Where the Sea meets the Soul — A Love Letter to the Seychelles and its Lasting Lessons
Where the Sea meets the Soul — A Love Letter to the Seychelles and its Lasting Lessons
Like many journeys, mine began not with excitement, but with exhaustion born from the relentless demands of daily life, where even the smallest of pleasures were dulled by routine. Emerging from lockdown, feeling depleted and disconnected, I yearned for something I could not clearly identify, yet knew I desperately needed. So, when an unexpected call arrived, offering me the opportunity to photograph a trip to the Seychelles, I recognized it for what it was, not merely an escape, but a lifeline.
For years the Seychelles had existed in my imagination as a promise of unspoiled beauty and lush, untamed nature. But no dream or carefully curated vision board could have prepared me for what I was about to experience. This was not just another exotic paradise—it was something deeper, more profound, and utterly soul-shifting. Here the boundary between heaven and earth melds into a seamless horizon where time recedes and nature reigns.
Within weeks of that fortuitous call, I found myself on Mahé, the largest of the Seychelles’ 115 islands of which only a handful are inhabited. This gateway to an otherworldly African archipelago is a land of mist-veiled peaks, vibrant markets and perfectly pristine shores. Yet, even amidst so much beauty, I could feel the weightiness of urban malaise clinging to me. It wasn’t until I stepped aboard Le Ponant, a sleek triple-mast yacht, sailing under the French flag, that I began to feel the first stirrings of release. As we glided into the vast, shimmering expanse of the Indian Ocean, I inhaled the saline sea air and accepted its invitation to surrender.
“And so, my journey began — not just across the sea, but within myself. Each island revealed lessons I had not realized I so urgently needed to hear.”
And so, my journey began — not just across the sea, but within myself. Each island revealed lessons I had not realized I so urgently needed to hear.
Praslin was my first stop, a jewel once known as Île de Palme. At its heart lies Vallée de Mai, a UNESCO World Heritage Site often likened to the Garden of Eden. The moment I crossed the forest’s threshold, a shiver danced across my sun-warmed skin — a silent acknowledgment that this place was different, perhaps even sacred. A hush blanketed the grove, broken only by the rustling of towering palms and the occasional trill of the elusive black parrot, a bird found nowhere else on earth. Sunlight streamed through the dense canopy, scattering golden mosaics across the forest floor, while the air carried the cool, earthy scent of ancient life.
Here, within this untouched sanctuary, grows the legendary coco de mer, the world’s largest and most enigmatic seed. Jackie, my guide, paused beside one of the extraordinary palms, some reaching nearly 100 feet tall, their lifespans stretching centuries. “Found only here and neighboring Curieuse, the coco de mer is like no other,” she said, lifting one with a knowing smile. Its silhouette, strikingly sensual, has long inspired myths of divine creation, tales of forbidden fruit and beliefs in its aphrodisiacal attributes. Unlike the common coconut which surrenders to the tides and is carried to colonize new shores, the coco de mer resists wanderlust, instead sinking the moment it touches water and resurfacing only after it has decayed — cementing its destiny to remain rooted solely in this place. Born in this paradise, perhaps it understands there is no need to wander when one is exactly where they are meant to be. A subtle lesson in the strength of connection, the power of roots and the rare luxury of being exactly where you are meant to be.
From Praslin, we sailed onward to La Digue, an island where time moves differently. Here, cars are nearly nonexistent, replaced by ox carts and bicycles gliding along palm-shaded paths. Life moves with a gentle rhythm, a nod to a slower, more intentional way of being. Yet, even in this tranquil haven, I found myself succumbing to my urge to rush — hurrying to Anse Source d’Argent, the island’s crown jewel. Its granite boulders, sculpted by millennia of wind and water, stood sentinel over sands that delicately blushed pink in the midday sun. Walking barefoot, the cool grains slipped between my toes while the rhythmic lap of waves at my ankles urged me to pause, to feel, to simply be.
