After weeks of fast-paced travel on an Intrepid tour – new cities, early mornings, constant movement – my body and mind were asking for something different. I didn’t know exactly where I would stop, only that I needed to.
The day I arrived in Essaouira, I knew almost immediately.
The cool coastal air. The long walkway stretching beside the beach. A medina that was colourful and alive, but not too overwhelming. Cafes that invited lingering rather than rushing. It felt calm in a way that made my shoulders drop without me realising they were tense.
I didn’t have accommodation booked beyond the night I arrived. By the end of that first day, I’d found a one-bedroom apartment within my budget, with its own terrace, available from the next morning – and suddenly I had a home for the next month!
It all fell into place so easily that it felt like a quiet confirmation: this was exactly where I was meant to stop.
Letting go of the guilt of slowing down
I don’t feel any resistance or guilt about stopping – not anymore.
Earlier in my travels, I used to feel pressure to keep moving. To see everything. To make the most of being “there.” But long-term travel has forced me to completely shift that mindset. When travel becomes a lifestyle rather than a once-in-a-lifetime two-week trip, slowing down isn’t indulgent – it’s actually really necessary.
Rest is what allows me to keep going. It’s what creates a sense of normalcy, rhythm, and something that feels like home, even when I’m far from it.
Essaouira gave me permission to pause without questioning it.
Creating a temporary home
I stayed in a one-bedroom Airbnb near the CTM bus station – a quieter, more residential area, with a European-style living room, my own terrace and a nice rooftop. It was beautifully decorated and immediately felt like home. I had neighbours I started to recognise, local shop owners who remembered me, and a space that felt like mine.
I felt very safe living there, especially as I got to know the area. I didn’t go out alone much after dark as the smaller streets were quiet and dimly lit, but during the day I moved freely and comfortably. Internet was reliable, and the cost of living felt very manageable with a foreign income – something I’m very aware is a huge privilege!
There was even a large Carrefour supermarket nearby, which became an unexpected comfort. I loved Moroccan food, but growing up in Australia with such a wide mix of cuisines, I’m not used to eating just one cuisine all the time. Being able to buy Italian pasta or Asian sauces made cooking feel familiar again – another small way of grounding myself.
Even the cafes began to feel familiar. Returning to the same few spots, ordering the same coffee, and recognising faces added to that growing sense of routine and ease.
What a day looked like
Most days followed a rhythm I quickly grew attached to.
I’d walk about 15 minutes along the beach toward the medina, always stopping at a different cafe for a cappuccino. From there, I’d wander through the medina and back along the waterfront, before heading home to cook lunch and work for the afternoon.
In the evenings, I’d either head back to the beach or up to my rooftop terrace to watch the sunset – absolutely non-negotiable. Watching the sky change colour and the sun set over the Atlantic ocean each night became a ritual, a marker of time slowing down, and a daily pause for gratitude.
What changed everything was not having to plan. No packing, no deciding what city came next, no negotiating discomfort. Just living the day as it unfolded, knowing I had a home to return to.
Presence and belonging
One morning, as I walked down the street, the local fruit shop owner waved and called out to say good morning.
It was such a small moment, but it stopped me in my tracks. I felt seen. Recognised. Like I belonged, even briefly. That sense of quiet familiarity is something you only get when you stay long enough for a place to start noticing you back.
Solitude, honestly
I didn’t really build a social life while I was there. I didn’t make new friends, only acquaintances, and most of my social interaction came from FaceTime calls and voice notes with friends and family.
But that felt right.
I was socially exhausted when I arrived, and I genuinely enjoy my own company. I’ve spent a lot of time alone in my travels before, and this month wasn’t about connection outward, it was about reconnection inward.
Why this month mattered
Living in Essaouira reminded me why balance matters so much in long-term travel.
Stopping doesn’t mean giving up momentum. It means understanding your burnout boundaries, knowing when to reset, and trusting that slowing down allows you to fall in love with places in a deeper, more meaningful way.
By the end of the month, I felt refreshed, grounded, and ready to move again – with a special place in my heart for a city that asked very little of me, and gave me exactly what I needed.
I know I’ll be back one day. And I love that.
Alexx
Alex's Adventures 