If you’ve ever struggled with parental estrangement, this is a book you simply shouldn’t skip. In When Parents Hurt, Joshua Coleman dives deep into the pain parents experience when their child distances themselves or cuts off contact completely. He combines psychological expertise with genuine empathy for a topic that is still far too often left unspoken: the broken hearts of parents rejected by their own children. What makes this book so valuable is that it doesn’t promise quick fixes, but instead helps you understand how these situations develop and how deeply they can affect your life.

What touched me personally is that Coleman creates space for emotions without judgment. He offers practical tools to cope with feelings of loss, guilt, and shame, without making you feel like you’ve failed. It’s not a book you simply finish and put away—it stays with you and helps guide you through finding a new path during one of life’s most difficult seasons.

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck – by Mark Manson

As the “worst mother,” I became something of an expert in caring too much about everything—and believe me, that’s exhausting. Constantly trying to meet expectations—society’s, your family’s, your own—drains your energy in all the wrong places. That started to change when I discovered The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck.

Manson doesn’t teach you to stop caring altogether, but to consciously choose what actually deserves your energy. It sounds simple, but if you’re someone who tries to carry everything at once, you know how complicated that can be. For me, this book felt like a guide to finally setting priorities and boundaries—something I had struggled with for years. His blunt, humorous writing style made me feel both understood and gently confronted (in a good way).

One of the most important lessons for me was that it’s okay to disappoint others sometimes, as long as you stay true to yourself. That’s not selfish—it’s healthy. This book gave me clarity, peace, and—most importantly—the freedom to focus on what truly matters.

Black Mirror – episode Arkangel

As a mother and the writer of the worst mother, I often find myself tangled in the complexity of motherhood—the responsibility, the fear of failing, and the deep desire to protect my child from the world. All of these themes come together in a raw and confronting way in the episode Arkangel from Black Mirror.

In this episode, a mother is given the ability to monitor her daughter constantly through an implant, filter her reality, and shield her from anything painful or traumatic. At first, it sounds like every parent’s dream—total control, total safety. But as we all know, there is no perfect way to raise a child, and too much control can quickly turn into a nightmare.

What struck me most is how clearly it shows that overprotection can lead to disconnection. The more control the mother exerts, the further her daughter pulls away. It reflects a struggle many parents will recognize: finding the balance between protecting and letting go. It’s a powerful reminder that there are limits to what we can control—and that sometimes love means allowing space, even when that feels unbearable.

Bonusfamiljen

If you’ve ever struggled with the chaos of a blended family—stepchildren, ex-partners, and all the emotional complexity that comes with it—then Bonusfamiljen is absolutely worth watching. This Swedish series takes you into the reality of modern families, where love and frustration often exist side by side.

What makes this series so powerful is its honesty. Everything that can go wrong often does—but that’s exactly why it feels so real. Between the tension, it also shows moments of humor, connection, and genuine love that make it all worthwhile.

You’ll laugh, you’ll recognize situations, and sometimes it will hit close to home. It shows that parenting is not a perfect story, but an ongoing attempt to find balance in a world full of emotions. And more than once, you’ll probably find yourself wondering: how do they keep going?—and that’s exactly what makes this series so relatable and so strong.

Het bericht 50. Reading & Viewing Tips verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

I am writing you this letter to express my gratitude to you. Despite everything we have been through together, I remain thankful for the beautiful moments we shared. You were and always will be an important part of my life, and I cherish the memories we created together. There were times when you lit up my world—when we laughed, discovered things together, and I watched you with deep admiration. I saw you grow, saw you begin to walk your own path. We had moments of pure happiness, where I looked at you with pride and love as you found your place in the world and began shaping your own life.

But life has not always been easy. We have both had our difficult times—moments when we didn’t fully understand each other, when pain and sadness overshadowed us. That pain has left deep marks, for both of us. We have faced situations that affected us deeply, and we have made choices that I understand may have been hard for you. Still, I want you to know that my love for you has never disappeared. I have made mistakes, like every parent does, and there are things I wish I had done differently. But I always tried to do what was best for you, and I have always loved you—even in the moments when it may not have felt that way.

You have your own life now, your own choices, and I respect that. But I want you to know that I hold onto the hope that one day we might find our way back to each other—that we might talk again like we used to. I hope for a future where we can rebuild our relationship and begin again, with understanding and love. I am grateful for who you are, for everything you have taught me, and for all the memories we share. And even though there is distance between us, in my heart I remain close to you.

Dear Riddle Daughter, I wish you all the best in life—that you may find the peace and happiness you deserve. And if you ever feel the need to return, I will be here, with open arms and a heart full of love.

With all my love,
Your mom

Het bericht 49. Letter of Gratitude to my daughter verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

I wrote this book as a reflection of my journey as a mother, and I cannot move forward without pausing for a moment to acknowledge you. Of all the relationships in my life, ours is one that continues to fill me with deep gratitude and pride. You have supported me unconditionally, through every storm, and I want you to know how much that truly means to me. From the moment you were little, I could see that you were different—in the most beautiful way. You were always curious, always eager to learn, and always willing to understand others. Those qualities have not only made you an incredible son, but also a remarkable human being. Your ability to navigate difficult situations with calmness and clarity has helped me more times than you may ever realize.

We have been through so much together. From the first time we had serious conversations about life, to the hardest moments where we leaned on each other for support. It wasn’t always easy, and yet you were always there—with patience, with understanding, and with an open heart. During my most difficult times, you were the one who helped me back on my feet. Sometimes simply by listening, sometimes by saying exactly the right thing at the right moment. And then there was your flower-power girlfriend, who entered our lives with her own energy and perspective. The two of you became a team—a source of support that helped me find clarity in the chaos. Together, you created balance in our conversations, allowing us to understand each other more deeply and grow closer. That strength, that ability to bring love and understanding where it is most needed, is something I admire deeply.

What I want you to know above all else is how incredibly proud I am of you. Proud of the man you have become, of your perseverance, your intelligence, and your heart. You have not only found your own path, but you have also helped me find mine—even when I felt like I was losing it. You have taught me that love sometimes means holding on, and sometimes letting go—but always with deep respect for the other person.

Dear Professor Son, you are a light in my life, an anchor in stormy times, and I feel truly blessed to be your mother. Thank you for everything you have done for me—for your support, your love, and your trust. I love you so much, and I am so proud of the man you have become.

With all my love and gratitude,
Mom

Het bericht 48. Letter of Gratitude to my son verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

What a journey it is, isn’t it—motherhood. Sometimes it feels like a never-ending rollercoaster ride, filled with highs and lows, unexpected turns, and moments where you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. But here’s the truth: you are incredible. You are strong, and yes—you are doing an amazing job, even when it feels like you’re just surviving instead of truly parenting. Every time you say “no”—out of love, care, or even pure frustration—you are setting a boundary that helps your child grow. You may not always be the popular parent, but you are the parent your child needs. The mother who creates structure, who protects, who guides—even when it’s hard.

It’s not easy to always be the “bad guy,” the one who has to ruin the fun because rules matter. But believe me, you’re doing it for the right reasons. And one day, when your children are older, they will understand. They will look back and realize how much strength and love was hidden inside your “no.” Maybe you doubt yourself sometimes. Maybe there are moments when you feel like you’re falling short. But never forget this: your love, your effort, and your perseverance are priceless. No mother is perfect—and no one expects you to be. Even in your mistakes, in the chaos, in the moments when you feel like you’re getting it all wrong—that’s where the true beauty of motherhood lives. Because perfection is an illusion, but love and dedication? Those are real. And you bring them, every single day.

Don’t let small moments of doubt or frustration dim your light. The very fact that you wonder whether you’re doing it right only shows how deeply you care. Your motherhood is unique. Your children don’t need a unicorn mother—they need you, with all your imperfections, your humor, and your endless care. So be gentle with yourself. Forgive yourself for the times things didn’t go perfectly. Laugh at the moments when everything fell apart, and give yourself credit for the days when it was simply good enough. Because that is what it’s all about: doing your best and loving with everything you have.

Keep being the Worst Mother you are—with all your love, your humor, and your strength. You are more than enough, exactly as you are.

With love,
The Worst Mother

Het bericht 47. Finally: An Open Letter to the Worst Mothers verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

At the same time, anonymity has given me the space to be truly honest about my experiences, without fear of judgment or social pressure. I have written openly about relationships, loss, and the painful reality of parental alienation. Under the name Esmee de Roudtke, I can share my story in a way that may offer recognition, comfort, or even inspiration to others, without having to fear the consequences in my personal life. Writing, for me, is a way of healing—a way to give both pain and resilience a voice. By choosing a pseudonym, I aim to protect both myself and the people around me, while also allowing myself the freedom to be completely honest about the things that truly matter.

Het bericht 46. Why I Write Anonymously Under the Name Esmee de Roudtke verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Over the past year, I immersed myself in The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fck* by Mark Manson—and honestly, it felt like a breath of fresh air. If you haven’t explored it yet, I genuinely recommend it. It’s like a detox for your mind, a reset button for your priorities. It helped me see clearly what I actually care about—and just as importantly, what I need to let go of. Through that process, I started asking myself questions I should have asked long ago. What do I truly enjoy? Not what I’m supposed to enjoy, not what others expect from me—but what genuinely makes my heart beat faster. I thought about where I want to be in five years, and even in one year. What are my goals? And how can I slowly weave them into my daily life? And you know what? It feels incredibly good to watch those puzzle pieces finally start falling into place.

Before, my life revolved around worry—worrying about others, worrying about what people thought of me, worrying about keeping everything under control. But now? Now I give fewer f*cks about the things that don’t truly matter. It’s liberating to realize that I don’t need to have an opinion about everything, and that I’m not responsible for everyone else’s happiness. There are better problems to solve—challenges that are actually worth my time and energy. It feels like I’ve finally put down a heavy backpack full of stones and started walking freely again.

Of course, life will still bring its challenges. It remains a chaotic rollercoaster, full of unexpected turns and the occasional nauseating loop. But instead of being overwhelmed by every obstacle, I now face what comes with a quiet smile, thinking: “Bring it on.” This new mindset doesn’t mean I have everything figured out—far from it. But I now prioritize what truly matters: my own well-being, the people I love, and the things that bring me joy. I make space for what nourishes me—whether that’s painting, reading a good book, or simply taking a slow walk without rushing anywhere.

I’ve also learned to embrace humor, even in the darkest moments. There’s something powerful about being able to laugh at your own mistakes and imperfections. It makes life lighter, softer, more human. It reminds me that we are all just people—trying, stumbling, and finding our way through this strange, beautiful experience we call life.

So here I am. No longer the unicorn mother I once tried to be, but simply myself—and that is more than enough. This is not an ending, but a new beginning. A story that is still being written, filled with new adventures, new challenges, and hopefully plenty of laughter. I look ahead to the future, knowing that I now carry the wisdom to choose what truly matters—and the courage to let go of the rest. And who knows? Maybe along the way, I’ll discover a few unexpected moments of magic—reminders that life, despite everything, is still beautiful.

So, ladies and gentlemen… to be continued. The story is far from over, and I am ready to live every chapter fully. Cheers to the future—and to giving fewer f*cks.

Het bericht 45. Afterword: A New Beginning verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Het bericht 45. Why I wrote this book verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

What is non-binary? Non-binary people do not identify exclusively as male or female. Their gender identity exists outside the traditional binary spectrum. This means they may identify as both, neither, or a fluid combination of the two. The concept of non-binary is part of the broader LGBTQ+ community and includes identities such as genderqueer, genderfluid, agender, and bigender. The origin of the term “non-binary” stems from the growing recognition that gender is more than a biological fact. Cultures around the world have long acknowledged identities beyond the binary, such as the “Two-Spirit” tradition in many Indigenous communities in North America. However, in Western society, the term non-binary has only become more widely recognized in recent decades, alongside the increased visibility and acceptance of LGBTQ+ individuals.

For someone who identifies as non-binary, the experience can be deeply personal and complex. It is a journey toward self-acceptance in a world that is still largely structured around binary ideas of gender. This process can involve using binders, choosing new pronouns such as “they/them,” and exploring identity beyond traditional expectations. Non-binary individuals may also face confusion, rejection, or misunderstanding from others, which can be emotionally heavy. The search for identity often comes with feelings of alienation, uncertainty, and sometimes even moments of joy when they are finally able to express themselves authentically. Support from family and environment is crucial in this process, yet for many parents, it is also a challenge to understand and adapt to this new reality.

As a parent, it can be incredibly difficult to step into your child’s experience, especially when it lies so far outside your own frame of reference. It can feel like walking a tightrope between offering support, processing your own emotions, and learning to live with uncertainty. Communication is key, but when there is no contact, as in my situation, the journey becomes even more complicated. Social media became both a window and a source of confusion. How do you speak without making mistakes? How do you ask questions without causing harm, even when your intentions are good? And how do you hold onto hope—that one day, you might walk this path together? The non-binary spectrum is not only a challenge, but also an opportunity for growth, understanding, and love.

As a young girl, I was very much a “girly girl.” I loved dresses—especially those with bows and lace—and spent hours playing with dolls and Barbies. I created entire fantasy worlds with Playmobil and adored my ballet lessons, dressed in tutus and beautiful dance outfits. But one day, my mother decided I had to wear trousers to school. To me, that felt like a shock. How could she ask that of me? In that moment, I thought she was the worst mother ever. In the end, she won, as mothers often do, and with great reluctance I put on those trousers. To my surprise, my classmates thought it was cool. What had felt terrible suddenly became… acceptable. From that moment on, I dared to wear trousers every now and then.

Ballet was my greatest passion, but my body did not always cooperate. Despite my love for dance, my stiffness made certain movements difficult. My strict ballet teacher had little patience for that, and slowly my dream shattered. It was a deep sadness, because I wanted so badly to continue dancing. Still, my love for music and movement never truly left me.

