Initiatory Journey in the Red Sea: Listening to Your Intuition and Awakening the Sacred Feminine

In January, my partner announces he has several free weeks in March. An urgent desire arises: to leave. But between my parents' illness, the war in the Middle East, and my partner's doubts, everything seems to stand against this trip. Everything, except something deep, inextricable, within me. This is the story of an inner journey as much as an outer one, a crossing between the storm of the world and the silent voice of intuition. And of what unfolds when one chooses to trust it.

The Call of the desert, Where Infinity Begins

The Desire That Arrives Without Warning

I am a traveller.

Not a tourist.

A traveller.

One who leaves to weave connections, to meet places and souls, to explore what the world has to teach. This taste was passed on to me very early, within my family, the way one passes on a mother tongue. Travel is my second nature.

My partner, on the other hand, grew up differently.

He loves freedom, movement, but without necessarily leaving France. Since we have been together, I have proposed a thousand trips. All have ended in refusal.

In January, he announces he has several weeks without his son in March.

Something inside me ignites immediately.

An urgent, clear, visceral desire.

To leave. To a warm country. With warm water. February-March is my way of cutting through winter, of finding a deep, simple, solar joy. But not too far, not too long on a plane — my partner does not enjoy flying. Mexico, the Philippines, Florida: too far.

So I ask the question to artificial intelligence.

Where to go in March, not too far, warm sea, affordable, little time difference?

The answer comes: Egypt. The Red Sea.

The Invisible Weaving Its Threads

I remain silent for a moment before the screen.

Egypt.

As a child, I was passionate about this civilisation. After the Native Americans, it was the one that fascinated me most. And then, as I grew up, I closed myself off from it. On my own, I would never have chosen Egypt.

And yet.

As soon as I begin to explore this possibility, something in my body responds. A rightness. A deep, silent yes, that asks for no explanation.

I also notice the dates: they fall during Ramadan. That particular moment of prayer, of connection to the divine, of collective interiority. Something to do there. I feel it.

I begin looking for accommodation. Grand hotel complexes scroll past, too impersonal, not my world. And then something catches my eye: a Bedouin village, small individual houses, simple, in direct connection with nature. Exactly how I love to travel. But no dates available, for any month ahead. The place seems to have closed. I continue my search.

I tell my partner. He is not thrilled, but agrees to please me. I find flights on sale, four days only, like an offered window. I buy them.

It is decided. We are leaving for fifteen days in Egypt.

This is where I find it wonderful how artificial intelligence and the invisible can, together, weave threads that our mind alone would never have dared to knot.

When Life Tests Our Certainties

Then life begins to test the solidity of this decision.

My parents fall ill. My mother has two heart attacks. February fades away. I make myself completely available to help them through this difficult time. The trip recedes into a corner of my mind. Cancelling becomes obvious.

Yet, something refuses to die entirely.

After several weeks, my parents' condition having improved, an agreement is reached, fragile but real: I leave to meet my partner. One week. If it becomes too hard for them, I come back immediately. I do not yet finalise the reservations in Egypt. I will do so once I have found my partner, with cancellation options, to keep the freedom to stop everything if necessary. But I take a look at the available accommodation anyway.

And there, something strange happens.

The Bedouin village, the one that had been closed for months, with no availability on the horizon, has reopened its reservations.

In the middle of all this chaos, a small light.

I see it as a sign.

Once I have left, my brother, my sisters, my nephews and nieces take over with love. This human chain that weaves itself allows me to breathe, to let go a little. But in the night following my departure, the United States and Israel bomb Iran.

The next morning, my father calls me.

You probably haven't seen the news. There is a war. You surely won't be able to leave. Your ticket will be refunded.

I remain silent for a long moment.

After all of this. After the heart attacks, the moments of worry, the negotiations, the compromises. Now war breaks out.

Everyone tells us to cancel. My partner, who was already not very motivated, sees it as yet another confirmation that we should not go. The first had been my parents' precarious health. This one seems final. Too many obstacles from the beginning. Too many signals against this trip.

I reserve nothing.

We will see.

Listening to Your Intuition When Everything Resists

I am torn.

Between the storm outside and something inextricable within me.

A long inner back-and-forth begins. I follow the news, I assess the risks, I weigh every argument. We go. We do not go. We go. We do not go.

But every time I say we are not going, my body tightens slightly. Something resists. Something that does not want to yield.

I cannot let go.

So I go deeper. I look for what holds, there, at the bottom.

And the visions rise. Slow. Certain.

I see a ceremony of the Sacred Pipe offered in this war-torn region. As if it were precisely now, precisely there, that this prayer for peace had to rise. That land. That sky. That moment.

I see a water ceremony in the Red Sea. That ancient, sacred sea, which has carried on its shores so many civilisations, so many prayers murmured in forgotten languages. I feel there is a feminine energy sleeping there, waiting to be awakened. That this too is why I am called.

