para mí fue un regalo; para otros, una herida abierta que se cruza con miedo… y con esperanza. Pensé en esos pasos dados con incertidumbre, en los días y noches difíciles del desierto, llenos de angustia, soledad y cansancio. Y sentí que también eso es parte del viaje: ver lo invisible, dejarse afectar, no mirar hacia otro lado. Y poder hablar de ello con honestidad.
   
   
   

2. Ser niños fue suficiente
   
   Recuerdo con orgullo, y con mucho amor de madre, el momento exacto en que lo vi sentarse junto a otro niño mientras visitábamos una familia nómada. No se dijeron nada. Uno cogió un libro de pintar, el otro, mi pulsera de Costa de Marfil… y ya estaban jugando.

   No necesitaban hablar. Bastó con estar ahí, compartir la curiosidad, mirarse de verdad. Fue un intercambio silencioso, natural, que me conmovió más que cualquier conversación adulta.

   Durante esos días, mi hijo no fue un visitante. Fue un niño más en el Sahara. Jugó, rió, tocó tambores, abrazó cabritos, compartió pan, se ensució las manos. Y en cada gesto, aprendió algo esencial: que el mundo es mucho más grande, más cercano y más accesible de lo que nos quieren hacer creer.

   
   
   

   Yo lo observaba, y sentía que estaba viviendo algo que no se aprende en los libros ni en el colegio, algo que solo se comprende con el corazón abierto: que nuestras diferencias no son un muro, son un puente.

   Color de piel, idioma, religión, costumbres… Nos han hecho creer que todo eso nos separa, que son barreras. Pero allí, en medio del desierto, mi hijo aprendió por primera vez algo mucho más grande: que esas diferencias no nos alejan, nos acercan, nos enriquecen y nos muestran otras formas de vivir, de sentir, de estar en el mundo. 
   
   Y al conocerlas, nos entendemos mejor. Porque, al final, lo que nos une es más fuerte: el respeto, la alegría, la ternura, el deseo de compartir. Y eso no necesita traducción. 

   
   

3. Hospitalidad Amazigh
   
   
   Visitamos una familia nómada, y lo que parecía un encuentro fugaz se convirtió en uno de los momentos más verdaderos del viaje. Nos sentamos bajo la jaima, compartimos pan recién hecho, té caliente, algunas palabras, muchas sonrisas. Y el tiempo, que ya era lento, se detuvo aún más.
   
   En medio de la inmensidad del Sahara, nos recibieron como si fuéramos conocidos. No hubo prisas, solo la calidez de una familia que vive conectada con la tierra, con el presente, con su comunidad.
   
   
   

   
   
   
   Ahí entendí que la hospitalidad no se mide por lo que se tiene, sino por cómo se entrega. Por cómo alguien te mira, por cómo te hace un hueco en su vida, aunque sea por unas horas. Mi hijo también se sintió en casa. Jugó con los niños, se asomó curioso al pozo. No necesitó instrucciones para integrarse, solo estar con el corazón abierto.
   
   Ese día sentí que más allá del viaje, está el encuentro. Más allá del mapa, está la gente. Y en medio del desierto, entre el polvo de la arena y el silencio, conocimos a una familia Amazigh que vive con coherencia, cuida sus raíces, mantiene su forma de vida con orgullo y la comparte con los brazos abiertos.
   
   

4. Raíces africanas en el corazón del desierto
   
   

   En Khamlia, un pequeño pueblo a las puertas del desierto, no fuimos turistas. Fuimos recibidos como invitados, como si fuéramos uno más.
   
   
   

   
   
   

   Ese día no hubo música fuerte ni bailes, ya que la comunidad estaba de duelo. Alguien había fallecido y, por respeto, los tambores no sonaron. Aun así, nos ofrecieron un par de canciones suaves. Y eso fue suficiente.

   Ver a mi hijo tocar un instrumento, sentado junto a una persona local, fue un momento que guardaré siempre. No por lo espectacular, sino por lo íntimo de ese instante.

   La música gnawa no es solo ritmo: es también memoria. Es el eco de quienes, arrancados de sus tierras como esclavos, cruzaron África occidental y llegaron hasta Marruecos. Personas que, a pesar del dolor y la violencia de su historia, dejaron su alma en cada nota de la música, en cada paso de baile, en cada palabra de las historias que hoy se siguen contando.
   
   Ese pueblo, en medio del Sahara, es un recordatorio de lo que fueron y de lo que aún son. Una mezcla viva de culturas, de historias, de puras raíces africanas. Porque Marruecos no es solo una puerta hacia África. Marruecos también es África. Y en ese espacio pequeño yo también lo sentí latir.