Now, looking back at my own childhood and my role as a mother, I wonder whether I raised my children with unconscious ideas about gender. Did I place them in boxes by giving them toys or clothes that “matched” their gender? Honestly, that thought never really guided me. In our early years as a family, we had a large drawer under the couch filled with both “boys’” and “girls’” toys. Everything was for everyone. My Professor Son even received a baby doll once for Sinterklaas, though he chose not to play with it—and that was perfectly fine. The choice was always his. Both of my children had access to Lego, and every summer I would take all the Lego boxes outside into the garden, and we would build together for hours. It never mattered whether you were a boy or a girl—it was about creativity, connection, and joy.

These memories lead me to question: did I ever make my daughter feel that she had to conform to certain gender norms? Or did she truly have the freedom to discover who she is? As she now explores her non-binary identity, I find myself revisiting these moments, wondering how I may have influenced her. Perhaps I played a role, but I also hope that I gave her the freedom to be herself, beyond society’s expectations.

This path is not easy—for either of us. As my daughter embraces her non-binary identity, I continue to question whether I did the right thing. Did I give her enough space, or did I unknowingly shape her too much? The answer is not simple. But I hold onto the hope that the love and freedom I tried to give her were enough. In a world still struggling with gender roles and expectations, understanding and supporting non-binary children remains an ongoing journey. As parents, we are asked not only to grow with our children, but also to challenge our own beliefs and open ourselves to new ways of seeing who they truly are.

We are living in a time where gender identity is becoming more fluid and dynamic. The non-binary spectrum is complex and calls for adjustment—from children exploring their identity, and from parents trying to support them. It is a process of learning, where love and patience are essential. As parents, we must grow alongside our children. My journey toward understanding and acceptance is just as important as hers. This book is my way of sharing that journey, so that other parents may feel less alone. And I continue to hope that the distance between us will one day be bridged—with love and understanding as its foundation.

A cup of comfort

Dear parent, who searches, feels, and sometimes sighs…
You want to do it right.
You walk on eggshells, afraid that one wrong word might feel like rejection.
Not because you don’t want to support—
but because you don’t always know how.
Pronouns.
New names.
An identity that gives your child air to breathe,
while sometimes taking your breath away.
You look back at memories,
wondering if you missed something.
If you are still seen.
If you still know how to see.
You miss who they were.
You miss who you were in their eyes.
And now?
Sometimes you feel like a tourist in their new world.
Without a map.
Without a dictionary.
But still—you are here.
You stay.
You say: “I don’t fully understand yet, but I want to learn.”
And that… is love.
Not the perfect sentence,
but an open heart.
So take this cup.
For those who search in the night.
For those who sometimes feel like less of a parent.
For those who keep trying.
You are not too late.
You are on your way.

Het bericht 44. Non-binary: A Journey Toward Your True Identity verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

The transgender scene can sometimes function as an escape from reality, but it can also become an environment where problematic behaviors are reinforced. In my daughter’s case, it seemed to lead to a further decline in her situation. She became more isolated from the people who could support her and became increasingly entangled in a world that, from where I stood, did her more harm than good. The transition of her friend—from female to male—brought its own set of challenges. It was difficult to watch someone you care about struggle with identity and the pressure that comes with it. The constant changes in pronouns and witnessing that inner battle for self-acceptance made it even harder to know how to offer support. Although I fully respect that everyone must walk their own path and discover who they are, it was painful to see how the choices of others seemed to negatively affect my daughter.

She became caught in a world of drugs and depression, and I found myself standing on the sidelines, powerless, unable to change the situation or reach her in the way I longed to. All of this led to my greatest fear as a mother: that because of the break in contact, my daughter is missing an important source of feminine guidance and support. She now lives with Wordfather, her brother, and her transgender friend, and the absence of my presence in that home continues to weigh heavily on me. It left me with a question that often echoes through me as the “worst mother”: am I being transphobic, or am I simply a concerned mother?

My daughter now identifies as non-binary and is exploring her gender identity in ways that are sometimes difficult for me to fully understand. As a parent, I worry about the influence of her environment and social media on the choices she makes. There are stories of people who later regret their transition, feeling they were influenced by their surroundings or by what they saw online. This phenomenon is real, and it concerns me that some young people compare themselves to others on social media, which can lead them to decisions that may not truly fit who they are. It is not uncommon for individuals who transition to later realize it was not the right path for them. A well-known example is Keira Bell, who underwent hormone treatment at a young age but later expressed regret and took legal action against the clinic that treated her.

These stories feed my fear, because as a parent I feel a deep responsibility to ensure that my daughter makes choices that are truly right for her—especially when it comes to something as profound as gender identity and medical transition. I often question whether the guidance she receives is sufficient, and whether she fully understands the long-term consequences of her decisions. It is important for me to reflect on my own feelings and possible biases. Am I truly afraid of what it means to be non-binary or transgender, or am I afraid of the impact these choices may have on my daughter’s life? This self-reflection helps me understand where my fears come from and how to navigate them more consciously.

My intention is to support and guide my daughter, no matter which path she chooses. This means I must face my own fears and assumptions, and learn to distinguish them from genuine concerns for her well-being. The world we live in calls for understanding and openness. It is essential that we acknowledge the role of social media and the influence it has on transgender and non-binary youth. With the right support and guidance, parents can play a meaningful and positive role in their children’s search for identity.

A cup of comfort

Dear parent, maybe you feel it burning right now — the doubt, the fear, the silence inside your own heart while your child searches for words to describe who they are and you search for how to remain steady.
It is not an easy place to sit.
The world is changing faster than you can keep up,
and you love your child deeply while at the same time grieving who you thought they would become.
Your worries are not rejection.
They are the echo of love trying to find something to hold on to.
So take this cup of comfort.
Not as an answer.
Not as a judgment.
But as a place to rest.
You are allowed to worry.
You are allowed to reflect.
And you are allowed to ask for space to better understand your child.
Stay gentle.
Stay open.
And know this: your love does not need to be perfect to still be a safe place.

Het bericht 43. The Transgender Scene and Its Influences verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

However, a shift is taking place. More and more mothers are now experiencing the painful reality of estrangement and loss of contact with their children. This is partly due to changing family structures and the growing recognition of equal parenting. Mothers who go through this face the same overwhelming emotions of grief, guilt, and powerlessness. For their children, the absence of a maternal presence creates a similar sense of instability and emotional deprivation. This growing pattern highlights the need for greater awareness and intervention to reduce the damaging effects of estrangement. The psychological impact is profound for both parents and children, and there is an urgent need for legal and societal systems to better respond to this reality. The key to a healthier future lies in recognizing the importance of both parents and finding ways to preserve these essential relationships, even when circumstances are difficult.

The effects of estrangement? As a “worst mother,” I often feel like I am the main character in a tragicomic soap, where losing contact with your child feels like trying to bake a cake without an oven—you have all the ingredients, but something essential is missing to make it work. No contact is not just a physical separation; it is a tear in the soul that is almost impossible to mend. The pain of that distance, of not being able to speak or simply see your child smile, eats away at you. Even when you have tried everything, it feels like you are losing your grip on the relationship, like you are standing on the outside watching your child’s world continue to unfold without you. The real blow came when I realized that my daughter was making major life decisions without me. As a parent, you are reduced to a spectator instead of an active participant in her life. It feels as if you have been sentenced by some invisible parental court to a life without answers or solutions—go directly to jail, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 dollars. All I can do is watch and hope. Hope that one day she will open the door, even just a little, that there will be space for dialogue and understanding. In the meantime, I try to channel my thoughts and emotions into this book, hoping that my words may offer some form of comfort or understanding. Until then, I remain the “worst mother”—imperfect and struggling, but always loving my child, trying to understand her from a distance.

In times of emotional pain and estrangement from your child, parents often reach for tools to understand themselves, to find comfort, and to regain some sense of control over their emotions. One book that is often mentioned is When Parents Hurt by Joshua Coleman. This book offers a valuable resource for parents experiencing the pain of estrangement, helping them reflect on their own feelings, the complexity of parent-child relationships, and ways to heal despite the absence. Coleman not only acknowledges the deep emotional wounds parents carry, but also provides guidance to ease the guilt and despair that often accompany the loss of contact. The book reminds parents that they do not have all the answers and that, even when they feel they have failed, their love for their children still holds value. These kinds of reflections can help process the emotions that come with losing contact. It is a painful journey, often without immediate solutions, but it creates space to look inward and to recognize that you have done your best—even when the outcome is not what you had hoped for.

A cup of comfort

Dear mother with a crack in your heart, this is not a chapter you ever wanted to write.
Not a story you chose to step into.
It is as if you are standing in a doorway with empty hands—not because you have nothing to give, but because the door is closed.
You still carry the stories, the pictures in your mind, the scent of childhood rooms, the first smile, the small hand in yours.
But now it is quiet.
Too quiet.
It feels as if the world keeps turning, while you are frozen in a moment of loss.
You are not alone—even though it sometimes feels like no one understands.
Many parents, mothers and fathers alike, sit on this invisible bench of grief, where no mourning card was ever sent.
Sometimes you think: was I too little? was I too much?
You replay conversations in your head, searching for the crossroads where things might have gone wrong.
But know this: your love has never disappeared.
Not even now.
Not even from a distance.
Even when you can only whisper to yourself: “I miss you.”
You are allowed to be tired.
You are allowed to be sad.
You are allowed to feel the injustice, the rawness of a loss that has no name.
But you are also allowed to hope.
Without expectation, without pressure—just hope.
And in the meantime, you are here.
Writing.
Healing.
Continuing to show up with open hands, even when no one is there to hold them.
So take this cup of comfort.
Warm.
Steady.
Without judgment.
For you, worst mother with a heart that keeps beating in silence.
Your love is not a failure.
It is a seed at rest.
And sometimes… things bloom later than we ever dared to hope.

Het bericht 42. Estrangement Without Contact verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

My relationship with Wordfather began like a whirlwind. Within three months, I was pregnant. We thought we were being careful, but impulsivity—one of the core aspects of ADHD—played a role I didn’t yet recognize. Everything moved fast, without space to truly reflect. That is what ADHD often does: it pushes you forward, without pausing to consider the long-term consequences. It led me into situations where I later wondered if I could have done things differently. But at the time, it felt logical—even necessary. And yet, ADHD has also given me strengths. Like hyperfocus. During my work at the airport, I could completely immerse myself in my tasks, everything else fading away. That same hyperfocus allowed me to excel at times, despite the chaos in my mind. That sense of control, of being fully absorbed in something, gave me peace. But the cost was high. I often forgot my own limits, pushed myself too far, and became exhausted without even realizing it.

After the birth of Riddle Daughter, my lack of structure became painfully clear. Life with a newborn is already overwhelming, but with ADHD it turned into a dizzying chaos. I remember how everyone rushed through the house looking for things I should have prepared long before. Everything was last-minute. Everything felt like survival. My daughter was weighed on top of a half-finished puzzle. It couldn’t have been more symbolic: in the middle of unfinished thoughts and incomplete tasks, this new life arrived. Since childhood, I had always been in motion. My mind overflowed with ideas, plans, and stimuli. I could never sit still, always searching for new experiences—something that made me feel alive. But that constant drive also exhausted me. There were days I didn’t understand why I felt so tired. Everything felt like too much, and I didn’t know how to stop—physically or mentally. It was as if my mind was constantly running overtime while my body simply followed along.

Perhaps the hardest part was the constant self-criticism. That voice in my head whispering that I wasn’t enough—as a mother, as a partner, as a person. I saw other mothers doing things effortlessly that I struggled with daily. Forgetting birthdays, losing things, reacting emotionally. ADHD made me sensitive, intense—every emotion arrived like a storm. I wanted to do better, but often didn’t know how. And then there was my daughter. My Riddle Daughter. Her name says it all. While my son was open and accessible, she remained a mystery. She withdrew, did things in her own way. And I? I tried to reach her, but my own inner chaos often stood in the way. I may have heard her, but I didn’t always understand her. My thoughts were louder than her whispers. My reactions were sometimes too fast, too sharp. When I felt hurt, I reacted instinctively—not out of unwillingness, but out of inability. Only afterward would I understand. But by then, it was already too late.

Looking back now, I can see how my ADHD played a role—not as the cause, but as an amplifier. Of emotions. Of misunderstandings. Of patterns I struggled to break. And yet, that same ADHD also gave me the strength to keep trying. To keep hoping. To never give up my love, no matter how difficult it became. Because that is what drives me: my love for my children. Always. Therapy gave me insight. It gave words to what I could not understand. It helped me forgive—especially myself. Because as long as I kept hating myself, I could not heal. ADHD does not disappear, but you can learn to live with it. And if you are lucky, you may even learn to appreciate it. Because it also brings gifts: creativity, passion, resilience. To anyone who recognizes themselves in this: you are not alone. ADHD is not a weakness. It is a different way of being—a different way of feeling, thinking, reacting. It is intense, confusing, but also full of fire and love. And that fire—that remains.

A cup of comfort

Come, hold a warm mug in your hands and lean back for a moment.
Because if there is anyone who has already analyzed themselves a hundred times, turned themselves inside out and tried to understand why things are the way they are… it is you.
ADHD is not a label on your forehead, not a manual you can simply read and follow.
It is a tangle of thoughts, emotions, outbursts, silences, hyperfocus and total chaos.
It is living with a mind that has 24 tabs open—one playing music, one frozen, and one suddenly attempting a cartwheel.
You have blamed yourself for forgetting things, being late, reacting too intensely.
But listen… you are living in a world built for straight lines, while your mind flows like a river full of stories.
And still, you keep trying.
You keep caring.
You keep loving.
Even when you feel like you are falling short a thousand times, you continue to mother with everything you have.
This cup of comfort is for you.
Because you are more than your restlessness.
Because your love does not count for less just because it is expressed messily.
Because your child may not always have understood what you meant,
but they felt that you never stopped trying.
You do not have to fix yourself anymore.
You do not have to reflect even more.
You are allowed to simply sit.
Breathe.
Be.
And know: it is already so much.
You are already so much.

Het bericht 41. ADHD: My Invisible Companion verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

The Battle with the Mother Instinct

The battle with your maternal instinct feels like an inner struggle between a protective lioness and a frightened, wandering cat. On one side, there is the instinct to protect your child, to nurture them, to make sure they lack nothing. This instinct is ancient, rooted deep within your being. It is the voice that tells you to do everything you can to restore contact, to never give up, to keep fighting. But on the other side is reality, reminding you that sometimes you must let go in order to protect both yourself and your child. It is a conflict between the urge to persist and the necessity of accepting that some things are beyond your control.

