Meanwhile, my son was finding his own path. He left for university, far away, about a two-hour drive from us. For him, it was more than just a step toward adulthood; it was also an escape, a way to distance himself from the constant tension between his father and me. The arguments continued, relentless and exhausting. My contact with him sometimes felt strained, as if he too was slowly pulling away from me. There was even a time when he chose not to speak to me for two weeks. That silence was unbearable. I still remember how my daughter said to me back then that he didn’t realize what that did to me, how deeply it hurt. And yet, despite her own struggles, she saw my pain. I recognized that urge to escape. What we now understand is that my father is autistic and had a difficult childhood, and yes, the chain of generational trauma doesn’t stop with the maternal line—fathers play their part too. I grew up in a home where arguments were as normal as breakfast. My brother and I fought constantly, while the tension between my parents simmered in the background. As a dreamy child, I often sought refuge outside, away from the chaos and noise at home. Outside was my sanctuary, the place where I could breathe.
Years later, just before my divorce, I had a remarkable encounter with my long-lost childhood friend. Seeing her again brought everything rushing back. But what had stayed with her most was something I had almost forgotten myself: the day I showed up at her door as a six-year-old, suitcase in hand, casually saying, “I’m coming to live with you.” A six-year-old, already so determined, already aware that I needed a place where I could feel safe—a haven far from the constant conflict that defined my home life. It touched me deeply that she remembered that moment so clearly, because it showed me how desperate I must have been even then, how much I longed to escape and simply be a child. That little suitcase said everything about the pain I carried, but also about my resilience—the will to seek out happiness, even if it meant imagining a completely different life. It was a memory that made both of us pause and reflect on how far we had come, each on our own path, and how meaningful that friendship had been.
From that point on, there was never again a complete break between my son and me. No matter how fierce the storms became, no matter how deep or difficult our conversations were, we always found our way back to each other. Sometimes it felt like we had to go all the way down, face the raw truth, but each time we rose again together. He was surrounded by friends who encouraged him, supported him, and reminded him of the value of our bond. “She is—and always will be—your mother,” they told him, words that anchored him even when the waves were high. That circle of friends, offering him stability and perspective, stood in stark contrast to the world my daughter was navigating. Her environment felt different—more critical, sharper, perhaps lonelier in her search for support. While he was surrounded by people who protected our connection, she seemed to withdraw further, feeling less and less connected to the home I was trying to offer. Our worlds drifted further apart, even as I stood in the middle with open arms, longing to pull her close again.
What I have never been able to fully understand is why she later chose to cut off contact with me for three years. It is a question that still haunts me, one that brought me to tears night after night. Those three years became a blur of grief and confusion. I was exhausted, worn down by constant financial pressure that weighed heavily on every aspect of our lives. Each day felt like a struggle to stay afloat, to make ends meet, to keep from falling apart completely. During that time, the song “For the First Time” by The Script became something of an anthem for us, its words reflecting the reality we were living—a life of stumbling, getting back up, and trying to hold on despite everything working against us. And yet, through all the pain, through all the tears, I kept going. What else could I do? It was a time of loss, of letting go of the dreams I once had for my children. Still, I tried to hold on to hope, to believe that one day there would be light again at the end of that long, dark tunnel.
Through her depression, my daughter eventually entered therapy, a step that was both painful and necessary. Slowly, the contact that had been completely broken for three long years began to heal. It turned out that the rupture wasn’t only caused by our divorce, but also by a friendship that had pulled her down. She began to see that this friendship wasn’t bringing out the best in her, and that realization marked the beginning of our recovery. During one of the sessions, both her father and I were confronted firmly by her psychologist. She made it very clear that we, as parents, were responsible for maintaining contact with our underage daughter. That realization hit hard, especially for her father. That same evening, something shifted. He called her downstairs to talk, after I had come to the door—something he would normally never do. We got into the car and drove for a while, the silence between us heavier than any words. And then she broke. All the emotions she had held in poured out at once. We embraced in a moment of pure release, as if the distance between us had finally been bridged.