I see the dolphins. Not as an attraction, not as a holiday dream, but as an encounter. A communion with their medicine of sovereign joy and unconditional love. Something to receive from them, that I cannot yet name.

I see a simple place, withdrawn from the world. Small houses in nature, the silence of the desert, the sea within reach. A space to commune, to weave true human connection. And perhaps, perhaps, the place that could one day welcome women on retreat, in that isolation which allows true transformations, as I had known in Peru.

These visions were not desires.

They were not a traveller's whims.

They were calls. Clear. Persistent. Anchored in something far greater than me.

And one does not grieve a call so easily.

I also knew, with that same silent certainty, that my partner needed this trip as much as I did, perhaps more. To lay down his arms, to do nothing, he who so rarely allows himself that. To let the Red Sea and its luminous depths do their work of soothing, gently, without him having to understand why.

On Sunday evening, two days before departure, we finally reach an agreement.

We leave. But if we are not well after one week, we come back.

It is done.

The Traveling Through Emptiness

The Arrival, or The Trial of Matter

The plane is almost empty. We each have three seats to ourselves. An unexpected gentleness, like a first gift from the journey.

Arriving on the outskirts of Marsa Alam, the taxi drops us at the hotel.

No one.

The place seems abandoned. We put down our bags, we look around. A strange silence. Closed buildings.

We end up sitting at a simple beach restaurant table, waiting. Before us, the Red Sea in all its splendour, a deep blue, almost unreal. But around us, the surroundings are strewn with plastic, carried and redistributed by the relentless wind in endless waves of debris. My partner is shocked. He cannot move past this sight. I watch him gently closing up, the way one closes up when reality does not match what one had hoped for.

And then a taxi appears, no one knows quite how. The owner is here, we are told. We get in. He accompanies us back to the hotel.

A man welcomes us.

Slender, fair-skinned, a calm and dignified bearing. He has that broad smile that arrives before any words, and a sharp, luminous eye that breathes intelligence. One would not give him any particular age, he simply has that quality of presence of those who have lived much and listened much. Within seconds, without anything truly explaining it, a complicity is born. As if we already knew each other.

This is Wael.

We are shown to our small house. It is simple, charming in its own way. But when my partner wants to take a shower that evening, there is no hot water.

It is too much for him.

He looks at me and says: change the tickets, we stay one week.

I do it immediately, without resisting. Without fighting. I knew this moment might come. I welcome it.

And then dinnertime arrives.

A delicious meal, prepared with a great deal of love. And Wael who comes to sit at our table, naturally, simply, the way one joins old friends.

The conversation begins.

My partner tells him he wants to observe Ramadan with him the next day.

And something in the air shifts.

This is where the real journey begins.

The Awakening of Inner Waters

Water Ceremony and Sacred Feminine in Egypt

Each of my intuitions, carried for weeks, proved to be right.

But before all of this could unfold, there was what I had been carrying in silence from the very beginning, that certainty that something had to be accomplished here, for this land, for these waters.

The perfect place presented itself to me like a gift I had not asked for but immediately recognised. A natural pool nestled in the reef of the Red Sea, in the middle of the desert. A space suspended between two worlds, stone and water, arid desert and teeming marine life. Outside of time. Outside of the noise of the world.

I set up the altar at the edge of this natural pool.

And I sang.

This song, I received from my friend Sylvie, who is Métis. She received it from her Grandmother Rorogazoo, on a spring morning, with snow up to her knees, by a stream. This song had been sleeping for a hundred years. It had been entrusted to Grandmother Rorogazoo by an elder on her deathbed, in a last breath, with these words: Share this song with all the women of the world.

Today, women sing it in every corner of the planet.

That day, it rose above the Red Sea.

The Red Sea is ancient. It has carried on its shores entire civilisations, prayers in forgotten languages, women who came to draw from its waters a strength they did not always know how to name. This feminine energy, dormant beneath centuries of turmoil and war, was waiting.

In the silence of that natural basin, I did what I had come for.

To awaken what was sleeping. To honour what had been forgotten. To offer this sacred sea a woman's prayer, simple and true.

Isis, great goddess of this land, seemed to watch over. I felt her in the light on the water, in the warm breath of the desert, in that particular silence that is never entirely empty.

Once the ritual was complete, I entered the water.

And I received.

A liberation. An opening. A connection to something very great, very ancient, that had no name but that knew me.

Thank you to all the weavers of life who carry this magnificent medicine and patiently weave, everywhere in the world, the web of the fifth world.

The Medicine of the Dolphins

There are encounters one cannot force.

One can call them, desire them, pray for them. But they come in their own time.

We were the only boat.

The reef was approaching gently when suddenly, a dolphin leaps.

Then two.

Then dozens.

Within seconds, the entire boat tips into wild joy. No one gave the signal. No one waited for permission. We all threw ourselves into the water.

And there, they were everywhere.

We swam with them, among them, in that immense, living blue. And sometimes, they disappeared. The silence of the water reclaimed its rights. I searched for their silhouettes, I could see nothing.