   
   
   

   
   
   

   Muchos sabemos que existe otra realidad que duele en el norte de África: una distancia con lo que significa ser africano, como si no formaran parte de ese gran continente, y una discriminación que sufren personas de otras regiones de África, que las excluye y deshumaniza.

   Pero allí, en Khamlia, descubrí que esa conexión africana sigue viva. Allí, las raíces no solo se reconocen, también se honran. Allí, ser africano no se niega: se celebra.
   
   Por eso este lugar fue tan significativo y especial para mí. Porque en medio del Sahara, Khamlia me recordó que aún hay comunidades que resisten con dignidad y abrazan su herencia africana desde el respeto y la memoria.

   
   

5. Los Sabores del Desierto
   
   

   En el desierto aprendí que la comida no es solo alimento. Es también un acto de cuidado, de pertenencia y de memoria. Cada plato cuenta algo de quien lo prepara, de la tierra de la que nace. Y también es una oportunidad de conectar con quienes comparten con nosotros cada bocado.

   En el Sahara, nos ofrecieron pan hecho a mano, cocido bajo la arena, y también probamos la famosa pizza amazigh, tan sencilla pero muy deliciosa, llena de sabor y de historia. Nos invitaron a probar, sí, pero también a sentarnos, a formar parte, a entender.

   Ahí, entre risas, mis padres y yo comentamos lo parecidos que éramos. Esa pizza amazigh nos recordó a una empanada típica de España, y entendimos algo bonito: que también estamos conectados. Que seguramente compartimos más herencia cultural de la que creemos.
   
   
   

   
   
   

   Tomar el té fue otra lección de hospitalidad. El sonido del líquido al servirse, las pausas entre una taza y otra, el silencio compartido... El té no se bebe con prisa: se saborea. Se saborea el sabor, sí, pero también el momento presente, la compañía, la calma. Y en ese gesto hay cariño, hay ritual, hay cultura viva.

   Compartir la comida fue compartir la vida. Con sus sabores, sus texturas, sus silencios. Y aunque no entendimos todos los ingredientes, sí entendimos algo más importante: el corazón con el que se nos ofrecía. Y eso, sinceramente, sabe mejor que cualquier receta.

Sueño con volver al desierto.
Volver a ese silencio abrumador. A ese cielo estrellado. A esa forma de estar que lo cambia todo.

Hoy, cuando cierro los ojos, aún puedo ver el horizonte infinito del Sahara, sentir el viento en la cara, escuchar el crujir de la arena bajo los pies. Pero más allá del paisaje, lo que me llevé fueron las personas y los momentos compartidos.

Este viaje no fue perfecto, ni espectacular. Fue real. Y eso es lo que lo hizo inolvidable. Porque creo que, cuando viajamos con el corazón abierto, el mundo deja de ser un lugar lejano y se convierte en un reflejo. Un reflejo de quienes somos, y de cuánto compartimos con otros seres humanos, aunque nuestras vidas sean distintas.

El Sahara me transformó de manera sutil.
En la forma en la que escucho.
En cómo observo.
En cómo valoro lo que realmente importa.
Y, sobre todo, en cómo me acerco y me relaciono con los demás.

Y si algo me queda claro, es que viajar, para mí, no es escapar.
Es recordar.
Recordar quién soy, de dónde vengo, qué quiero honrar y cómo quiero caminar por el mundo.

El Sahara sigue conmigo.
Y sé que volveré de nuevo.

🌍 What Travel means to me (Then vs. Now)

A story of evolution, motherhood, and presence

Travel became a part of who I was the moment I stepped onto a plane for the very first time at 21. I still remember the mix of excitement and fear the night before my early flight to London. My best friend and I giggled our way to Girona’s airport at 4 a.m., way too young and too broke to afford anything fancy but that was part of the charm. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

As soon as the plane took off, I knew two things:

I hated flying. I never wanted to stop traveling.

The thrill of arriving somewhere unknown has always outweighed any fear I've had. In my twenties, I traveled through Spain, Europe, and even made it to the U.S. exploring cities like New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, and swimming in the peaceful waters of Hawaii. But the trips that truly stayed with me were the ones to the Caribbean. That was when something shifted.

It was no longer about checking cities off a list.
It became about connection with people, cultures and energy.

It sparked something in me: a desire to experience and promote a more conscious, fairer way of traveling. One where local communities aren’t just seen but also valued, heard and respected.