In the weeks that followed, she told me how deeply she regretted cutting off contact. She promised it would never happen again, and I was overwhelmed with relief. It felt as though I had my daughter back, as if the sun had broken through after years of darkness. We shared beautiful moments together, the kind of small, intimate moments I had missed so much. She would often sit on a chair in the bathroom while I dyed her hair in colors she chose—each shade a reflection of her creativity, something she had always carried within her. She was always creating, always making something new, even in her darkest moments—just like the paper Christmas decorations she used to craft with such love as a child. Her final exam year was a real test, but I supported her in every way I could, just as my grandmother once did for me. We spent hours together, going over her material again and again until she had mastered it. And she passed. That victory wasn’t just hers—it was ours. Proof that, despite everything, we could stand strong together.
Helping her study brought me back to my own time in secondary school. It was a period full of ups and downs. I was an average student, navigating my own challenges, and languages were definitely not my strength. In fact, they were among my biggest struggles. I hated French with a passion and came up with all kinds of tricks to cheat—notes hidden in my pencil case, books placed strategically on radiators. German wasn’t much better, especially with those impossible grammatical cases. And then there was the teacher, who would comb his few remaining hairs over his bald head, turning every lesson into an unintended comedy. Friendships were just as unpredictable. At one point, I had a brief friendship with a rather posh girl, which ended in an argument—during a German lesson, of all times. The teacher had to intervene, his carefully combed hair flying in all directions. We were both sent out of class, and eventually the principal had to step in. It reflected the atmosphere at school, where there was always an unspoken divide between the “popular” and the “others.” I often felt like I belonged to the latter, especially since my parents couldn’t afford the same things as others. Designer clothes were out of reach, and sometimes classmates would even check my clothes for labels. Ironically, those same girls would come to me for food or ask to borrow my beautiful bike. That social divide became more and more tangible. I tried to fit in with the popular group from my old neighborhood, but I felt increasingly isolated.
There was one subject where I thrived: history. My teacher had a way of bringing stories to life, and I was completely captivated. She gave extra credit for detailed answers, and thanks to my photographic memory, I could often recall entire passages from my textbooks. It gave me confidence and kept me going through the harder moments. In my final year, I chose what we jokingly called the “easy package”: Dutch, English, German, math, economics, and of course history. It was a time of growth, of trying to find my place. But it also became heavier. I started skipping classes more often, retreating into the world of computers. Even history lost its spark when a new teacher took over and couldn’t bring the material to life in the same way. Fortunately, there was one bright moment that year: a school trip to Paris. My parents weren’t enthusiastic—they thought once was enough and it was too expensive. I was disappointed, but my history teacher saw how important it would be for me and convinced the school to cover the costs. Paris became an unforgettable experience and gave me just enough motivation to keep going.
Meanwhile, my grandmother saw that I was struggling. She noticed I was losing focus and decided to help. She tested me regularly, even reading through my entire book list to support me. She made summaries of books I hadn’t had time to read, and I wrote my reports based on her notes. That became our little secret. Thanks to her support, and to my Dutch teacher who gave me extra lessons in poetry, I eventually passed my exams. My poems stood out and even earned me some recognition. The relief and joy were immense. And to this day, I look back with deep gratitude for everything my grandmother did for me.
☕️ Cup of comfort
Sometimes loving hurts.
Sometimes the one you long to hear falls silent.
You wait for a sign.
A glance.
A message.
An embrace.
But it stays quiet.
And that silence is heavy.
You wonder: did I do something wrong?
You search your memories.
In words that may have sounded too harsh.
Or perhaps too soft.
You want to make it right.
Or simply feel connected again.
But you cannot do it alone.
Still, you keep hoping.
Because love does not give up easily.
Sometimes healing grows slowly.
Like light filtering through cracks.
First hesitant.
Then warmer.
You are allowed to feel sadness.
You are allowed to feel tired.
And you are allowed to keep hoping.
As long as you keep loving,
you are never lost.
Give yourself some rest.
Breathe gently.
You are doing enough. ❤️
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