I’m sitting in my London living room, curled up with a hot water bottle and a warm coffee. It’s Valentine’s Day. Since coming back from Mexico in early February, I’ve dived headfirst into work. Schedules. Yes’s and No’s. Catch-ups. I barely had time to write you this last letter. But here it is.
Last time I checked in, I was on the beach in San Agustinillo. I stumbled there by pure luck. Friends had recommended Puerto Escondido and I wanted to drop in for a day or two. But even though Puerto moves slowly, it didn’t feel quiet enough. I was craving solitude. Somewhere that intentionally had nothing going on. No FOMO. No choice paralysis between ten coffee shops and twelve restaurants. Just one or two of each. I looked at the map and traced the coast east from Puerto Escondido. San Agustinillo looked small. I read a few reviews calling it quiet heaven and that was enough.
When I arrived on the Oaxacan coast, I realised there was no mobile signal. Only Wi-Fi. I had been relying on signal for everything. Booking taxis when i’m out. Sending tracking links to friends. Google Translate when my Spanish ran out. No signal meant that when I stepped outside, I had to rely on people. On asking for directions. On faith in kindness. I’ve never had better experiences with taxi drivers. Especially at night. They would drive me home and wait until I got inside before pulling away in the dark. They handed me their cards in case I ever felt stuck somewhere. It felt protective and generous.
The coast right now is intensely green. The plants in Mexico are a bright, electric green. My driver from Puerto to San Agustinillo told me that in a month it will be too hot and everything will turn yellow and seco. He also confirmed that nothing happens in San Agustinillo but the sunsets. That’s the main event. Go to Punta Cometa, he insisted. Then casually he mentioned turtle migration season in October, which I now have to come back for. And iguanas. And alligators. Just roaming. As if it were normal. It reminded me of Fiji years ago when locals would speak as casually about sharks in the water. I have a phobia of animals that can kill you. It feels reasonable, no? But I wasn’t shaken this time. I felt calm. When I was younger in Morocco, I was braver. The fifteen years I’ve spent in the UK have softened me in some ways and heightened fears that don’t feel like mine. Being here reminded me that deep down, I’m not afraid.
I arrived at my beach cabana, right on the sand. I looked at my bloated suitcase carrying three weeks of adventure and opened it. Swimsuit. Flip-flops. Linen shirt. Crosswords. Kindle loaded with One Hundred Years of Solitude. Journal. Everything else stayed in the case. That’s my one-week solitude starter pack. My brother Facetimed and asked me to show him where I was staying. He compared it to Cast Away, slightly worried.
Where are people?
You're alone in a cabin?
Does the door even lock?
The cabana did have a door and a lock but didn’t have ceiling closure, so I could hear the waves all night. I felt close to a dream I once had. The ocean heals me deeply and quickly. My nervous system resets almost immediately by water. I wrote that down.
A quote I read somewhere kept circling my mind. If you’re so sure, burn the ships. The phrase comes from explorers arriving somewhere new and burning their ships so there was no choice but to make life work. I’ve burned ships many times in my life. I felt another transition coming that would require it again. In recent years, things I was certain about disappeared. That left a quiet anxiety under the surface. When you don’t feel sure, you can’t burn ships. You cling to them. Being here, in quiet, with my nervous system calmer, my body began remembering how to be sure. How to light a fire. How to let things go. I promised myself I would tackle each lingering ship one by one by my birthday, which perfectly marked the end of my solitude week. So I journaled. For hours. Every day until my pen ran out. Which forced me into civilisation to find a supermarket.
I read a lot too. One article in particular stayed with me. Kathryn Jezer-Morton wrote about friction-maxing. The idea of re-injecting difficulty into an otherwise convenient life. These are the habits I decided to bring back to London:
- Using a paper diary. Writing things down forces you to see the shape of your week instead of letting Google Calendar agree to things on your behalf.
- Taking a different route than Citymapper suggests. Following instructions isn’t the same as knowing where you are. Getting slightly lost is actually not that bad!
- Fixing something before Googling it. Spend ten minutes looking at the broken thing. Often the solution is more obvious than you expect.
- Getting a pen pal. In a world where replying to texts feels like homework, letters slow correspondence down. Waiting becomes the point.