The mother instinct does not want to give up, does not want to let go, always wants to find a solution. But sometimes, you simply have to accept the pain. Sometimes, you have to acknowledge that you cannot always be the superhero—that even the “worst mother” is just a human being, with her own limits and vulnerabilities. This battle may be one of the hardest of all. It takes immense strength to resist your own instincts, to honor your boundaries, and to accept that you cannot fix everything. It takes courage to recognize that letting go can sometimes create space—for you and for your child—to heal. It is a struggle that never fully disappears, but one that ultimately makes you stronger, both as a person and as a mother.

What Do I Give a F*ck About Now?

After learning to let go of certain things and to focus my energy on what truly matters, I began to realize what I actually give a fck about. My friends are my pillars—they have stood by me in my darkest moments and helped me find light again. They encouraged me, challenged me to keep going, and reminded me that I have value. Friendship is a source of strength, and I have learned to cherish and nurture these relationships. My family, who may not always have stood beside me but are here now, are invaluable. They have shared my sorrow and celebrated my joy. They have advised me, comforted me, and shown me that I am not alone. Family bonds are strong and enduring, and I give a fck about them because they remind me of who I am and where I come from.

My Professor Son, who has always been there for me, deserves all my love and attention. He has shown me what unconditional love looks like. His presence in my life is a constant light, a reminder that I am not only a mother who has lost something, but also a mother who still has a deep and loving connection. He deserves my time, my support, and my full attention, and I am determined to always be there for him. And perhaps most importantly: I give a f*ck about myself. It is easy to lose yourself in the chaos of life, especially as a “worst mother.” But I have learned that self-love and self-care are essential. I matter. My well-being, my dreams, my peace, and my happiness matter.

By taking care of myself, I can better care for the people I love. I give myself space to grow, to learn, and to heal. I am more than the mistakes I have made; I am a human being who deserves love, respect, and happiness. By shifting my focus to these important relationships, I choose to care about what truly matters. This does not mean I ignore the pain and grief that come from my broken relationship with my Riddle Daughter. But it does mean that I allow myself space to heal and grow by investing my energy in those who support and love me. It is about finding balance and giving yourself the chance to rediscover what brings you happiness. It is about embracing those who value you and letting go of the burden of perfection. By focusing on what truly matters, you give yourself the opportunity to heal and begin again.

Het bericht 40. The Pressure of Society verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

So now I take you with me through some of those leaves. Small reflections. Not lessons, not self-help, not a perfect ending—but thoughts from a mother who dares to pause in the middle of the mess. These are the moments where I met myself again: in a motherhood you can never truly be prepared for, in fear, in trauma, in laughter through tears. We add these leaves to Part 2 because they belong there—like autumn leaves on wet asphalt, like a breath between sentences, like comfort, perhaps—or at the very least: recognition. So grab a cup. Let’s turn the pages.

Het bericht 39. The Leaves – Reflections That Kept Drifting verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Het bericht 38. Open Letter to Society verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Six years. Six years without my daughter. Six years in which the silence between us has grown into a gap that no words seem able to bridge anymore. Six years in which I have asked myself how this could have happened—how a mother and her child could drift so far apart. But I already know the answer. And you know it too.

Loss of contact does not just happen. It is not a natural phenomenon, not an inevitable course of life. It is the result of choices. Not only hers, but yours as well. You may not have physically taken her away from me, but you did reinforce the idea that distance was the best solution. You did not stop her when she erased me from her life. In fact, you gave her the words and the conviction to do so.

You may feel that you have done nothing wrong, but that is exactly the problem. Because doing nothing is also a choice. And in this case, doing nothing was just as harmful as actively contributing.

I have tried to reach you. Not once, but again and again. I have emailed you, appealed to your responsibility as a father, tried to make you see the impact of this situation—not only on me, but on her, on our son, on the family caught in between. And what have you done? You remained silent. Again and again.

The most painful part is that by doing so, you confirm exactly what I wrote in my last message—that ignoring is a pattern. That you would rather act as if nothing is wrong than face what is truly happening. But know this: your silence does not erase the truth.

Our daughter will grow up knowing that there was a mother who searched for her, who never forgot her, who never let go of her—even if it had to be from a distance. And she will know that you were the one who confirmed her belief that I no longer had a place in her life.

This is not an attempt to convince you. We are past that point. This is a record of facts. I am not writing these words in the hope that you will finally respond. I am writing them so that they exist—black on white—so that no one can ever say I stayed silent, that I did not fight, that I did not search for her.

I write them for myself.
For our children.
For the truth.

Esmee de Roudtke

Het bericht 37. Open Letter to Wordfather verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

It has been so long since I last saw you, since I heard your voice, or looked into your eyes. And yet, despite the distance and the silence, you have not been out of my thoughts for a single moment. You are my child, and nothing in this world can ever change that.

I don’t know exactly what you are thinking, feeling, or going through. But what I do know is that I love you with everything I have in me. That has never changed, and it never will.

I am aware of the mistakes I have made, and I know that my imperfections may have played a bigger role than I once realized. But one thing is certain: everything I did—however clumsy or wrong it may have been—always came from love for you.

I am not writing this letter to ask anything of you, but simply to let you know that I am here. That I will always be here. If you ever need me, for anything at all, please know that my door is open, with my arms wide and my heart full.

It hurts me that I cannot be there for you the way I wish I could. That I do not know what your days look like, what your dreams are, or what makes you laugh. But I hope you know that there is always someone quietly walking beside you, from a distance. That my love remains like an invisible thread, still connecting us, even if it may not feel that way.

No matter what happens, you will always be a part of me. And I hope that one day, you will want to feel that again.

Until then, I will be patient, even when it is hard. I will keep hoping, even when it hurts. And I will keep loving—because that is what mothers do.

With everything I have in me,
Your mom

Het bericht 36. Open Letter to Riddle Daughter verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Why hadn’t I allowed myself to feel anger sooner? Why had I kept trying to preserve peace while breaking inside? Are we forever bound by blood, or is there space to feel anger—even toward your own child? I searched my soul, examined every mistake, every word, every action, asking myself what I had done wrong, how things could have been different. But no matter how hard I searched, I found no answers that brought me peace. And then, when I saw how she portrayed me on X as the most horrible mother imaginable, something in me broke. A storm rose inside me that I could no longer contain. Using an account under the name of the Worst Mother, I responded—my anger turning into words. Maybe it wasn’t my best decision, maybe not the wisest, but it released something, as if I finally let go of a piece of that pain.

I also read on X that she was planning to write a loving letter to her Wordfather, thanking him for the beautiful bungalow he had given her in his garden. When I read that, something inside me boiled over. The thought that she could write him a letter full of gratitude, while I had been left behind with nothing but rejection and silence, made my anger explode. In a surge of raw emotion and hurt, I responded: “And I can only receive shitty letters. Regards, the Worst Mother.” It wasn’t my finest moment, but in that instant, I needed to release the bitterness and the truth—unfiltered and unapologetic. It was also there, on X, that I discovered something even more painful: that Wordfather had suggested ignoring me—that it had been their plan. But that plan had already been in motion for six years. Six years of silence, rejection, and not knowing. And now, faced with that truth, I felt anger and grief merging into something new inside me. Maybe this anger would finally free me, finally give me space to breathe again, to live again.

It felt as if my entire world was collapsing, as if all the suppressed anger had finally found its way out. In an impulsive burst, driven by that emotional storm, I decided to buy a folding caravan. It wasn’t a well-thought-out plan, more an act of rebellion against everything that had weighed me down for years. Thankfully, my best friend was there—as she always was—to support me. Together we picked up the caravan, and she offered me a place on her land, surrounded by nature. There, in the quiet and the green, I slowly began to find myself again. Away from the chaos and the people who had hurt me, I discovered a kind of peace I hadn’t known in years. Nature held me, gave me space to breathe, to move. I felt a strength rising within me, one I had forgotten I still had. Every day I pushed myself a little further—without a walker—step by step, retraining my body and mind, becoming stronger again. With my Nordic walking poles, I crossed the wide fields, my feet brushing through wild chamomile that grew everywhere. Its soft, sweet scent filled the air, like a balm for my soul, wrapping itself around the caravan as if nature itself was trying to comfort me. And there, in that simplicity and stillness, I found not only peace but also the strength to keep going.

For a while, writing The Worst Mother came to a halt. It felt as if the writing itself had led me to this anger. I had written out all my grief, poured it onto the page. Slowly, I began taking small steps back toward society, because I had withdrawn into my own world of sorrow. Gradually, the storm inside me began to settle. Not because everything was resolved—but because I felt I could no longer stay silent.

Wordfather had always been someone I looked up to. He was highly educated, much more articulate than I felt I was, and he knew it. His command of language was impressive—something I admired, but that also made me feel small. Whenever I spoke, he would correct my sentences, and often I would lose my train of thought entirely. I started to believe that what I had to say mattered less than how I said it. This dynamic shaped our entire relationship. Where I sought equality, he often positioned himself above me. This pattern repeated itself not only in conversation but also in how we raised our children and how he interpreted the parenting plan. Even during our high-conflict divorce, he managed to maintain the upper hand, using words as his weapon.

During the divorce, and through the weekends the children spent with Wordfather, my life became an emotional rollercoaster. I reacted to him with anger in ways our children couldn’t understand. But what affected me most was how he positioned me. He knew exactly how to trigger me, how to make me appear as the angry witch in front of the children. Do you recognize this? You think you’re playing football, and suddenly he shows up holding a hockey stick. These were the kinds of triggers he used—subtle, calculated, effective. He had done it during our marriage, and during the divorce it only intensified. He ignored agreements from the parenting plan, creating confusion and frustration. He excluded me from important moments like birthdays and appointments. He even took risks with the children—like swimming during a thunderstorm or driving them on icy roads. Everything they did was approved, even when it wasn’t good for them. And when I asked them to help with small tasks, he would undermine me by saying it wasn’t necessary because he would do it himself. In those moments, I often felt transported back to my own childhood—a time that, while simpler, carried its own emotional intensity.

Back then, volleyball was my refuge, my passion. While I now try to stay standing in this emotional battle, I often think back to those matches—how I gave everything at the net, defending my position with everything I had. One day, a friend asked me to join her handball game. I barely knew the sport beyond gym class, but I agreed to step in when someone dropped out. It didn’t go as planned. During the game, an opponent collided with my hands, and it looked as though I had hit her. I was immediately sent off the field. It felt so unfair. Luckily, after the match, the referee apologized and cleared up the misunderstanding. That moment taught me something important about fairness, misinterpretation, and the power of communication.

Writing had opened me up. And somewhere deep inside, I knew: the only way forward is with open hands and an open heart—willing to write, even when it hurts.

Het bericht 35. The Worst Mother Got Angry verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Therapy became my lifeline. It didn’t just give me insight into my behavior and past, but also into the impact my actions had on my children. I began working on my emotional regulation, learning how to navigate my ADHD, and trying to forgive—both myself and others. ADHD revealed itself when I described how I had been in school: a mix between a dreamer and a whirlwind. My thoughts would drift into distant fantasy worlds, while my body moved restlessly through the classroom. The result? I was often sent into the hallway to finish my work in silence. Only later did it all make sense—my drive and my restlessness had a name.

School had often felt like a slow train ride through dull landscapes, yet somehow I made it through, with occasional bursts where I could channel my creativity and enthusiasm. Despite the daily struggle with overwhelming emotions, there were moments of clarity where I realized I was simply human—a person who makes mistakes, who sometimes trips over her own emotions and burdens her children with them. But one thing has always remained certain: I love my children, and that will never change. During those difficult years as the “worst mother,” I often saw life and my youngest child’s choices differently, especially when it came to her friendships and decisions. Where she found freedom and support in her social circle, I often saw risk and concern. Even so, everything I did came from love and care—even when that meant being the mother who said “no,” or the one who sometimes lost control. I have learned that even if I was not the perfect mother, I always did my best. And sometimes, that is all you can do.

Then came a second worst letter, after she had started therapy herself. It followed my unexpected visit—with a friend—to the shed where she had essentially been living since she was sixteen, at her Wordfather’s place. The week before, we had left a teddy bear there. This time, I arrived with a piece of cheese, a bottle of Hugo, and a ring that read “I Am Enough.” I knocked on the door. That evening turned into a complete disaster. It ended with me being labeled—even by the police—as the worst mother, and I was told to stop trying to contact my daughter or approach her friends. Imagine that: the foolish mother wanting contact with her Riddledaughter, the child she had brought into the world.

I stayed silent for two years. That second worst letter hit me like a concrete Louis bag straight to the heart. Again, there was a long list of accusations—or wishes, depending on how you look at it—and I tried to respond with understanding. But everything was blocked. I couldn’t respond at all. I even called Altrecht to ask how it was possible that I had become one of her traumas without any conversation taking place. My psychologist found it strange too, but if she didn’t want contact, then she didn’t want it.

My powerlessness, grief, and anger grew rapidly. To me, this felt like parental alienation in its purest form. And then something new surfaced: apparently, I had once said on the phone that I wanted to end my life. I don’t remember saying that. What I likely said was that it might be better if I weren’t around—but by that, I meant moving far away, not actually dying. It hurts deeply that she interpreted it that way. I think what I really meant was that I wanted all the chaos to stop. All the problems. The worst part is that we cannot talk about it together. As my Professorson once said, it’s like she opens the door, shouts something, and slams it shut again before anyone can respond or say, “You’re right—what can I do to make it better?” Or even, “Did I misunderstand you?” Then there was another accusation—that I hadn’t properly understood her cry for help about her previous boyfriend.

What she told me was serious, but she had already ended the relationship, and I asked if she wanted me to talk to his mother. She said no. Trying to lighten the moment, I joked that I would show up with my Louis Beton bag instead of Louis Vuitton—a joke we often made when something serious happened. But she took it very badly and felt I had not seen how much help she really needed. At that time, I only saw her once or twice a week. She lived with Wordfather. Where was he in this story? I blame myself for not seeing it. It is a constant search for balance between understanding and self-preservation, and sometimes—just sometimes—I wonder how I am supposed to keep caring without losing myself.