Motherhood, Movement & Slow Travel

When I got pregnant at 27, I was genuinely happy to become a mum but I was also very scared. I thought I would have to give up one of my greatest passions. Oh, how wrong I was!

Yes, traveling changed. Yes, it became harder. But it also became deeper, softer, slower and infinitely more meaningful.

I remember our first flight together. My son was just two months old. I panicked for two hours thinking he’d scream the entire flight. Instead, he slept the whole way back to Barcelona. And I realized… this was possible.

Since then, we’ve traveled together with strollers, nappies, and later with toys and snacks. I adapted to his rhythm, and in doing so, I slowed down too. I started noticing the small things again, taking deeper breaths and appreciating the in-betweens.

At 18 months, I took him to the Caribbean as part of his roots are there. Seeing him surrounded by people who looked like him filled my heart in a way I can’t quite put into words. I hope I can take him back again now that he’s older, so he can keep connecting with that part of who he is.

When Covid hit, travel plans stopped. Like many, we stayed local, mostly exploring Spain and nearby countries in Europe but that season taught me that meaningful travel doesn’t have to be far because slowness was enough. One morning, I even had a moment, one of those "what if I die tomorrow" moments, and booked a spontaneous trip to Paris. My son was four, and we went to Disneyland for the first time. The look on his face? Still one of my favorite memories (meltdowns and all).

I thought traveling with a child would take something away from me.
Instead, it gave me so much more: more presence, more stories to share.
And the most unexpected gift... I found my little travel soulmate.

Conscious Travel, Deeper Purpose

Last year, I decided he was ready for a bigger adventure. We booked a 10 days road trip through Morocco, a country that pulses with rhythm and soul. He was incredible... open, curious and patient. It gave me confidence to go even further, so this January we did a 14-day road trip through Senegal and The Gambia and
it was pure magic even when we waited nearly 24 hours to cross the river by ferry. 

People often tell me I’m brave to travel like this as a single mum. Maybe I am. But to me, it’s not about being brave, it’s about creating memories. Travel is the best gift I can give him. The chance to learn through people, landscapes, cultures, challenges, laughter and sometimes even tears. We’re currently dreaming up a road trip through Côte d’Ivoire and Cape Verde. Maybe someday we’ll make it to China or Japan.

Places That Changed Me

I used to be proud of visiting big cities and ticking off iconic spots. But the trips that shaped me weren’t always the loudest ones.

In Grenada, I felt the rhythm of the Caribbean heartbeat and saw how joy and resilience live side by side.

In Côte d’Ivoire, I danced, listened, and re-learned the meaning of presence.

In Senegal, I witnessed the power of community-led initiatives and what Teranga is really all about. 

In The Gambia, we waited for hours unexpectedly and almost messing up all of our plans, but it reminded me: "sometimes, time doesn’t belong to us, we belong to it."

In Morocco, I let the moment guide me through its scents and it sounds. And I felt free again around the Sahara desert. 

Each of these places left something special with me and I hope I left something beautiful behind too.

🌿 Healing, Identity, and the Practice of Presence

Travel, for me, is no longer a way to escape.
It’s a mirror.
It reflects what I still carry, and what I’m learning to let go.
It teaches me to slow down.
To stay open when things don’t go to plan.
To embrace uncertainty and chaos with more flexibility and less fear.
To notice beauty in what’s unfolding, not just in what’s expected. I am still learning...

It’s also an act of responsibility.
I choose to support local businesses.
I try to stay in accommodations that uplift and empower the communities that welcome us.
But it’s more than that.
It’s also about unlearning.
Unlearning what I’ve been taught about “right” and “wrong” ways of living.
Unlearning judgments I didn’t know I carried.
Unlearning the need to judge, compare, or to fix.
And then, it becomes about relearning.
Relearning how to listen deeply, quietly, respectfully.
Relearning how to approach difference not with fear, but with curiosity and respect.
Relearning how to observe with humility, not assumption.
To witness and to honor.
Since becoming the mother of a mixed-race child, travel also became a matter of identity.
I don’t impose anything but I give him the space he needs to discover his own sense of self.
So he can explore where he comes from, who he is, and why all of it matters.
And so he can feel proud of his story, not despite its complexity, but because of it.

Travel Now, Travel with love

What travel means to me now is very different from what it meant at 21.
It’s no longer just freedom.
It’s also connection, presence, learning and legacy.
It’s a slow inhale, a long look.

I still hate flying but I’ll always choose to keep going.
Because now, I travel with purpose, with presence, with love...
And that makes all the difference.