Even the letters I've been writing to you made me realise how much I enjoy connecting this way. Unstructured. Unfiltered. Perhaps more long-form in 2026? Let me know...
The ocean air left a constant taste of salt and sand in my mouth. At the end of each day, I hand-washed my swimsuit and linen shirt and hung them outside my cabana. By morning they were dried stiff by salt air.
Even though this was solitude week, I met a few wonderful humans. A 55-year-old writer from California asked what I did. I described Moussem, our team, our projects. He noted how calm I sounded speaking about owning a business. Most entrepreneurs he meets speak quickly, hectically. It made me reflect. It wasn’t always calm. But I’ve learned that however difficult a day or month may be, the sun still rises the next day and you will eat toast. Remembering how small we are compared to the vast world helps. Experience softens panic. I’ve been through enough problems to know that most things resolve.
The hotel staff were fascinated with my hair. I arrived with braids, then let my afro roam free. Every morning, Jesús would compliment it. After the third time, my thank you turned into a dramatic staaahp. He didn’t understand. So we attempted translation. The equivalent in Spanish is “Detente, Hochis.” Queer lingo for stop it, behave. I cannot believe I not only speak Spanish now, but I’m being inducted into internal queer vocabulary. I have truly made it.
Here, everything became ritual. Morning coffee served with little shells. Two restaurants in town that I alternated between. Three waiters for every one customer. I never opened a menu. I asked for their best recommendation. If someone closes their eyes while describing food, I beg, just order it. Ceviche!!! Fresh from the ocean. Lime. Crispy corn tortillas. I’m convinced food is the closest I’ll ever get to spirituality. There is no self-control in my face or voice when I love what I’m eating. The waiters would discreetly watch from corners to see my reaction. I don’t know what tastes better. The food itself or the invisible commitment everyone here seems to have to your enjoyment. It’s both.
People were surprised I chose to spend my birthday here. Nothing happens here, they kept saying. Why here when you could be elsewhere? Because here my senses stretch beyond themselves. Thoughts are audible. Light has sound. The ocean carries colour and scent at once. The waves keep time. My birthday was stripped to basics. Sunrise. Coffee. Ocean swim. Playing with a dog. Napping on the beach. Returning to the same restaurant for ceviche. Different fish each day. Whatever was caught that morning. It made me think about how often we chase newness. Sometimes all we need is a slight shift in ingredients. Perspective transforms repetition. I flipped back to a journal entry from two years ago. I had very little to be grateful for then. This year the list was endless. I had to stop myself from smiling too hard at the page. A couple across from me noticed. I closed my journal and joined their conversation. They were from Vancouver. They taught me how to escape a grizzly bear. Make yourself appear bigger. Make noise. But really, if you encounter one, there is no escaping. It can climb trees and swim. Well, thanks for that chaps.
The loves of my trip were simple. The sun first. How generously she laid her rays on me. Conversations with strangers that asked for nothing in return. And you. In the first five years of Moussem, I was terrified to take time off. I thought everything would stop. It didn’t. You kept ordering. Each notification made me smile. Five years ago I needed time to trust. Trust takes time. But once it forms, it binds deeply. Thank you for that.
I’m now back in Shoreditch. I’m lighting incense. Sandalwood sticks I brought back from Mexico City. I wanted something for my senses to remember this trip. If past lives exist, I was in Mexico in one of them. Now I’m in London. In a home I made cosy. Surrounded by objects with meaning. Rain hits the window. Everyone I’ve spoken to has already complained about the weather multiple times. It is grey. I miss the sun deeply. But I can’t help smiling at the rain. Record showers fell across the UK, Morocco and parts of Africa this January. Multi-year droughts ended. Crops will improve. Local communities will thrive. And here in the UK, we will eat well because much of our food begins there. Perspective changes everything.
One thing Mexico redefined for me is love. Not just romantic love. Not just devotion to a person. You have to love everything.
So, Before I go, and as promised, here are the places that shaped my time in Mexico. Some well-known, some quietly local. Let this list guide you, but not too tightly. Leave room to wander. I hope you get to experience this country one day and, like I did, fall back in love with everything.
Puerto Escondido & San Agustinillo
All my love,
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