She ended that letter the same way: “I wish you all the best.” This time without the heart. That was gone. A year later, I looked at one of her friend’s Instagram accounts, curious. And there it was—photos of that sad teddy bear, clearly turned into a victim of their dark humor. Images of them pretending to cut it with scissors, middle fingers raised. Someone had commented: “What did that poor bear ever do to you?” Out of pure desperation, I replied: “Why? You don’t even know me.” I was blocked immediately. After two years, with permission from Wordfather, I was allowed to send her a letter. After many conversations, some form of contact had been re-established. She had become depressed again, and he began to realize that not everything could be blamed on me.

But it did not matter. The door was locked tighter than ever, secured with heavy chains, and I no longer knew what to do. The second worst letter also stated that Wordfather never spoke badly about me. But the fact that he supported her decision said enough—he agreed that I was the worst mother. And yes, I am aware of that. I have read books like When Parents Hurt and written an apology letter. I have sent birthday gifts and small presents, which she accepted. I have sent loving messages. I have begged to meet for coffee, to explain, to apologize. But no. It is like Monopoly: go straight to jail, no salary. I was sent straight to jail without a trial. The door only closed tighter, more locks added.

I felt like my grief made me a burden to everyone. Until one day, I reached out again to one of her former creative friends. They were no longer friends—not because of me, but for other reasons. We spoke on the phone and shared memories from the time when everything was still good. I cherish those memories deeply, even though I have lost her somewhere along the way. Because we truly had so much fun together. In fact, before she returned to therapy, everything had seemed fine. That friend pointed me toward The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson. I devoured the book and am now reading it for the second time, while opening myself up to write all of this down. Because there is nothing left I can do—I have done everything to restore contact. Meanwhile, contact with Wordfather has dropped back to zero after I discovered that ignoring me had been part of the plan. Long live X. I cannot continue like this, drowning in grief. Something has to change. People tell me: “Let her go, let her be.” But I cannot. I simply cannot let go.

A cup of comfort

You were not lying in a grave
You were standing in it
With your hands open
They called you the worst
And you almost believed it
Because your heart was already so tired
You fought
For their future
For their peace
For your own mind
You were not perfect
But who is?
You were real
Therapy became your anchor
At last the pieces started to fit
You looked back
With eyes full of insight
With a heart full of regret and love
You kept giving
You kept hoping
Until you were blocked
Literally
Figuratively
Made invisible
And still you did not collapse
You wrote
You cried
You read
You learned how to keep standing
With broken legs
And a heart full of questions
Sometimes letting go feels like betrayal
As if love ends with distance
But love is also
Continuing to breathe
For yourself
So make yourself a cup
Rest your head for a moment
You are not the only one
You are the mother who stayed
Who dared to feel
Who never truly gave up

Het bericht 34. Buried in Therapy verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

At some point, I felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore. As if the words wrapped themselves around my throat and tightened. “And another thing, mom—you raised us irresponsibly.” How do you even respond to something like that? And was it true? How could I explain that I was just human too—a mother doing the best she could with what she had? A mother who made mistakes, yes, but always with the best intentions. It felt like I was fighting a ghost, a version of myself that existed only as “sht” in Riddledaughter’s eyes. “You leaned on us too much emotionally, mom. All your problems with other people—you placed them on us. It was too much. Way too much.” The letter continued, relentless. “You involved us too much in your own struggles. We had to be your support while we were still children. That’s not fair. That’s sht.” How could I explain it? That I thought of Parental Alienation Syndrome, that situation where a child rejects one parent, often influenced by the other. That I believed Wordfather was the root of so much. “You blamed him for everything. But that’s not how it works. That’s not fair.”

And then about her transgender friend: “I hate seeing what it’s doing to him, and you just casually suggest I’d want that too because of him. No. It makes me sick. Being transgender is not something you ‘become’ because of someone else. The fact that you think that says enough about you. And the fact that you dared to bring breast cancer into it is even more disturbing. And maybe your transphobic words were exactly what pushed me over the edge.” Suddenly, I was transphobic? That was never my intention—not with the breast cancer comparison. It felt like a rainstorm of “f*cks,” like Mark Manson describes. Or like my niece once said: “She’s throwing up all the puke,” after her little brother got sick. You are this, you do that—there was no end to it. Everything was my fault.

And then, at the very end of the letter, the final blow: “Take care .” The door slammed shut in my face. In my mind, I could hear the locks clicking one by one: click, clack, click… each sound sealing the barrier between us. And there I sat, holding the shttiest letter ever written. It was a mirror, showing me my flaws, my shortcomings. But it was also something else. A chance. A chance to reflect, to learn, and maybe—someday—to become again the mother my children needed. Not perfect, but real. Because in the end, despite all the shtty moments, my love was always real. And that, dear world, is what truly matters.

A cup of comfort

For those who received the letter
You open the envelope or the email
Your heart already hurts
Then the words come
Hard
Raw
They name your shortcomings
They count your mistakes
No softness
No reaching hand
All the blame pours in
Everything you feared
Suddenly it’s real
Black on white
You breathe
But it catches
You read
But you break
They struggle
You do too
You are not a monster
You are human
You tried
Sometimes stumbling
Always loving
What now?
You breathe again
You wait
You feel
You live
Maybe one day a letter will return
Softer
Wiser
Until then
Be gentle with yourself
Know you are not alone
And that love, even when silent, never truly disappears

Het bericht 33. Here It Was: The Sh*ttiest Letter — A Deafening Judgment verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

The friendship that had once caused so much pain began to resurface, like stubborn weeds finding their way back through cracks in the ground. This friend, now in a gender transition process and struggling with deep depression, found their way back into my daughter’s life. Together, they decided to travel to a distant country, where my daughter’s boyfriend was living at the time. It felt like an adventure, a temporary escape from reality, but that reality soon caught up with them. Later, I learned that this friend—now living as male—had bought and used LSD there, a choice that filled me with fear. The relationship with her boyfriend ended, and her bond with this friend grew stronger than ever. As a mother—and especially as what I call a “Worst mother”—I felt in every fiber of my being that this friendship was doing her more harm than good. Relationships like that can build you up or break you down, and I watched as my daughter was slowly being broken. The shed in the backyard, once a place filled with innocent memories, became a refuge for smoking weed, a place where she withdrew into her own world. She told me she felt depressed again and wanted to return to therapy. That led to sessions at Altrecht, where Wordfather, she, and I went together. In those moments, things still seemed okay between us, as if we were, despite everything, still a unit. Even just before the sessions, we could laugh together—small moments of connection that gave me hope. But she was firm about one thing: the file from her previous psychologist was not to be shared with Altrecht. It felt as though she was hiding something, something she herself wasn’t ready to face.

She wanted an exemption from school, just like her friend had taken a year off for therapy. At first, I tried to support her. I wanted to believe this would help. But as the conversations continued, it became increasingly clear to me that the smoking and her involvement with this friend were only pulling her further away from herself. I fought with everything I had to keep her connected to school, hoping it would remain a lifeline, something she could return to when things stabilized. Eventually, she received the exemption she had hoped for, but the path to it was anything but smooth. Communication with the municipality, which handled the exemption, was confusing and frustrating. At one point, I discovered that an important appointment had taken place without my knowledge. Apparently, I had missed an email announcing it, but even more strangely, I had never confirmed the appointment in the system. Still, it had gone ahead without anyone—neither the school nor the municipality—bothering to call me or inform me. It felt as though I was being excluded from the process, as if my role as a parent no longer mattered. Because of the confusion and lack of clear communication, the municipality referred me to the local support team, as if that would somehow resolve everything. I went to the first meeting reluctantly, unsure of what to expect. It was immediately clear that there was a lot going on—too much, really, to fit into a single conversation. Instead of the clarity and support I had hoped for, I received only a vague recommendation: therapy.

They advised me to go back into therapy, as though that were the answer to everything. But I felt a deep resistance. I had already had so much therapy, spent so many hours talking, analyzing, digging into my past and my emotions. What I needed now was rest. Space to process, space to breathe without constantly having to work on myself. But no one seemed to understand that. The frustration and anger built up inside me like lava in a volcano on the verge of eruption. Everything was going wrong, and this friend of my daughter’s played far too large a role in it. I had always had my doubts, but now, seeing his Instagram posts under a name disturbingly close to that of a terrible illness, I reached my limit. That name, combined with photos of his taped chest, struck something deep inside me. How was I supposed to process that, knowing there are women who lose their breasts to cancer with pain and grief? How could he—and my daughter, under his influence—not see that? My anger pushed me to contact his father, not only to express my concerns about those disturbing posts, but also to talk about the growing distance between my daughter and me. What had once been so close now felt like sand slipping through my fingers.

Instead of understanding, I was met with my daughter’s anger. She felt betrayed, as if I had crossed a line by involving her friend and his father. It escalated even further when this friend told her that I had lied about a skull tattoo she wanted to get. He claimed I had already known about it, while in reality I was hearing about it for the first time. She had never shown me anything, never told me. The idea that she believed I had lied cut deeply. It felt as though the distance between us was growing wider and deeper with each passing day. Wordfather played his part in this dynamic, as he always did. He refused to cooperate in any effort to restore contact and fully supported her decisions—whether about school or her friendship with this boy. Meanwhile, the shed, once just a shed, became a hangout spot where she smoked and withdrew further into herself. I wanted to talk to her, really talk, so I sent her a message: “I’m coming to the shed to talk,” I wrote, hoping it might open the door to an honest conversation. Instead, I received an email from Wordfather—short, firm, and threatening legal action if I came near the shed. And just like that, I found myself back in the same vicious cycle. A place where problems never truly disappeared, where they were only temporarily softened, never resolved. Or perhaps, if I’m completely honest, they were only getting worse. It felt as though I was sinking deeper into a swamp of misunderstanding and conflict, with no way out in sight.

Het bericht 32. The Sun Broke Through, and So Did I verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

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.

Het bericht 31. She Is—and Always Will Be—Your Mother verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Everything in my daughter’s life was unraveling. The days when she went to school with a smile and came home full of stories about her day felt like a distant memory. The breakup with her best friend hit her hard. This girl, once her safe place, had turned into one of the popular kids—and against her. It was heartbreaking to watch that friendship transform into bullying, with my daughter as the target. The pain she carried ran deep, and it began to show in ways that made me, as a mother, shudder. In many ways, it pulled me right back into my own childhood, into memories of being bullied. I used to play with all the neighborhood kids, but my heart belonged to one special friend. From kindergarten until I was ten, she was my person, my partner in adventure. We could spend hours roller skating, moving so in sync it felt like we were one, losing ourselves in imaginary worlds where we were princes and princesses, inventing our own fairy tales filled with castles, dragons, and magic. When she emigrated to a faraway country, that friendship ended abruptly. It left a hole in my world, as if my safe haven had vanished overnight, as if someone had drained all the color from my fairy tale. That loss stayed with me as both a cherished and painful memory.

It took time before I was able to build new friendships after she left. Children can be brutally honest. “You never played with us, only with her, so go away!” they told me. It cut deep, leaving me feeling completely alone. Eventually, I did find new friends, but the path there was uneven, full of bumps and setbacks. It wasn’t easy. My drooping eye often became a target for teasing. “Cross-eyed!” they would shout. It made me furious—I wasn’t cross-eyed at all—but apparently, they needed something to pick on. I underwent multiple surgeries because the muscle in my eyelid was too long, and doctors shortened it so my eye could open properly. At birth, that eye had been closed, and no one even knew there was an eye behind it. So yes, I was born with a wink—literally. And even though the bullying hurt, I learned to hold my head high, carrying that wink like a quiet kind of strength. My mother always stood up for me when I was bullied. Whether it helped or not, I don’t know, but she was always there. She even lashed out at the lifeguard when I failed my swimming certificate B, calling him out angrily because he said I didn’t swim deep enough, even though I could feel the bottom scraping against my stomach. That was my mother—fierce when it came to her children.

After we moved to a different town, I started at a new school. I thought maybe this was my chance to finally belong, maybe even to become a little bit popular. Starting fifth grade felt like a fresh beginning. I immediately noticed a girl who was being picked on, and I decided to stand up for her. It made me feel strong, brave even. We became friends, but instead of gaining acceptance, we ended up being bullied together. In sixth grade, things shifted slightly, and I managed to form new friendships with other girls. We shared happy moments, laughter, and small adventures. Later, that same girl who had been bullied became seriously ill with a stomach ulcer. My thoughts went straight back to the bullying. Could that constant pressure have made her sick? I don’t know for sure—I’m not a doctor—but I believe it must have played a role.

My daughter found new friends too, but there was one in particular who worried me. There was something about her, something that didn’t sit right with me, an influence I would have preferred to keep out of my daughter’s life. But what could I do? My daughter gravitated more and more toward her, and I could feel my grip slipping away. Her transition to secondary school marked a new phase, but not the fresh start I had hoped for. She began skipping classes, withdrawing more and more, disappearing into a dark world of self-harm. The sharp lines on her arms were silent yet piercing signs of her inner struggle. She became depressed, and I, her mother, could do nothing but watch from a distance, feeling utterly powerless. Social media became my only window into her life, the only way I could still keep some kind of connection. She came home less and less, drifted further and further away from me. Her new friend became her world, and I felt excluded, as if she was slipping beyond my reach. Nights were the hardest. I would lie awake, worrying about her, about everything that was going wrong, about how I could possibly reach her—but how do you reach someone who won’t let you in?

Her school assessment had indicated she was capable of a pre-university track, but in reality, that level turned out to be too much for her, and she wanted to take two steps back—not to a general track, but further down. We agreed. Anything to ease the pressure she was under, anything to help her find joy in school again. It struck me how different it had been for me. My final year of primary school had been filled with anticipation and change. We all knew we were about to become freshmen in a new school, and that made everything feel charged. The standardized test loomed ahead, and everyone was nervous. My parents had high expectations, and I felt the pressure to succeed. When the results came, I had scored high enough for an advanced track. I was overjoyed. Finally, proof that I could do more, be more. I imagined myself there, in a new classroom, meeting new friends, discovering new subjects, stepping into a bigger world. But that excitement quickly dissolved when my teacher gave his advice: a lower level. According to him, I made too many small mistakes, and he believed that level would suit me better. I was outraged and disappointed. How could he say that after my results? My parents trusted his professional judgment and followed his advice, believing he knew what was best for me.