“La Digue reminds you to feel,” Jackie murmured as we stood before a wave-shaped rock, its contours softened by time. And feel I did—the weight of stillness, the joy of simplicity, the quiet contentment that comes when the world hushes enough for you to hear your own breath. It was here, on this heavenly shore, that I did something wholly unfamiliar: I relinquished control. I surrendered to the moment with no expectations — my checklist be damned.
“Slipping into the sea felt like plunging into a sapphire”
From La Digue we sailed across the deep channel to the private island of Grand Sœur, or “Big Sister.” As we approached, its sugar-white shores shimmered under the African sun and its waters, so vividly blue, beckoned me. Slipping into the sea felt like plunging into a sapphire — my body weightless, my every curve embraced with gentle, fluid motion. Time stretched and then disappeared, dissolving into nothing but sensation, a moment suspended in serenity.
When I eventually emerged, I encountered a local, a nearly 200-year-old Aldabra tortoise, who offered me one final lesson in the value of presence. Her movements were slow, deliberate and her every step was imbued with purpose — the world around her seemed to shift to her pace. As I approached, her wise, ancient eyes met mine and in that exchange I understood: life is not a race, but a series of intentional steps. Resting my hand on her weathered shell in silent thanks, I no longer felt like an observer. Instead I was overwhelmed with a sense of connection — to this island, and to something far greater.
And nowhere was this feeling more profound than on my next stop: Aride.
Aride, aptly nicknamed “Bird Island,” was a cacophony of life—a symphony of seabirds, rustling leaves, and waves greeting the shore. Here, nature exists in perfect balance — flora, fauna and sea entwined in a delicate, unbroken cycle. Before setting off on our hike, my conservation guide, Julio Confiance inspected my shoes and bag with practiced care to ensure I wouldn’t unknowingly introduce something harmful to this pristine ecosystem. Then, with a smirk, he issued a warning: “Whatever you do — do not look up with your mouth open.” A smile-inducing practicality in a place where over half a million birds reign.
While I walked through the tangled jungle of this former coconut planation turned successful study in conservation, I felt as though I had been transported into a fairy tale, a realm where humans were merely guests in this enchanted kingdom. A Wright’s skink hopped onto my shoe, bobbing its coppery head in a strangely endearing greeting. Nearby, T-Rex, a lumbering giant tortoise (who boasts his own instagram account), snatched a leaf from my hand with a measured, deliberate bite. A tiny crab, coaxed from its shell by the warmth of my breath, extended delicate antennae in cautious curiosity. Even a Seychelles magpie-robin allowed me near her nest, tilting her head as I marveled at her downy chicks before she spread her coal-black wings in a silent, maternal gesture of protection. Here the creatures did not flee but rather welcomed us into their world, extending an unspoken trust.
Julio spoke of life on the island, where conservationists work tirelessly, yet still find joy in the simplest pleasures—rum-soaked conversations beneath star-strewn skies, the strum of a weathered guitar echoing into the evening, and even the occasional caretaking of birds that overindulge on fermenting fig fruits. One story, of nursing a drunken Seychelles blue pigeon back to sobriety over two days, had me laughing, yet marveling at the tenderness and connection that defines this place.
“A humbling reminder that even in the wildest of places, there is always room for connection and that compassion is the strongest force of all.”
That sense of connection deepened when we stumbled upon a grounded tern, its delicate wings ensnared by the sticky barbs of the Pisonia tree—fittingly known as the “birdcatcher tree.” Kneeling in the damp earth, I watched as Julio worked with gentle precision, untangling the bird’s feathers from the clinging seeds. I joined him, gently easing the last of the barbs from its wings. When finally free, the tern lingered in Julio’s hand for a breath, its dark eyes locking onto ours in what felt like quiet gratitude, before it took to the sky. As it ascended, something in me lifted also.
To disentangle another life, even in the smallest of ways, felt a metaphor for liberating something within myself as well. There was a lesson in that fragile moment — in the way tenderness and intention could restore flight, in how the smallest act of care can be untethering, a release. A humbling reminder that even in the wildest of places, there is always room for connection and that compassion is the strongest force of all. And when we extend it — whether to another being or to ourselves — we, too, are set free.
