As I travel my way through Egypt and Turkey, I realize the challenge I have placed upon myself. Although travel sounds like a dream, wandering solo through Egypt has been far more of an initiation than an indulgence.
Don’t get me wrong, I have loved the Egyptian part of my trip, but oh my god, it has stretched me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. I only spent nine days there, yet each one felt like a lifetime’s worth of lessons. I had carefully planned every detail, knowing where I wanted to go, what I wanted to revisit, and how to avoid the usual chaos of last-minute arrangements. Still, Egypt laughed at my plans. She had her own.
It has been a roller-coaster! raw, beautiful, confronting, humbling. I’ve been chewed up and spat out by this land, and I can’t quite explain it.
At Sakkara, I climbed deep into the pyramid, bending, twisting, ducking through narrow passages before emerging into the light again. It felt like a symbolic rebirth. Each step mirrored contractions of some cosmic birth canal, a physical initiation that left my body buzzing for hours afterward.
Later that day, I sat quietly inside the King’s Chamber of the Great Pyramid. The air was heavy yet soft, almost pulsing. Unlike my first visit years ago, this time felt different ; peaceful. I had moments of stillness alone, both in the King’s Chamber and at the entrance of the Queen’s Chamber shaft. Gratitude washed over me. How lucky am I to be here again, in these sacred spaces, with time to simply be.
The next day took me to Alexandria, and oh, how quickly the energy shifted. The chaos, the honking horns, the endless crowds, the pungent smell. It all felt like resistance. I couldn’t withdraw cash, I struggled to find food that felt safe, and my room was uncomfortable. It was as if Alexandria was holding up a mirror saying, You’re not meant to stay here. I listened.
From there, I journeyed south. Cairo to Luxor, and then onward to Aswan. Abydos and Dendera left me speechless. Each temple held a silence that spoke louder than words, each wall whispered memory. At Karnak, in the presence of Sekhmet, I found calm amidst the noise as though time itself paused so I could breathe again.
By the time I arrived in Aswan, I was completely spent – body, mind, and soul. Yet Aswan felt like returning home to a grandmother’s embrace. The warmth, the kindness, the gentle rhythm of the Nile. Everything exhaled. I stayed with an old friend from a decade ago, now running a boutique hotel he built himself. His place felt like a sanctuary to me ; soft beds, laughter, nourishing food. Egypt, in her unpredictable way, had wrapped me in a cocoon to rest.
If Egypt taught me anything, it’s surrender. You can plan, you can control, but the land will always remind you that you are not in charge here. I had to shed so much: the organizer, the achiever, the self-reliant woman. What remained was simply me.
When we stop, truly stop, something magical happens. In a world that glorifies constant doing, I found the courage to be still. To let life unfold without interference.
As I sit here in Turkey, writing these reflections, I keep returning to one thought: What if we all had it wrong this whole time? What if slowing down, softening, and listening were the real measures of wisdom, the very things our ancient ancestors knew so well?
As I walk through temples, ruins, and sacred sites that have outlived millennia and empires, I can feel it. We’ve drifted so far from the divine rhythms that once guided humanity.
So perhaps this journey isn’t about discovering new lands after all. Maybe it’s about remembering. Remembering what was once sacred, what still lives in our bones, and what our hearts have been longing to return to all along.