For weeks, I was furious. It felt like my dreams had been taken away, like no one believed in my potential. I went to school reluctantly, weighed down by frustration, convinced my future had been limited by that decision. But that anger also fueled something in me. It awakened a determination to prove that I was capable of more than what others saw. And perhaps that is why, with my daughter, the most important thing for me became listening to what she wanted for her education—because I knew what it felt like to carry that pressure, to have your path decided for you.

Het bericht 30. Appearances Can Be Deceptive verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

In the chapters that follow, I explore that break. Not as an accusation. Not as a victim. But as a mother. A mother who asks herself where it went wrong. A mother who looks, questions, cries, and writes. Perhaps you will recognize something of yourself in these pages. Perhaps you will feel resistance. Perhaps you will wonder: was this inevitable? Perhaps you will ask yourself: have I lost a branch too?

I invite you to walk with me along this fragile branch. Because even broken wood tells a story. And maybe—just maybe—something new will one day grow from what has been torn away. Welcome to Part 2 – The Branch That Broke.

Het bericht 29. Part 2 – The Branch That Broke verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

In my own family, I can clearly see that chain. It is painful to recognize how the experiences of parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents have made their way into my own life. The traumas my parents carried still live on in the way we relate to each other. Sometimes it shows up as misunderstanding, conflict, or emotional distance. We all try our best, but the patterns of the past often resurface anyway. That is why, together with my mother and sister, I decided to break the chain. We began a process of family coaching to bring old pain into the open, and my father has also played an important role in this journey. These are heavy conversations, but they set something in motion. They open the door to healing.

There comes a moment when it has to stop. The realization that these patterns keep repeating touches me deeply. Because if it stops with me, it does not have to be passed on to my children. It is our responsibility to break the cycle. How do we do that? By digging deep into the roots of the pain, by having difficult conversations, by seeking and offering forgiveness, and by building new, healthier patterns. The generations before us did what they could with what they had. They may not have had the tools to process their trauma, but we live in a time where we do. We can seek help, go to therapy, and actively work toward healing. It is not easy, but it is necessary.

During my journey with family coaching, I have learned that healing begins with recognition. You cannot solve something until you see and acknowledge it. This does not mean blaming our parents or grandparents, but it does mean taking responsibility for how we choose to deal with what we have inherited. It is about choosing to live consciously, and no longer remaining a victim of generational pain. This path to healing is not a straight line. There are moments of confusion, pain, and resistance. But there are also moments of insight, forgiveness, and relief. I believe it takes courage to choose healing, and that in the end, it is one of the greatest acts of love we can offer our children and the generations to come. Family trauma does not have to continue forever. There comes a moment when we can say: it stops here, with me. It takes courage, strength, and sometimes many tears, but I believe it is possible. And one day—maybe not immediately, but in the future—the generations after us will be grateful that we made that difficult choice.

A cup of comfort

For those who dare to break the chain
Sometimes you feel it in your bones
— that what you carry is not yours alone.
Your body repeats words that were never spoken.
Your heart reacts to pain older than you.
And yet… here you are.
On this page.
You read.
You recognize.
Maybe something trembles inside you,
maybe you feel resistance.
But know this: that is not weakness.
That is movement.
Because you are the one who dares to pause.
To look.
To ask.
To feel.
And that is powerful.
Because family trauma is not a story
that is easily rewritten.
It is imprinted,
deeply woven into our system.
But with every tear you do allow yourself to cry,
every boundary you do set,
every loving choice you make
— something shifts.
Maybe not immediately.
Maybe not yet visible.
But beneath the surface, something new is taking root.
You don’t have to do it perfectly.
Only consciously.
So breathe.
Place your feet firmly on the ground.
And whisper softly: it stops with me.
For yourself.
For your children.
For all those yet to come.
I pour you a warm cup of courage.
You are not alone.

Het bericht 28. Family Trauma: Breaking the Cycle verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

After my first surgeries, I thought I had been through the worst. But the truth is that the stress and fear I felt as a child never truly disappeared. They intertwined with other experiences and formed something larger: complex trauma. Every time I was in the hospital, it felt as if I lost another piece of my autonomy. Whether it was the weights attached to my body to stretch my spine, or doctors discussing surgical plans as if I weren’t even there, I felt powerless. It wasn’t just the procedures themselves, but the realization that I had no choice, that I was dependent on others. That sense of powerlessness followed me long after my back was physically “repaired,” creeping into my life in moments where I felt I was losing control again—within relationships, within motherhood—again and again that same fear resurfaced: the feeling that I had no say, that I had to go along with whatever was happening, whether I wanted to or not.

The impact of these experiences is not always visible, but I feel it in my reactions. In every medical situation—whether it concerns my own health or that of my children—I feel a wave of stress that pulls me back to those hospital beds. It is as if my body remembers what my mind tries to forget. These memories are not only tied to physical pain, but also to the emotional isolation I experienced at the time. I can now see how those early experiences laid the foundation for how I deal with stress and anxiety. I learned early on that control is an illusion, and that shaped me—but it also taught me how to fight, how to keep going despite feelings of powerlessness, how to get back up every time, even when it feels like I keep falling.

Understanding what PMTS and complex trauma are has helped me make sense of my own story. It gave me words for things I had always felt but could never name. It helped me see that the scars I carry—visible and invisible—are real. And maybe that is the first step toward healing: acknowledging that what I went through cannot simply be erased or brushed aside, that its impact runs through my life, but that I can also use it to grow stronger. It is not an easy process, but it starts with that recognition—that the shadow of my surgeries was large, but that I have grown larger through everything I have endured.

When you know how fragile a body can be, when you know from experience how one wrong movement can make the difference between walking and never walking again, you begin to see the world differently. My medical history had not only made me stronger, but also hyper-aware of danger. I saw risks before others did, felt panic before anything had even happened. Where other parents saw a small scrape, I saw a possible spinal cord injury. Where others saw harmless fun, I saw potential disaster. Wordfather didn’t have that. He didn’t carry that constant awareness of how quickly things can go wrong. For him, life was lighter. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was simply more relaxed. But to me, it felt reckless, like unnecessary risk with our children’s safety at stake.

I can still see it clearly—how he pushed the children on the swing, higher and higher, while I stood there with my heart racing. “Not so high!” I would call out, but he would laugh it off. “They like it.” Maybe they did. But all I could think about was what would happen if their hands slipped, if their small bodies hit the ground hard. It didn’t stop with swings. I forbade running on gravel, afraid of falls that could go wrong. I stepped in whenever I sensed danger. I protected them—but maybe I protected them too much. I was so used to being in constant battle with my own body and its vulnerability that I wanted to spare them from that same reality. But was that even possible?

There were moments when my fear was not just in my head, but became real. Like the time Wordfather went out on the water with Professorson during a thunderstorm. I had warned him: “This is not a good idea.” But he brushed it off, as if I was overreacting again. And then the storm broke. I remember rushing with Riddle Daughter and her friend, packing everything and running to the car while the sky tore open with lightning. I sat there with a pounding heart, staring at the water, hoping I had been wrong. Only when they returned safely could I breathe again. And it wasn’t the only time. After our divorce, he once drove the children to his mother despite severe weather warnings. I could do nothing but wait and hope. When I heard the highway had been closed, relief washed over me—they were safe, this time.

I wanted to protect them from pain, from accidents, from the consequences I had lived through myself. But somewhere I also knew I was going too far. That I couldn’t raise them in a world without risk. That I was limiting their freedom because I knew how fragile life could be. Maybe Wordfather was right in being more relaxed. Maybe I was right in not underestimating risks. But in all those moments where I feared for their safety, where I felt their vulnerability as if it were my own, there was one thing I knew for certain: I couldn’t let it go. Because I knew exactly what it felt like when things do go wrong—and I couldn’t let that happen to them if I had any way to prevent it.

My urge to protect didn’t only come from what I knew about injuries and accidents. It became even stronger when my Riddle daughter got sick. Not an external accident, not something visible, but something from within—something I had no control over. And that made it unbearable. I remember sitting beside her as she lay in bed, her body weak and feverish, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. What if it got worse? What if this was the beginning of something bigger? I had learned how to prevent accidents, how to stay alert to external dangers, but here I stood powerless. I couldn’t protect her from what was happening inside her body. That feeling—of panic, of realizing that even all your caution and care are not enough—shaped me. Maybe that is why I was always on edge in other situations, because I knew what it felt like to watch helplessly, and I refused to be in that position again.

A cup of comfort

Sometimes the struggle begins before your child even gets the chance to simply be.
Sometimes you learn far too early that a body can let you down.
That pain is not always visible.
And that “being strong” means continuing, even when all you want is to lie still.
For you, who learned as a child what it feels like to be powerless.
For you, who as a mother now does everything to prevent your child from experiencing that same pain.
For you, who stays alert at every fever, every cough, every risk.
Not because you exaggerate, but because you know.
You know what it is to lose something.
Even if it was “only” trust.
Maybe sometimes you feel too worried.
Maybe others tell you to let go, to relax, to not always expect the worst.
But they do not know what you have felt, what you have endured, what you have survived.
They do not know the smell of hospital hallways the way you do.
Know this:
You are not too afraid.
You are not weak.
You are someone who learned to fight before there were words to explain it.
And even if you sometimes stumble over your own fears, that too is love.
So today… breathe in.
And out.
Place your hand on your heart.
And softly say to that child you once were—and to the mother you are now:
“You have held on for so long. You are allowed to be a little softer now.”

Het bericht 27. PMTS: The Shadow of Childhood Trauma verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Where the “Yes-mother” bends along cheerfully and always finds a creative “yes, if…”, the “No-mother” is the one who stands firmly grounded. She is the mother of boundaries, of structure, the party-pooper at dinner time, the “no, not with those scissors in your nose” mother. And yes, that role is anything but sexy, loved, or easy. Boundaries are love. Children need structure, even though they would much rather lean toward chaos and chocolate sprinkles for dinner. The No-mother knows: if you give in now, tomorrow will be war. While the Yes-mother is already on the couch with a bowl of popcorn saying, “Ah, just one more episode!”

Still, most of the time, the No-mother wins. With narrowed eyes and a deep sigh. Because sleep, rest, and predictability are sometimes more important than a cheerful toddler at nine in the evening who wants to let his dinosaurs swim in the toilet.

My sister, with her two children, at one point sounded like a cross between a police officer and someone with Tourette’s. Our phone conversations were interrupted every thirty seconds by: “NO! You can’t do that!” I could hear her shouting in the background: “STOP CLIMBING!” “NO PANCAKES ON THE WALL!” And when we finally managed to have an actual conversation, she collapsed on the couch, completely exhausted. We laughed until we cried, because honestly—even the No-mother sometimes just wants a warm cup of tea and five minutes without being called.

Of course, “no” also sometimes comes from your own preferences. I hate fairs—the noise, the flashing lights, the smell of sugar and stress. So when my Puzzle Daughter wanted to go at eleven years old, I said no. Simply because I couldn’t handle it. Later, I saw on social media that she had gone anyway, with friends, without me. And you know what? That was actually a good thing. Sometimes children need to find their own way, to experience their own consequences. Their own stomach aches from too much cotton candy—just like I once had from too many plums. A double dragon, you could say. No one had warned me either.

Yes and no are sisters. Sometimes you are a Yes-mother. Sometimes a No-mother. And most of the time, you are somewhere in between, balancing on the tightrope of parenting—between letting go and holding on. Every “no” you say is, in its own way, an act of love. Not the easy kind of love that gives in, but the harder kind that says: I see you, I guide you, I protect you—even when you don’t understand it yet.

A cup of comfort

For all the mothers who said “no” today
to Netflix, sweets, nail polish on the cat,
or sleeping in a cardboard box in the garden
— this cup is for you.
You don’t always have to be the sweet mother.
Not always the creative mother.
Not always the spiritual, patient, calm,
perfectly balanced mother.
Sometimes you are simply the mother
who sighed deeply and said “no”
while picking half a sandwich off the floor.
And that, dear mother, is more than enough.

Het bericht 26. I’m Two and I Say No verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

At the same time, she has a career that is both impressive and flexible. She works hard, yet is always home on time, effortlessly balancing everything without breaking a sweat. She even has a creative hobby, attends every school activity, and still manages to look flawless—even first thing in the morning. Her children are polite, intelligent, and thriving, and if something goes wrong, she handles it with the wisdom of Gandhi and the calm of a Zen master.

Her relationship looks like something out of a romantic movie: a supportive partner, weekly date nights, shared dreams, and a deep emotional connection. Her social life is just as perfect—meaningful friendships, dinners, outings, always there for others, never needing help herself. She eats healthy, exercises daily, has glowing skin, no bad days, no mood swings—just endless positivity.

But let’s be real—this mother does not exist. She is a myth, a story society has handed us, and the moment we try to live up to her, we lose ourselves. Real mothers are imperfect. We make mistakes. And in those imperfections lies the true beauty of motherhood.

⸻

The “Worst” Mother:
So if the perfect mother is a unicorn, what does the “worst” mother look like in real life? She wakes up with her hair going in every direction and a face that says she barely made it through the night. Her house is a mix of scattered toys, laundry piles, and empty coffee cups—lived-in, chaotic, real. Breakfast is often quick and practical: cereal, a sandwich, or sometimes nothing at all because everyone is running late. That perfect breakfast table? Not happening.

She tries to balance work and family, often feeling stretched thin. She forgets things, runs late, struggles with deadlines, and sometimes misses school activities. Hobbies are rare, because most days already feel like pushing through a jungle of responsibilities. Her children are exactly what children are supposed to be: messy, emotional, unpredictable. Not always polite, not always top of the class, sometimes covered in chocolate or wearing clothes with stains or holes.