Northward, the African Banks appeared on the horizon like a mirage, their shores only revealing themselves at low tide. To walk these ephemeral islets was to step into impermanence itself. These uninhabited slips of sand, perched on the edge of the Amirantes plateau, seem to be holding their breath against time. One day, I was told, the tides may no longer recede far enough to reveal their shores, and they will vanish beneath the sea forever—a stark reminder that beauty is often fleeting, and all the more precious because of it.
On the beach, I came upon a nautilus shell, its pearlescent spiral gleaming in the soft light. The temptation to pocket it, to take home a fragment of this island, was immediate. But Christophe Leger, my naturalist guide gently reminded me of its significance. “To take a shell is to take a home, leaving its tiny inhabitant vulnerable, unprotected.” With no desire to create a housing crisis amongst sea creatures, I gently placed it back, resisting the human urge to claim and possess. Instead I chose to honor the delicate balance of this world and to appreciate without taking.
Though the African Banks are small enough to traverse in mere minutes, they feel boundless. Their stark beauty and raw, untamed energy defy their size, reminding you of the magnitude of the world and your own minuscule place within it. As I stood on the edge of their disappearing shores, gazing at the endless horizon, I contemplated the inevitable extinction of this ethereal place and understood, perhaps for the first time, that it is within impermanence that true beauty resides.
Drifting onward, I arrived at Bijoutier — a tiny island adrift at sea, it felt as though it belonged more to the ocean than to the earth. So perfectly formed it seemed conjured from a dream. Encircled by a halo of ivory sands and tranquil lagoons, it was a study in simplicity. I longed to explore its untouched splendor, but nature had other plans — a tropical depression swept in forcing an immediate retreat to the ship and safer waters. Yet even in my brief time there, Bijoutier imparted a poignant lesson: life rarely unfolds as we intend, but there is grace in accepting the moment as it is, in embracing what is given rather than mourning what is lost.
The storm guided us back to the protected inner banks where the crystalline shores of Thérèse awaited. Slipping beneath the rippling tourmaline surface, I found myself immersed in a living study in color theory. Blue trevally darted between golden cathedrals of coral, while monochromatic schools pulsed in synchronized rhythms, only revealing themselves with silvery flicks of their tails. Parrotfish, cloaked in dazzling hues, formed a kaleidoscopic procession, a vibrant, underwater celebration of life.
Each turn unveiled new wonders — over a thousand species of fish composing an ever-changing tableau of life. A sea turtle sidled up beside me, an unhurried companion as we made our way through this marine meadow teeming with vitality. The colors, the movement, the sheer abundance—it was almost too much to absorb, leaving me to wonder if some form of Stendhal syndrome could strike beneath the waves.
I tried to take it all in, to mentally catalog every detail, to carry this moment with me, only to realize that some things defy description — they must be seen, felt, experienced. And in that moment I was flooded with emotion. I felt both infinitesimal and infinite — simultaneously of and other to this oceanic otherworld. It wasn’t a sense of belonging to a single place, but to something far greater — to the world itself. And with that certainty, I knew my journey was complete. I was ready to return home.
“I felt whole — as if these tiny islands had gently, imperceptibly stitched together something within me that had been fractured and frayed.”
Back on Mahé, the setting sun cast the island in a golden glow, its light stretching across the water as we anchored offshore. The air thick with stillness, was broken only by the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull. I lingered on the deck, a final coupe of champagne in hand, watching the horizon dissolve into dusk. For the first time in years, I felt whole — as if these tiny islands had gently, imperceptibly stitched together something within me that had been fractured and frayed.
The trip was more than a reprieve from stress, it was a revelation. These islands had unearthed something deep within me, revealing truths I had forgotten — that harmony is not an abstract ideal but a deliberate, daily practice, that wonder is not rare or random, but a lens through which to view the world, and that belonging is not tied to geography but is a feeling cultivated through presence and intention.
The next morning, as I left, I carried the Seychelles with me — but not as a memory to be tucked away in my past, but as a compass, guiding me forward.
