I was fifteen. The Teenagetour lasted four days, during which we could travel freely across the Netherlands by train. It felt like a real adventure. Every morning we would leave home for a new destination, without the burdens I would later carry in life. To pay for our Teenagetour—and for entrance to amusement parks and zoos—my Teenagetour friend and I came up with a clever plan. We both took on paper routes and saved every single cent we earned. It was hard work, especially on rainy mornings when we walked through the neighbourhood with heavy bags full of newspapers. But the thought of the Teenagetour and the amusement parks kept us going. That sense of freedom was enough to push through.
And what incredible luck I had with my birth date. As one of the lucky ones born on the same day as a prince, I received a Teenagetour pass as a gift. Not one—but two. My friend and I could hardly believe it. We knew this would be a summer we would never forget. Our Teenagetour began with days filled with adventure in amusement parks and zoos. From roller coasters to exotic animals, we soaked it all in. After long days of excitement, we often ended up at busy stations in lively cities, ready to catch the last train home. But not everything went smoothly.
One evening, at one of those stations, something happened that scared us to the core. A large man approached us out of nowhere. His presence was intimidating, his tone unsettling. “Do you want to f*ck?” he asked. We didn’t hesitate—we ran. Our breathing quickened, our hearts pounding in our throats as we rushed toward the train. Only once we were safely inside did we dare to breathe again. That night taught us that adventure doesn’t come without risk. And yet, it didn’t stop us from enjoying the rest of our Teenagetour. It became a time of friendship, excitement, and unexpected turns—something that stayed with us as both thrill and caution intertwined.
On the final day of our Teenagetour, we would usually go to the beach. It was the perfect ending. We would take a refreshing dip in the sea and watch the sun set before heading home. Those Teenagetour summers will always hold a special place in my memory. It wasn’t just a journey through the country—it was a lesson in friendship, independence, and finding joy in the small things. After that unsettling incident, my friend suggested we take self-defence classes. I agreed immediately.
During the very first lesson, I became the teacher’s demonstration subject. As he showed a technique, he accidentally tapped my chest—and I collapsed completely, my legs giving way beneath me. Startled, he said, “You need to see a doctor immediately. Something is wrong with your back.”
When I got home, I told my mother right away. She examined my back and quickly noticed something wasn’t right. I had already felt it myself during gym classes—lying flat on my back had always felt uncomfortable.
We sat in the orthopaedist’s office as he carefully analysed my scans. Then he spoke, calmly but seriously.
“On the images taken shortly after your birth, it is already visible that your last vertebra lacks proper attachment points,” he explained. “This means it can slip off the tailbone and potentially damage your nerves, which could have serious consequences.” My mother responded immediately, “An uncle of hers has this too—it’s probably hereditary.”
That made it even heavier. Suddenly, it felt inevitable—as if this had always been part of my story, woven into my family long before I understood it. As the orthopaedist explained that he knew a specialist—a former colleague who dealt with exactly this kind of condition—everything began to feel like a train I couldn’t get off. I was being pulled into a medical journey I had no control over. But this wasn’t the first sign.
From the moment I was born, something had already been off. My stomach was constantly unsettled, I often vomited, and doctors had taken images before. They found nothing. Still, I remained in the hospital for ten days while my parents went home. That time felt like an emptiness—a missed beginning. Maybe that’s where the distance started, the gap I would later recognise as a mother myself. A gap I would keep trying to close, but never fully could.
The orthopaedist was kind and thorough. After studying my X-rays, he reached a serious conclusion: I had spondylolisthesis of the L5 vertebra, grade 4—meaning my lower vertebra had significantly slipped out of place. He explained that surgery would be necessary within three months, or I risked ending up in a wheelchair. Fortunately, he had a detailed treatment plan. He even asked if I would be willing to be presented to his students, as it would be a unique operation. Despite the discomfort of standing in my underwear and bra in front of a full lecture hall, I agreed.
He explained everything clearly, using me as a case example—my posture, the way I walked, the tension in my muscles. It was intimidating, but I also felt involved in my own process. Afterward, several students approached me, praising my courage. They told me they now understood better what to look for in similar cases. That meant something to me. The plan was intense. There would be two operations. The first, lasting eight hours, would be performed from the back to reposition the vertebra and secure it with pins and bone taken from my hip. After two weeks of recovery, a second operation—also eight hours—would follow from the front, again stabilising the vertebra with bone from my hip.
Two weeks before the surgeries, I would be admitted to the hospital. During that time, I would be placed in a kind of traction system—a harness attached to my head and hips with weights, stretching my spine to create space for repositioning the vertebra. The equipment itself came from a museum. Three days before surgery, I had to empty my bowels completely. I transitioned from solid food to liquids, and on the final day, I could only drink water. Enemas were used to fully cleanse my system before the operation.
I still had a few months before the surgeries, and during that time, I began expressing myself more through my appearance. I dressed entirely in black, dyed my hair dark, and wore black makeup. Together with my Brigitte Kaandorp friend, I started going out more to youth clubs, where I increasingly felt drawn to a punk identity. My father hated it. Whenever we went somewhere together, he would often say, “You go ahead to the car.” At the same time, through that friend, I discovered new music—opening a whole new world to me.
My room had always been a complete mess—just like my mind. My mother often complained that she had to manoeuvre like a pole vaulter just to get across it. And as time went on, it only got worse.
☕ A Cup of Comfort
Dear you,
Sometimes life feels like a room without a floor—where you have to step over the mess just to find your way. Not because you are careless, but because your mind was too full to stay organised. Too many worries. Too much pain. Too little space to simply be young.
Maybe you recognise yourself in that girl who saved every coin for a few days of freedom. Who walked through the rain with newspapers in her hands. Who laughed on roller coasters—but also ran in fear across a dark platform.
Maybe you know that contrast between adventure and vulnerability.
Or maybe there was a moment when a doctor told you something that turned your world upside down. When your own body became something you had to fight with before you even knew who you were.
And still, life continued.
Your parents didn’t always understand you.
Your room became your refuge.
Your clothing became your protest.
Your style, a way to hold on in a world that felt like it was slipping away.
If you recognise yourself in this—know this:
You don’t have to have everything in order to be worthy.
You don’t need a perfect path to move forward.
Sometimes life is just a bloody mess.
And sometimes… that is exactly what it is allowed to be.
Take a sip.
Let your shoulders drop.
And know this:
You don’t have to clean it up to belong.
You are welcome.
Exactly as you are. ❤️
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