When problems arise, she handles them as best as she can—with improvisation, humor, and sometimes sheer exhaustion. Her relationship is not a fairytale, but a mix of love, tension, and tiredness. No perfect rhythm, no weekly date nights, just two people trying to navigate life together. Friendships exist, but in a different way—less polished, more real. A few people who truly understand, conversations over a glass of wine, laughter about how messy life actually is.

She tries to be healthy, but also reaches for chocolate when needed. Exercise happens when there is time and energy, which isn’t often. She has bad days, mood swings, moments where everything feels too much. And yet, she keeps going. She embraces her imperfections, not because she wants to, but because she has learned that life simply doesn’t fit into a perfect mold. And in that messy, chaotic reality, there is something deeply real and powerful. That is motherhood.

Me, the “Worst” Mother in a nutshell:
When I let a friend read my introduction, she said something that stayed with me: mothers are imperfect, just like everyone else, but with mothers it becomes painfully visible because children are living mirrors—you cannot hide from them. That hit the nail on the head. Make one mistake, and your children will remind you of it for the rest of your life. Like that time I made a minced-meat-and-banana dish, which according to my children was the most disgusting thing I had ever created. Or the moment a curse word slipped out of my mouth and they immediately jumped on it—“Oooooh mom!”—and just like that, you’ve undermined your own parenting.

And yes, you will hear it forever: “Remember that time, mom…?” Because there is no manual. I checked—nothing. So you do what every mother does: you read books, talk to others, try to figure it out while you’re already in it. And just when you think you’ve got a phase under control, something new appears out of nowhere. Yesterday the sun was shining, today it’s storming inside your house.

“Don’t run on the gravel!” I said.
“I won’t, mom.”
Five minutes later—crying child, scraped knees. And to this day, that story comes back whenever something goes wrong.

I wasn’t any better myself. I was a walking disaster—always falling, always bruised. Running to the beach and landing flat on my face, crashing through a glass door, falling out of a bunk bed, even doing a cartwheel straight into a key sticking out of a closet. Honestly, I could have slapped myself. And still, here I am, trying to protect my children from making the same mistakes, even though I know they have to fall and get back up themselves.

So maybe it’s not about preventing every fall. Maybe it’s about being there when they get up again. Be kind to yourself and embrace your inner “worst” mother—not as failure, but as truth. “I did my best, and it still blew up in my face.” That doesn’t make you a bad mother. It makes you human. And showing that humanity to your children might be the most valuable lesson of all.

A cup of comfort

Are you not a unicorn mother?
Don’t panic.
You are not alone.
Maybe you didn’t serve sugar-free granola in a bamboo bowl this morning.
Maybe your child is wearing two different socks again today.
You forgot the school photos.
You snapped over something small.
That parent meeting should have been yesterday.
But you know what?

You were there.
You are there.
You keep showing up.
You carry your children and your guilt in the same breath.
You fail with love.
You succeed with tears.
You cry in the car.
You laugh while brushing teeth.
You get up.
Even when you didn’t want to.
You say sorry.
Even when you don’t have the words.
You cook with what you have.
You love with everything you have.

And that… is motherhood.
Not perfect.
But real.
So take a sip.
Warm.
Honest.

For you.
The “worst” mother.
And the best your children will ever have.

Het bericht 25. The Unicorn Mother vs. the “Worst” Mother verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

My childhood and early adulthood were marked by an ongoing struggle—a struggle against my body, against the limitations it imposed on me, but also a struggle to find myself, to carve out my own path in a world that often felt harsh and unpredictable. I had already lived through so much: physical pain, emotional pain, the constant uncertainty of a future that was repeatedly called into question by my health and by the choices I made. I spent my teenage years in hospitals, removed from the experiences most young people take for granted. While others were exploring freedom, adventure, and excitement, I was learning how to survive, how to cope with a body that seemed to betray me time and time again.

When I was finally freed from the constraints of my youth, I felt an overwhelming urge to live—to catch up on everything I had missed. The city became my playground, a place where I could finally spread my wings and begin to discover who I really was. The nights in my favorite bar, the parties, the rebellion against everything safe and predictable—it felt as though I was trying to reclaim lost time. I lived intensely, without brakes, and even though I knew it might not be sustainable, it felt like control, like freedom, like finally being myself. But that freedom came with a price. The longer I stayed in that world, the more I began to feel that something was missing—that there was an emptiness that couldn’t be filled with alcohol, parties, or the rush of the moment. And then I met Wordfather. What began as a fast and intense relationship shifted into something entirely different when I discovered I was pregnant.

Becoming a mother did not feel like a choice in that moment. It felt more like something that happened to me—something larger than my own will, something that took hold of me. I had never planned to become a mother, not then, not in that phase of my life. I still felt young, unformed, with so much left to explore and discover before committing myself to something so permanent. But there I was, sitting in that bath, and everything changed. The reality of a new life growing inside me altered everything—my thoughts, my emotions, my sense of direction. It was as if something instinctive awakened within me, something that told me this was the path I had to take. The idea of ending that life suddenly felt wrong, as if I would be throwing away a chance—a chance to become something more, to begin again.

Was I ready for motherhood? Perhaps not in the traditional sense. I did not have a stable foundation, nor a deeply rooted desire to become a mother, and I was still searching for who I truly was. But maybe no one is ever truly ready for something so life-altering. Maybe motherhood is not something you can plan or predict, but something you step into, with all the uncertainty and doubt that comes with it.

What I do know is that motherhood changed me. It challenged me in ways I could never have imagined. It forced me to look inward, to face my own fears and shortcomings, to grow stronger for my children—even when I did not feel strong at all. It taught me that love—real love—is not always easy, but that it is always worth it. So was I ready? Maybe not. But that does not mean I wasn’t capable. I have learned that sometimes you simply have to jump, even when you are not sure you will land. And in that falling and rising again, in that unpredictable and often chaotic journey of motherhood, I discovered a strength I never knew I had. A strength that carried me forward, that allowed me to care for my children, to give them the love they deserve, even while I was still searching for myself.

Motherhood is a journey without a map, without a clear direction, but one thing I know for certain: it shaped me, it taught me what truly matters, and it helped me become the woman I am today. Maybe I wasn’t ready—but I stepped into it anyway. And that, in itself, is a victory.

A cup of comfort

Maybe you recognize something in my story.
Maybe you have asked yourself the same question:
Was I ready?
Maybe there are moments when you feel like you are falling short.
Then let me tell you this:
you don’t have to be perfect.
You don’t have to know everything.
You don’t have to have it all together.
You only have to be there—with your love, your honesty, your doubt.
Motherhood is raw, intense, and miraculous all at once.
And if you are trying, if you keep getting back up,
if you keep loving—then you are exactly what your child needs.
You are enough.
You always have been.
Even when no one said it.

Het bericht 24. Was I Ready for Motherhood? verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

But without roots, there is no trunk. And without a trunk, there are no leaves. And that is where we are now. After the storm of the roots, after the strength and the fractures in the trunk, I feel it is time to step aside for a moment. Not for new blows or thunderclouds, but for leaves drifting gently—fragments of insight, confusion, pain, and growth. In the chapters that follow, I look back. Not as a victim. Not as a therapist. But as a human being. A mother. A woman. Sometimes sharp. Sometimes uncertain. Sometimes with humor. Sometimes with my heart in my throat. I share these leaves not to judge or to convince, but to show that reflection itself is a form of love—for yourself, for your child, and for life.

So make yourself a cup of comfort. And walk with me.

Het bericht 23. A Step Aside – The Leaves on the Trunk verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

One memory from that time never left me. One night on Texel, I had quietly slipped out of my tent, like any lovestruck teenager would, just to be with him. Together we went to a bonfire outside the campsite, enjoying the warmth, the freedom, the feeling that the world belonged to us. But when I returned, I was met with a sharp reality. As I carefully tried to open the zipper of the tent, thinking I was being quiet, I suddenly heard my mother’s voice cut through the night: “You don’t have to be quiet!!” I was caught. My heart nearly stopped. The verdict was immediate: for the rest of the holiday, I had to sleep in the front of the tent. There I lay, staring at the canvas, listening to the wind over Texel, wondering how I would ever earn back my mother’s trust.

That one email turned into more contact. Emails became messages, and messages became daily conversations. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. We started seeing each other once a week, usually on weekends. We would walk by the water, sit at a café, or simply spend time at my place, talking about the past and the present. It felt good to reconnect, to laugh again, to share things with someone. But not everyone welcomed this new chapter in my life. Riddle Daughter, with her sharp perception, quickly noticed what was happening. Watching us talk and message, she said, with a slightly strained expression, “Is he going to take my sweet mommy away?” What I didn’t fully realise was that from the moment Wordfather had left, he had been video calling her every evening. His voice still echoed through the house, as if he had never truly left. I thought it was good for her, that their bond remained strong. It reassured me. But perhaps I was too naïve, too hopeful, not seeing how deep that connection was becoming.

Then one day, she came to me, her eyes determined, her voice quiet but firm. “I want to live with Dad,” she said, without hesitation. The words hit me like a blow. My heart seemed to stop, the room began to spin, and the ground beneath me disappeared. Everything I had been holding onto suddenly felt unstable. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room and I was left standing there, breathless, not knowing what to say or do. How could this be? Why? Those questions raced through my mind, unanswered. Part of me wanted to scream, to hold her, to beg her to stay. But I knew I couldn’t. I had to respect her choice, no matter how much it hurt. A knot formed in my stomach, fear spreading through my body. It felt like rejection, like I had failed as a mother. What had I missed? Where had I gone wrong? I tried to speak, but my voice broke, tears streaming down my face. “Why do you want that?” I asked, barely audible. Her answer cut straight through me: “Because I want to,” she said softly.

What followed was an argument I am not proud of. Her words had struck something deep inside me and all my suppressed emotions came flooding out. I could no longer remain calm, no longer be the composed mother I wanted to be. The fear of losing her, the helplessness, it overwhelmed me completely. In reality, it wasn’t even practical for her to live with her father—he worked long days and she would be alone most of the time. But that didn’t matter to her. She simply wanted to be with him. Despite my attempts to stay rational, the painful question lingered: was this the beginning of cracks in our mother-daughter relationship? Had I overlooked something that was now pulling her away from me? Eventually, her wish came true. I don’t know if it was the right decision, but when my new partner lost his job, it seemed logical to take the next step and move in together. He was no longer tied to his hometown and the timing seemed right. The day he moved in felt like a relief. For the first time, I didn’t have to carry everything alone. He was clear with the children: he was not their father, but my partner, and he respected that boundary.

But with this new situation came unexpected consequences. I had always been honest with Wordfather about living together, but his fear that the children might like my new partner more seemed to hit something in him. He abruptly stopped paying spousal support—legally, he had every right. At the same time, my partner’s ex filed a lawsuit over child support because he had reduced his payments after losing his job. We followed all the guidelines, did everything by the book, but the stress of the legal battle and the financial pressure weighed heavily on us. We won the case, but the costs were high and it became clear we could no longer afford the house. Then things escalated in a way I never saw coming. What began as a normal argument turned into something unforgettable. My new partner, who had lived in his own world for years, tried to adapt to life with me and my children, but that adjustment brought tension we hadn’t anticipated. The unrest between us grew, simmering beneath the surface until it crossed a line that should never have been crossed. It was a harsh realisation, one that shook me awake. This was not something I could ignore or excuse as a one-time outburst. It became painfully clear that our relationship, however well-intentioned, had been built on unstable ground.

The emotional damage lingered. What we had hoped would be a fresh start turned out to be not just difficult, but destructive. Our children, who had already endured so much, were once again faced with a situation where adults lost control. The dream of a blended family turned out to be an illusion. It had all been too much, too fast, and it placed all of us in a situation where pain became inevitable. We had underestimated the complexity of our own histories and those of our children. Instead of healing, we had reopened wounds—both in ourselves and in each other. It was a hard lesson, one I could no longer ignore: living together had been a mistake, and the price we paid was far too high.

In the end, I had to make a decision I never wanted to make. I asked Wordfather if he would move into my dream house so the children could stay in their home. I couldn’t bear the thought of taking away their sense of safety as well. So I made that sacrifice. They chose to stay, and I understood completely. This wasn’t about choosing between parents, but about holding onto the place where they felt secure. Through a family member, we found an apartment for me, and my role as a mother was reduced to seeing Riddle Daughter twice a week and Professorson when he had time. It felt like a step backwards—no, more than that. Motherhood, once the core of my life, had been reduced to fragments. And even though I knew I had done what was best for them, I felt lost, as if I had left a part of myself behind in that house… along with them.

A cup of comfort—just a moment for you.

Sometimes you simply need a pause.
Not another reflective question.
No analysis. No judgment.
That’s why, here and there throughout this book, you’ll find a cup of comfort.
A small moment to breathe.
A piece of text that doesn’t ask anything of you, but simply gives.
Not to solve anything, but to sit beside you for a while—like a friend would.
With a cup of coffee. Or tea. Or wine.
Read it as a warm hand on your shoulder, or a soft voice that says:
“You don’t have to do it perfectly. You’re already doing it.”

Het bericht 22. A Dream on Unsteady Ground verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

That afternoon, everything exploded. Professorson reacted with anger, a fierce, burning rage that tore through the room like a storm. Riddle Daughter just looked at me and nodded, but her eyes held all the questions and pain she couldn’t put into words. I felt myself freeze, as if my body went numb from the shock. Wordfather’s voice echoed somewhere in the background, trying to say something that might comfort, but none of it reached me. It all felt like failure, like an irreversible mistake we had placed on our children’s shoulders. Eventually, the storm in Professorson’s eyes settled, but the silence that followed was even more unsettling. The days after that felt strange, filled with awkward silences and conversations that led nowhere. Something hung in the air—unspoken, heavy—and it felt as though we were all waiting for something worse to happen. One day, Wordfather announced he was going to his mother’s, just for the day. When he returned, there was something about him I immediately recognised: a coldness, like a gust of icy wind, as if he hadn’t come back alone but had brought her voice and influence back with him.

