This morning, Mary Beth and I walked through the winding streets of Marrakech to Hammam Mouassine, one of the oldest public baths in the city. If you’ve never been to a hammam before, let me clarify: this is not a spa. Forget serene playlists, fluffy robes, or overpriced herbal teas. A traditional hammam is raw, communal, and unpolished in the best ways, an experience that strips you down (literally) and reminds you what care can look like outside the glossy wellness industry.

The path to the women’s hammam took us through a tiny corridor lined with piles of chopped wood and a man tending to an enormous furnace. We walked alone down empty stone hallways until we found the entrance. As we stepped into the dimly lit space, it was as if we had entered a timeless ritual. The air was dank with light steam and the faint scent of old stone walls, black soap, and smoke from the wood-fired furnace. Women shuffled around barefoot, chatting and arguing in Arabic as they filled buckets with warm water from taps in the stone walls. We were guided by hand and told to sit on the floor on thin mats amongst a group of naked women.

We weren’t entirely sure what to expect. The hammam is a mix of communal bathing and deep exfoliation, and at Hammam Mouassine, the process felt almost like an ancient initiation. First, we were slathered in oily black soap by chubby Arabic women in black t-shirts, their hair neatly covered with scarves. The soap’s texture reminded me of molasses, sticky but silky, and it clung to my skin as I sat there and wondered what was coming next.

Meanwhile, the women working around us were having what I can only describe as a heated debate. The arguments were loud, echoing off the tall, steamy stone walls, and the sound created this chaotic energy that made it hard to fully relax. Lying there, waiting for my next treatment, I decided to soothe myself the best way I knew how: by humming.

At first, I kept the sound soft and tentative, but then I found a note that resonated beautifully in the room. It bounced and vibrated against the damp stone walls like magic. Mary Beth, always up for a bit of fun, joined in, and for a few minutes, we created this haunting, almost sacred sound that hit me to my core. Even the women arguing seemed to calm down, the steam-heavy air settling into a quiet, meditative rhythm.

Then came the gommage. My attendant motioned for me to lie flat on the tile, squatting low on a tiny stool as she began to scrub me with a coarse mitt. She didn’t miss a single inch of my body. She lifted my breasts with the efficiency of someone fluffing a pillow and pushed my legs apart without a moment’s hesitation, scrubbing with a determination that could polish a car. I just lay there thinking, Well, I guess we’re really doing this. The whole thing was so thorough and matter-of-fact that I almost burst out laughing. It was humbling in a way that stripped away all pretense, this woman was on a mission, and she wasn’t leaving until I was as smooth as a newborn.

Layers of dead skin began to peel away and roll off me in alarming amounts. It was strangely satisfying. It was humbling and visceral, evidence of a body that carries me through the world, deserving of care, even if it came with a bit of discomfort.

She didn’t speak much French, but she tried, and her sweet gestures said more than words could. At the end, she tapped my cheeks gently, smiled, and asked if I was happy. It was a moment of connection I hadn’t expected, maternal, tender, and deeply human.

After the scrubbing, we were rinsed down with buckets of warm water, slathered with a coat of chunky clay from head to ankle, and then guided to another room with slightly more steam. This room felt like a place for resting and recovery. Women lay sprawled on mats, chatting softly or simply relaxing. Here, Mary Beth and I found Joss, who we’d planned to meet at the hammam but had arrived separately. She was laying in her glory, giggling, and happy to see us. Together, we laughed quietly about how surprising the experience was. Joss and I had both been to hammams in Spain and noted how entirely different this experience was, raw, earthy, and deeply rooted in tradition.

After a while, we were guided back to the dark, wet room. The women who cared for us earlier now washed our hair, their hands gentle as they massaged and brushed out tangles. They rinsed us with ladles of warm water, working efficiently but with a quiet kindness that felt almost sacred.

For me, the hammam wasn’t about indulgence. It was about surrender, about being vulnerable enough to let someone else care for me in a way that was both maternal and practical. Hammam Mouassine isn’t a spa; it’s a place where centuries of tradition remind you that cleanliness, care, and connection don’t need luxury to be profound.

As we left, our skin raw and our spirits light, the city outside felt sharper and brighter. And isn’t that the magic of Marrakech? It shows you beauty in its grit, softness in its intensity. Hammam Mouassine wasn’t a spa day, but it was exactly the reset I didn’t know I needed.

Now we’re back at our riad, napping in bed for a bit before we get ready for our next adventure!