And then their song arrived.

Carried by the waves, passing through the water and the body at the same time. An ancient, crystalline language that needs no translation. One receives it directly, somewhere between the belly and the heart. And their silhouettes would reappear in the blue, graceful, free, indifferent to time.

Their medicine is of a rare purity.

That of pure joy. Of the child within us who has not yet learned to be afraid. They swim with such lightness, such total presence in the moment, that one suddenly remembers something essential, that life can be lived this way. Without calculation. Without armour. With that complete openness of heart, that unconditional love that asks for nothing and offers everything.

There is in their aura a purity that touches the innocence of the first things.

To be with them is to rediscover within oneself the child who still marvels.

It is unforgettable.

The coral reef itself was a teaching, a wonder of colours, of life, of joyful simplicity. My partner, who had wanted to leave after one week, could no longer stop diving.

The Dance of Ocean Souls

Trusting Your Inner Voice: The True Initiation

My partner and Wael wove something rare. Something deep. Two men whom everything separated, origins, paths, languages, yet who recognised each other, the way one recognises someone one has never met but has always known.

I watched them, and I felt the invisible at work.

One evening, something pushes me to say aloud what I had been carrying from the beginning.

I turn to Wael and say, simply:

It is evident that the universe brought us together. We had things to offer each other.

A silence.

Wael looks me straight in the eyes.

And he nods.

Not with words. With that quality of presence that says more than any sentence. That calm, luminous gaze that confirms without explaining. That knows.

We knew we would return. We knew our prayers had been heard. We knew it was right.

Dawn of the Sacred Breath

The Prayer of the Last Morning

The last morning, I rise before the sun.

The desert is still in darkness. The air is cool, almost unreal. Everything is silence.

I prepare the Sacred Pipe in that absolute calm, with the care and reverence this moment calls for. And just before the sun begins to appear on the horizon, I begin the ceremony.

That morning, the invisible was there.

Fully. Densely. In a way that cannot be explained but that one recognises immediately when one has already met it. That presence which has no form but fills all space. That breath that does not belong to the wind. That certainty, deep in the chest, that one is not alone, that one has never been.

The smoke of the Pipe rose gently toward the sky that was turning rose.

Each puff, a prayer.

Each breath, an offering.

For this place. For these waters. For this ancient land that had welcomed our presence with such grace.

Such a beautiful gift.

A response from the invisible to everything I had carried, doubted, crossed to arrive here.

When the Invisible Keeps Its Promises

My partner came home transformed.

We were in a deep peace.

Throughout that stay, I was inhabited by an immense gratitude. That of having had the strength to listen to my intuition despite all the storms that had raged around me.

My parents' illness.

The war.

My partner's doubts.

Fear.

Everything had conspired to make me give up.

And yet.

The true gift of this trip is perhaps not what I accomplished there. It is having discovered how far one can go when one is sufficiently rooted, sufficiently connected to the Creator, to hold course whatever happens, while respecting every member of one's family, without abandoning them.

Perhaps that was my initiation.

Grandmother Medicine Song taught that in ancestral traditions, children were guided to observe reality with patience, without drawing hasty conclusions, until its meaning became clear. For reality always carries meaning. Not a meaning our mind fabricates, but one inherent to nature itself, waiting simply to be perceived.

She called this expanded awareness.

This journey was a living lesson in it.

Every obstacle was not a sign of prohibition, it was an invitation to look deeper, to stay in perception rather than conclusion. The Bedouin village reopening its doors in the middle of chaos. The dates falling during Ramadan. Wael waiting for us without knowing it. The dolphins, alone in the world with us.

None of this was the fruit of chance.

Everything carried meaning.

One simply needed to have cultivated enough inner silence to receive it.

This is perhaps the true definition of intuition, not a mysterious voice that arises from nowhere, but an expanded awareness that perceives what reality whispers constantly, to those who have learned to listen.

And You?

Is there a call you are pushing away right now?

A place, a step, an encounter that feels right, but that you do not yet dare to honour?

I invite you to note, in the days ahead, the subtle messages that cross your day. The shivers. The synchronicities. The images that return.

They are not the fruit of chance.

They are the voice of something that wants to live through you.

And that voice deserves to be heard.

Whatever happens.

The Place

If this journey has spoken to you and you wish to discover this unique place in Marsa Alam, simple, isolated, in direct connection with nature and the Red Sea, I invite you to contact me. It is a place that deserves to be known.

To Go Further

If this article has awakened something in you, I invite you to explore the teaching circles and drum healing sessions I offer, as well as the workshops I lead at the Yoga With You studio. Spaces to learn to listen, to connect with the living, and to walk with greater clarity on your path.

You are also welcome to join our community, a space for sharing and connection, to journey together.

It is not too late to remember that the invisible speaks. It has always spoken. One simply needs to learn to listen.

« Nothing happens without reason. Nothing presents itself without

a message. It is in silence that one learns to hear what life has been

whispering all along. »