He paced through the room, pointing his finger in the air, and said firmly, “I have full support from my family, financially as well.” His words lingered, heavy with meaning, and there was a tone of satisfaction in his voice I knew all too well. “I also know a lot of people with expertise—I’ll reach out to them,” he added, as if he had already mapped out a strategy. He stood in front of me, hands on his hips, like he had already won something. Then, without another word, he turned and walked upstairs to go to bed, his footsteps echoing in a way that stayed with me long after. At that time, I had no contact with my own family. A conflict with my mother had created a painful distance after I couldn’t attend her birthday because Wordfather had surgery that day. That moment had deepened a crack that perhaps had always been there. She supported my brother and sister, but with me there was always this silence, as if she believed I could manage on my own. But I didn’t feel strong at all. Financially, I had my disability benefit, thankfully, but fear crept in—fear that his mother would use her money and power during the divorce, that she would be stronger, more influential. My courage drained away. I wasn’t alone, yet I felt weaker than ever.

At night, when the house was quiet and everyone was asleep, I allowed myself a few glasses of wine. It became a ritual, a lifeline—my way to breathe, to empty my mind, to create some distance from the pain. People might judge that, might call me an alcoholic, but that judgment doesn’t touch me. Let them think what they want. The wine was a conscious choice, something that felt like the least harmful way to cope, instead of painkillers, sleeping pills, or Oxazepam—things Wordfather would have preferred to see me use, because it would have fit the image of a woman who couldn’t cope, a woman losing herself. But I refused that path. I chose wine, openly, without hiding it. Others empty bags of chips or reach for other forms of comfort—this was mine. It helped me survive. It helped me stand in a world that often felt too heavy.

The divorce itself became a nightmare—the kind you feel deeply ashamed of, the kind you don’t even want to admit to yourself. Wordfather, once my partner, became someone who knew exactly where to hurt me the most. Every word, every action seemed designed to hit my most vulnerable spots. His mother did indeed pull out her credit card to fully furnish his new place—not a modest apartment, but a fully equipped guesthouse in the countryside. One month turned into two weeks before he moved out. Meanwhile, I was the one writing the parenting plan, hoping we could still raise our children together despite everything. But he didn’t stick to any of it. I divided our belongings, packed his things, arranged everything that needed to be done, while he did nothing except withdraw fifty euros every single day. With each transaction, my anxiety grew. Would there still be enough to pay the mortgage? Would we have food? The panic became constant, keeping me awake at night. When I sought help from a lawyer, I was told it was all legal—he was allowed to withdraw that money. It felt like a slap in the face. He spent money on outings with the children while I tightened every financial string just to keep us afloat.

Then came another blow. By accident, I saw an email written by his sister’s husband. The words burned into me: “Are you finally rid of that b*tch?” That’s what I was to them. It cut deep, reducing my entire being to that one cruel word. Around that same time, there was a school-organised mother-daughter trip to Paris. It could have been something beautiful for me and Riddle Daughter, something meaningful. But before I even had the chance, Wordfather had already signed himself up to go with her. My heart shattered—not just because I couldn’t afford it, but because something so special was taken from me. Determined to still create something meaningful, I planned a day out with the children. I had spent weeks collecting discount coupons for train tickets and entry to the Omniversum in The Hague. That day meant everything to me. For a moment, it was good again—we laughed, we enjoyed it. But even that moment was overshadowed. He kept messaging Riddle Daughter about Paris, slowly pulling her attention away. Even then, it felt like he was taking something from me.

There came a point when Professorson no longer wanted to go to his father on weekends. He resisted the constant packing, the moving back and forth, the lack of stability. I saw his struggle, his longing for peace, and yet I insisted he go. “It’s important for your bond,” I told him—and I meant it. I even said I had things to do that weekend, that it would be good for all of us. But that wasn’t the truth. It was a lie I told to convince myself. In reality, I often had nothing. Just like in those first weeks when the children started daycare, I made plans in my head but did nothing. The silence was overwhelming, impossible to fill. Sometimes I went out with another mother I knew, but even those outings felt like an escape rather than joy. Every handover became a battle—arguments about agreements not kept, expectations never spoken but always felt. The moment the door closed behind Professorson and Wordfather’s car drove away, the tears came. I would close the curtains, turn off the lights, curl up on the couch in a fetal position. As if my body wanted to return to a place where everything felt safe. Then came the flood of tears, unstoppable, carrying all my frustration, sadness, and helplessness. What a mess. What an absolute mess. Will this ever stop? I felt empty, exhausted, powerless. Why did I let myself be triggered like this? Why couldn’t I be stronger?

Life shifted in many ways during that time. The babysitting arrangement with the technical friend ended as they both moved on to secondary school—the end of the “three musketeers,” the closing of a chapter. And then there was Riddle Daughter, who suddenly no longer wanted to come home for lunch. “All my friends stay at school,” she said, and that was that. The lunch table, once full of laughter and stories, fell silent. Her brother wasn’t there, the friend wasn’t there, and suddenly I was sitting alone at that table—a stay-at-home mother becoming more and more alone. It was painful, as if my role, my identity, was slowly being stripped away. The truth was, I had become the minority—a stay-at-home mother in a world that kept moving forward, a world that continued on… without me.

Het bericht 21. The Divorce verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

That same pattern carried through into the way we raised the children. He constantly undermined me, contradicting everything I said or did. If I asked the children to clear the table, he would immediately step in and say, “That’s not necessary, I’ll do it.” I was always cast as the strict one, the one setting boundaries and enforcing rules, while he became the “fun” parent who effortlessly dismantled them. It felt as though I was raising the children on my own, constantly swimming against a current that only dragged me further under. When my disability benefit was finally approved, the extra money felt like a strange kind of blessing. It was meant to relieve pressure, but for me it became something else entirely—a chance to finally do something for myself. I bought a camera, something I had always dreamed of, something through which I could express my creativity and reconnect with a part of myself that had been buried for so long. I no longer cared what Wordfather would think or how much conflict it might cause. That camera was mine. It was a small reclaiming of my identity in a life that had gradually stripped so much of it away. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it wasn’t, but in that moment it felt necessary—something I needed in order not to disappear completely into the role that had been imposed on me.

When new neighbours moved in, it felt as though the universe had finally decided to bring a little light and joy back into my life, like a fresh breeze after a long period of suffocation. The neighbour next door turned out not to be a stranger at all—he had grown up in the same familiar village as I had, just one street away. The coincidence brought an immediate sense of recognition and comfort. But it was his partner, whom I affectionately called “the neighbour,” who truly brought something special into my life. As a theatre teacher, she radiated a creative energy that instantly resonated with me. We connected right away, as if we had been friends for years. The idea to start theatre lessons for the girls at school came almost naturally, one of those ideas that simply appears and feels right from the start. Theatre classes were often expensive, and I knew there were so many children who dreamed of participating but couldn’t afford it. When I suggested the idea to her, she embraced it wholeheartedly. It felt as though everything was finally falling into place.

I approached the school to ask whether we could rent a classroom, and to my surprise, they offered it to us for free. It almost felt like magic. At first, we worried that we wouldn’t find enough children, but I refused to give up. I called every parent I knew, and in the end, we gathered a wonderful group. What began as a small initiative quickly grew into something much bigger. The neighbour was even asked to direct the Year 8 end-of-year musical. During the lessons, I often stood there with my camera, capturing moments, completely absorbed in the joy of it. She saw my creativity and made space for it, which meant more to me than I can express. For the first time in a long time, I felt truly seen—recognised for what I could do and who I was. Together, we designed flyers, and soon the school began asking me more often to take photos during important events. It was as if I had finally found my place again.

And perhaps the most beautiful part of all was that I had one day each week that belonged entirely to me and Riddle Daughter. That time together was priceless. I watched her blossom, just as I began to blossom again myself. The theatre lessons gave me so much on a personal level. I wasn’t only developing my skills as a photographer, but also rebuilding my sense of self and confidence. After so many dark periods, this became a time where I finally found glimpses of light again.

Het bericht 20. The Shed and the Stage verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

The operation lasted longer than expected—ten hours instead of eight—and when I finally woke up, I found myself surrounded by tubes, pumps and machines. My first instinct was to speak, but a tube in my throat made that impossible. Panic rose inside me, sharp and immediate. I gestured desperately for pen and paper, and the nurses understood, placing them in my hands. I began writing feverishly, page after page, as if the words needed to escape me all at once. Later, they showed me what I had written. It was nothing but scribbles, completely unreadable. Still, they reassured me: everything had gone well.

During my MAVO years, I had read two diaries—The Rotten Life of Floortje Blom and Weeds and the Flower—and at school there had been a strong focus on drugs and the impact they could have on a life. And here I was, heavily dependent on morphine. The memory of those books stayed with me, and I became determined to come off the medication as soon as possible. The nurse advised against it, warning me about the pain that would follow, but I was stubborn. I wanted to do this on my own terms. And I paid the price. Even the light touch of a bedsheet against my legs felt like thousands of needles piercing my skin at once. The pain was unbearable, deep and raw, as if it came straight from my bones. For a week I held on, refusing to give in, until one night the pain became too much. A doctor was called, but he refused to prescribe anything. The desperation nearly drove me mad. The next day he returned, apologising. He had assumed I was older, and therefore less in need of pain relief. The logic made no sense to me—how could pain be measured by age? As if my suffering would somehow matter less. The frustration and disbelief cut deep, but in the end he gave me the medication I so desperately needed. That moment, that combination of pain and misunderstanding, stayed with me. It was a harsh lesson in vulnerability, and in how easily others can misjudge what you are going through. But it also taught me to hold on to my own boundaries, even when I felt powerless.

Next to me lay a girl with scoliosis, her spine curved from top to bottom, her entire back needing to be fixed in place. She too was confined to her bed, but she couldn’t cope. She stopped eating, overwhelmed by homesickness, pain and loneliness. Eventually, the medical team allowed her to go home for the weekend. It made all the difference. She returned with colour in her face, slowly regaining her strength. Physically, I was also improving, but mentally I was spiralling downward. I felt lost, frustrated, weighed down by emotions I had been holding in for too long. One day, it all erupted. I lost control completely. Everything I had suppressed came out in a single burst of anger. In that moment, I broke up with my ICT boyfriend. I had been wearing a gold chain his parents had given me, and in my rage I tore it from my neck and threw it at him. It felt like I was throwing away not just the chain, but part of the weight I had been carrying.

The day before, my mother had visited and brought freshly squeezed orange juice. That small, loving gesture struck something deep inside me. It made me realise the value of effort, of care, of the quiet ways people show love. It stayed with me. Yet when I was transferred to a rehabilitation centre, the loneliness returned. It had been four weeks since my surgery. At first, things seemed to improve. I was given a kind of rolling stretcher that allowed me to lie on my stomach and move myself forward using my arms. It felt strangely liberating. I was still confined to bed, yet suddenly I could move, explore, see other people, experience the world beyond my room. Those small movements, those short journeys through the corridors, gave me a sense of control again—something I had been missing so desperately.

Life in the rehabilitation centre was filled with ups and downs. Some days I felt stronger, almost ready to face the world again, while other days I felt small and overwhelmed, afraid of what lay ahead. In the meantime, my ICT boyfriend and I had reconciled. It was also there that I met my DJ friend, who quickly became my closest companion during that time. He was twenty years old and almost completely paralysed due to a spinal cord injury from the neck down. What stayed with me most was his ability to remain positive despite everything he had lost. The rehabilitation centre was a harsh lesson in how quickly life can change. The stories around me were confronting and heartbreaking, reminders of how fragile everything is. My DJ friend’s life had changed in a split second—one moment at the beach with friends, the next unable to move. His friends had pulled him from the water, not realising that leaving him there might have stabilised his neck. In their panic, they had made it worse. And he was not the only one. A girl across from me had slipped in the bathroom and was paralysed from the waist down. Another boy had dived into shallow water and broken his neck. These stories left a deep impression on me. One careless moment could change everything.

At the end of the corridor sat a man in a wheelchair, crying. When I tried to approach him, he wrote on a piece of paper, “Go away.” It hurt, but it also made me understand how deeply pain can isolate a person. Still, in the midst of all that heaviness, I found connection with my DJ friend. Despite his limitations, he held on to his humour. We laughed at moments when he raced through the corridors in his wheelchair, his arm locked in spasm, everyone jumping out of the way. It was rough laughter, but we needed it. We smoked together in the smoking room, and when he couldn’t get out of bed, I would hold a cigarette for him. It became our ritual. Even when my relationship with my ICT boyfriend improved, that bond remained. When he visited, he would joke, “I’ll keep my hands to myself.” That kind of humour carried us through the darkest days. When they tried to close the smoking room, we protested—with banners and demonstrations—and we won. It was a small victory, but it meant everything at the time. My DJ friend taught me about perseverance, about holding on even when everything seems lost.

After three months, I was finally fitted with the plaster corset again, this time with one leg fixed at a 45-degree angle, and at last I was allowed out of that damned bed and off the rolling stretcher. I could walk again. My rehabilitation was harder than before, though. This time I had a drop foot because a nerve had been damaged, leaving me unable to lift my big toe, and part of my leg felt numb, as if the skin no longer belonged to me. When a nerve is only touched, recovery is possible, but it can take up to a year. To stimulate the nerves and muscles in my legs, the physiotherapist placed electrodes on my skin. It felt like torture, like thousands of needles piercing through me, and I dreaded every session. My muscle loss was also greater than before, likely because I hadn’t exercised at all between the two surgeries. I was starting from an even weaker place.

Something else shifted too—my friendship with my DJ friend changed. At first, I didn’t understand it, until a nurse explained that I would eventually walk out of the rehabilitation centre, while he never would. Whether consciously or not, that created distance. Others with spinal cord injuries began to avoid me as well. I understood it, but it left me feeling deeply alone. On weekends, some of the nurses allowed us to sleep in, and those extra hours of rest felt like a gift, a rare moment of freedom. But there was one nurse who refused to allow it. You could hear her coming from far away, the unmistakable sound of her clogs echoing through the corridors. As the sound grew closer, a sense of dread crept over me. Not her again, not now. And then it would happen—the curtains would be flung open, harsh light flooding the room, hurting my still-tired eyes. She would rattle the basins on the bedside tables, the sound cutting through everything. “UP!” she would shout, her voice leaving no room for protest. It felt as though my small refuge of rest was taken from me again and again.

