The Night the Desert Sang

Marrakech, 2019 It was supposed to be Portugal.

Lisbon, in late spring, gray skies, a cool breeze, and a quiet city that felt strangely far away from me. I wandered tiled streets and waited for awe to arrive, but it didn’t. Something felt muted, like I’d shown up to a party that had already ended.

So I did what the old me would never dare: I booked a last-minute flight to Marrakech.

No itinerary. No plans. Just a heart open to wonder and a carry-on full of maybe.

The plane landed with a soft thud into red earth and golden sun. A driver from the riad was waiting, his smile kind even without shared language. We drove through a city of color and rhythm, ochre walls, rusted doors, pink dust rising like memory. Then into the medina, where the alleys tightened like veins toward the heart of something ancient.

My riad was tucked behind a carved wooden door that opened into another world, courtyard bathed in light, mosaic tiles underfoot, orange trees stretching upward like prayers. From my room, I could hear the call to prayer echoing through the air, gentle but insistent, as if the city itself was exhaling something sacred.

The souk Semmarine buzzed just outside. Spices in mounds like dyed sand, leather bags lined the walls, lanterns dripping from the ceiling like stars that had fallen indoors. The air smelled of saffron and charcoal and something sweet I couldn’t name. I wandered with no map, only instinct, weaving through time, dodging motorbikes and trailing the sound of music or laughter or the smell of tagine.

But the magic came when I booked a trip to the desert.

We packed into a bus, strangers from everywhere. A couple from France, musicians from Canada, a group of friends from Spain who sang through the winding roads like it was a road trip of their lives. We shared snacks, stories, songs. Someone played guitar, and languages blended in the air like incense.

The road was long, coiling like a silk ribbon through the Atlas Mountains. Red cliffs turned into golden plains, and slowly, the land began to hush. Then, just before the stars, we reached the Sahara.

Camels waited like sleepy guardians. We climbed on, laughing, balancing, swaying under the deepening blue of evening. When we arrived at camp, the dunes rose around us like waves. The sky opened wide, and we weren’t just visitors, we were pilgrims of wonder.

Mint tea was passed in warm glasses. Tagine cooked slow over fire. Then came the drummer, hands slapping joy into the night. We danced barefoot in the sand, wild and unselfconscious. We clapped and sang and forgot what time was. The fire cracked and so did something in me: open, soft, free.

Later, the girls and I crawled into one big tent. We didn’t all have same paths, but sisterhood doesn’t always need words. We looked out for each other. We laughed about camel rides and dry shampoo, about dating and dreams. We were soft with one another, like women who knew something about holding space.

But the moment I keep in my pocket came after the laughter.

I stepped outside into the cold desert night. The fire had quieted. The drums were silent. I laid on the sand alone, face tilted to the sky. And there they were.

Stars.

More than I’d ever seen in my life. The kind that don’t blink. The kind that makes you feel small in the most beautiful way.

The sand cradled me. The night wrapped itself around me like silk. And in that silence, I didn’t feel lost. I didn’t feel alone. I felt part of it all.

The stars, the strangers, the songs, the stories, I belonged.

In that moment, I was whole