But there was no stopping it. It was time to get up, to continue the process of rebuilding, of learning to live again. And then, finally, the day came when I was allowed to leave the rehabilitation centre and go home—to the house of my ICT boyfriend’s parents.

Het bericht 19. A Rotten Life verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

At home, however, things were far from stable. My aunt, who claimed to be psychic and heard voices in her head, had told my mother that my back was completely fine. Those same voices, however, had never mentioned that mentally, I was far from okay. From that moment on, I found it hard to trust people who claimed to predict or “know” things in that way. It can send someone’s life in entirely the wrong direction. I don’t blame her—ultimately, my choices were my own—but her words had an impact. At home, I was given more and more household responsibilities, far more than I could realistically manage. One evening, it all became too much. I felt completely overwhelmed and decided I wanted to leave. I went to my grandmother, and she immediately offered for me to stay with her. But my aunt intervened and prevented it from happening. To this day, I still don’t understand why, because my grandmother and I had always shared such a warm and easy connection. That same evening, I left for my ICT boyfriend’s house, and his parents welcomed me in, offering me a place to stay. It meant moving to a different town, leaving everything familiar behind. My father tried to talk to me, but my mind was made up. From that moment on, contact with my parents became minimal, almost nonexistent.

I started an internship at a college, at a time when the world of ICT was rapidly evolving. My boyfriend wanted to continue his studies at a higher level, moving on to HBO, but at the time, most programmes focused heavily on hardware rather than software. We were still in the early days of Windows, after all. The college where I interned, however, was planning to introduce a pilot year that would build directly on the MBO application management programme. It was an exciting development, something new and full of potential. For the more hardware-focused HBO track, physics was a required subject, and my boyfriend tried to complete it through distance learning, but he struggled and couldn’t pass. I suggested that he try the new pilot programme instead, something that aligned more closely with his interests, and he did.

Meanwhile, my health was deteriorating. My back grew worse—much worse. I began experiencing paralysis in my legs and fell down the stairs multiple times. As if that wasn’t enough, there were moments when I became incontinent. The sense of control over my own body was slipping away, little by little, and with every fall, the fear grew stronger. The day I made an appointment with the orthopaedic specialist, I was terrified. My heart pounded in my chest, as if it were trying to warn me of what was coming. Deep down, I already knew, but facing it was something else entirely. X-rays were taken, and when the doctor studied them, I saw his expression change. Something was terribly wrong. The vertebra had started slipping again, and this time it was pulling the metal pins along with it—the very pins that had once been placed to keep everything stable. The consequences for the surrounding nerves were severe. My world collapsed in that moment. Not again. Please, not again. The thought of another surgery brought tears to my eyes. I remembered the pain, the long recovery, the uncertainty of whether it would even succeed. My chest felt heavy, my breathing shallow, as if a dark cloud had settled over my entire existence.

I left the hospital feeling paralysed in a way that went far beyond my legs. It was as though my entire being had frozen. The journey home felt endless, each step unbearably heavy. Once I was alone in my room, the tears finally came. Fear, grief, despair—they all poured out. Not again. Those words echoed relentlessly in my mind. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I knew I had no choice. I would have to face this again, no matter how unfair or overwhelming it felt. Somewhere, buried beneath layers of pain and fear, a small voice tried to remind me of my strength, of the resilience that had carried me through before. But in that moment, it felt distant, almost unreachable.

I often wondered what was worse: not knowing what would happen, or knowing exactly what lay ahead. The surgery was scheduled, and I was given three months to “enjoy” what remained of my normal life. I spent much of that time behind the computer or at the beach, letting the wind clear my head, trying to find some sense of calm. When the day of the operation finally arrived, I knew things would be different this time. My spine could no longer be stretched because of the pins, but my intestines still had to be emptied. The thought of going through enemas again was unbearable, yet unavoidable. After three long days, I was finally prepared for surgery. Then, just as everything seemed set, the orthopaedic surgeon walked into my room. He took hold of my feet at the end of the bed, something he had never done before, and for the first time I saw emotion in his eyes. “I have very bad news,” he said. “There is a bacterial infection in the intensive care unit that poses a risk for your operation. We don’t know when it will be resolved. I can’t operate on you. We have to postpone.”

I was stunned. My thoughts raced in every direction. How could this be happening? I tried to process it, but first I ate—I was incredibly hungry after everything. As I sat there, I attempted to make sense of the news. The preparation, the discomfort, the enemas—it had all been for nothing. And yet, alongside the frustration, there was also a quiet, almost guilty sense of relief. I had been given a little more time, a brief moment to breathe. But that sense of relief didn’t last long. A month passes quickly when you are living, but when you are confined to a bed, it stretches into something endless. And then, before I knew it, we were back at the beginning. This time, however, something inside me had shifted. I felt stronger, more prepared, more aware of what was coming. The surgery would be extensive. To avoid having to perform two separate procedures, an additional orthopaedic surgeon and a neurologist would assist. My body would be opened from both sides—one surgeon operating from the front, through the abdomen, and my own specialist from the back. It was going to be a heavy, complex operation, one that demanded everything from me—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Het bericht 18. Back to Square One verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

His mother was always presented as the best at everything, or at least that was the narrative that was constantly reinforced. I remember vividly how, after the birth of my Professor Son, I received an old camera from my father. It was a simple gesture, but it meant a great deal to me. Photography spoke to me—it gave me a way to see and capture the world through my own lens. When I proudly showed my first photos to Wordfather, his reaction was not what I had hoped for. Instead of encouragement or curiosity, he told me that photography was too expensive as a hobby. Those words lingered, as if my enthusiasm had been quietly suffocated before it had the chance to grow. Much later, during an argument, the real reason surfaced: I could have hobbies, just not photography, because that belonged to his mother. It was as though I had unknowingly crossed an invisible boundary—one that had never been spoken of, yet was strictly enforced. His mother tolerated no competition, not even from me, and once again I felt myself shrink, as if another small piece of my identity had been taken away.

His sister was no different. She loved cooking and was always ready with the latest recipes. Cooking had never been my strongest suit, but I had my own dishes that I made with care and that turned out well. My famous tuna salad, for example, was something I was proud of. When I once made it for my mother-in-law’s birthday, it was a success. The family enjoyed it, while his sister’s couscous salad remained untouched. For a brief moment, it felt like a victory, a small confirmation that I, too, had something to offer. But apparently, there were complaints behind my back, because in the years that followed, I was never asked again to bring or make anything. It was as though I had been quietly put back in my place, my small moment of success erased as quickly as it had appeared. These subtle moments of being diminished, though never explosive or openly confrontational, felt like small cuts that slowly eroded my confidence over time, and they affected me more deeply than anyone might have realised.

Everything had to be done her way, as though her will was law and I was merely a shadow in my own home. We tried relationship therapy again, but it felt like speaking to a wall. He didn’t see the problem—didn’t want to see it, or perhaps it was easier for him to ignore it altogether. And I… I was exhausted. Deeply, painfully exhausted. The loneliness and sadness weighed heavily on me, and more and more often a thought crept into my mind: Is this the life I want? Is this the future I see for myself and my children? Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the idea of leaving began to take root, like a small opening in the darkness that had enveloped us.

Wordfather and his mother were inseparable, their bond seemingly unbreakable. They spoke every day, early in the morning during his two-hour drive to work, and again in the evening on his way back. Everything was discussed—his work, daily matters, and yes, our marriage as well. But what was shared was always his version of events. It felt as though our marriage was an open book to her, but it was his book, written in his words, shaped by his perspective. It had been this way from the very beginning of our relationship, and it seemed as though it would never change.

Then, one day, a new phase began for him. He started job-hopping, clearly searching, restless and dissatisfied with where he was. And then, out of nowhere, he came to me with a statement that shook me. “Now it’s your turn to work full-time,” he said, as if it were the most logical step in the world. “I’m going to retrain.” I was left speechless. How could he expect that of me? My body, already worn down by years of pregnancies, caregiving, and daily strain, simply could not handle that anymore. It felt as though he was completely overlooking my reality, as if he didn’t see what I carried every single day. In his mind, it all sounded so simple. The children were older now, more independent, no longer requiring physical care, and to him that meant I could take on everything else—as though my role in maintaining the household and raising the children hadn’t already been enough.

“How?” I asked, genuinely bewildered. How was I supposed to suddenly work full-time with my health steadily declining? And I knew that even if I somehow managed it, the household would still fall entirely on my shoulders, because he contributed almost nothing at home. His solution was as cold as it was practical. “Maybe you can apply for disability benefits,” he said. “It’s a congenital condition, after all.” He had already mapped everything out in his mind. He would be earning less during his retraining, which meant that my car—the small car I had only had for six months, the one that had finally given me a sense of freedom—would have to go as well.

The ground seemed to fall away beneath me. That little car had been my escape, my way of reaching beyond the limitations of cycling everywhere with the children. I tried to explain my fear of having to go through the medical system again, something I wanted to avoid at all costs, but he brushed my concerns aside. “You don’t have to deal with that,” he said. “I’ll fill in the paperwork.” When the assessment came, I was immediately declared unfit for work—a harsh reality I had not yet been ready to fully accept. In fact, I learned that I had been entitled to those benefits since I was seventeen, something I had never known. I had always been good at hiding my pain, at pushing aside what my body was going through and living in my head instead, ignoring the physical reality. But that had become a trap I kept falling into, a painful cycle of trial and error in which I was slowly learning to recognise and respect my own limits.

Letting go of that car was incredibly hard. Returning to the bicycle, bags hanging from the handlebars, made me realise just how much I had lost.

Het bericht 17. Written Off verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Like with many changes, Professor Son wasn’t eager to leave his familiar class behind, knowing his friends would remain where they were. I reassured him gently, telling him we would simply try it for a week and that he could always return if it didn’t feel right. On the day itself, with his trusted Tweety stuffed toy tucked into his bag, I reminded him again that the choice would be his after that first week. When he came out of school later that day, he was glowing with excitement. His eyes sparkled, his smile wide, and he told me he had made a new friend and that it had been wonderful. For the first time, he was truly being challenged and stimulated, and that same boy would eventually become a regular babysitting child in our home for years. What had felt uncertain at first turned out to be exactly what he needed, and he had clearly found his place.

At the same time, Riddle Daughter took a big step of her own by starting preschool, and suddenly I found myself with two mornings a week to myself, something I hadn’t experienced in years. In my mind, I made plans to tidy the house, to read, perhaps even to do something just for myself, but once I was home, nothing happened. The silence felt unfamiliar and heavy, and instead of freedom it brought a strange emptiness that left me unable to do anything at all. After three months, her teacher approached me with a question that completely caught me off guard, asking whether she could actually speak. I stood there, stunned, because at home she spoke endlessly, yet at preschool she had not said a single word. When I asked her about it later, she simply looked at me with those large, mysterious eyes that revealed nothing, and I found myself wondering what was going on inside her mind. Slowly, though, she began to speak there as well, taking small steps forward at her own pace.

Meanwhile, Professor Son, his new technically minded friend, and Riddle Daughter formed a close trio, like three little musketeers. We often had lunch together, and in the afternoons they would play, unless Riddle Daughter chose to spend time with her own friends. She had one best friend, a girl she remained inseparable from throughout all her primary school years, and it often reminded me of my own childhood friendship. The school was just across the street, and before long they were walking there together hand in hand, needing to cross only one road where a crossing guard was always present. From the kitchen window, I would watch them until they safely reached the schoolyard, holding onto that small sense of reassurance.

While those years felt like good years for the children, for me things became increasingly difficult, especially the obligatory Sunday visits to my mother-in-law. Wordfather would disappear into his comic books for the entire afternoon, leaving me to entertain his mother, while all I longed for was a moment to myself, or simply a bit of quiet. Week after week it continued, and whenever I suggested that he go alone with the children, he would refuse, saying it would make him look bad in front of his family. It was always the same pattern, the same tension building until it inevitably led to another argument. We would stand opposite each other, words flying back and forth, sharp and relentless, yet no longer truly landing, as if they were lost somewhere between us. At the centre of it all was always his mother, even when she wasn’t physically there, as though her presence hovered between us, shaping everything.

This time, though, something shifted. His voice broke in a way I had never heard before, both tired and resolute, when he said he was going to his mother. Those words settled into me like coldness spreading through my body. It wasn’t the first time he had left, as he often sought refuge with her, returning later after hours or days, and each time I would try to mend what had broken, making promises I already knew I couldn’t keep, trying to become what he needed me to be. But when the front door closed this time, something inside me knew it was different. He wasn’t coming back. The silence that followed was overwhelming, stretching across the days as I waited, hoping against all logic that he would return, but nothing came. The emptiness grew heavier with each passing moment, until I learned that he had moved in with my parents, into the small apartment behind their house. It felt as though he hadn’t just left me, but everything we had built together, leaving behind a void that was impossible to ignore.

Even then, I kept trying, perhaps out of fear of that emptiness, perhaps out of hope that something could still be salvaged. I clung to the memory of what had once been, however fragile, believing that if I tried harder, understood more, or softened myself further, we might find our way back. But deep down, I felt myself slipping away, losing pieces of who I was in a struggle that drained me completely. It was no longer just love that held me there, but also habit, fear, and a deep-rooted need to belong somewhere, even if it meant losing myself in the process. Still, I didn’t give up, not for myself, but for the children, because they were the reason I kept standing. I couldn’t bear the thought of their world breaking apart, of their sense of safety collapsing. They were still so small, their laughter so light, and perhaps that was exactly why I held on, even when everything inside me was telling me how heavy it had become.

Het bericht 16. The Silence verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

And then it happened again. This time, in our dream house. I was alone with her, and once again I called emergency services immediately. She had another seizure, and this time I saw her lips turn blue. I was completely overwhelmed with panic by the time the ambulance arrived. The GP was also called and tried to calm me down, saying, “Easy now, mummy, it’s just a febrile seizure.” But something in me snapped. No—this time, no “easy now.” That fever was coming from somewhere, and I wanted her taken to the hospital immediately for proper examination. I demanded that they look at everything, that they leave nothing unchecked until we knew where it was coming from. The GP hesitated, but thankfully the ambulance staff listened. “We’re taking her with us,” they said. And that decision saved her.

At the hospital, it turned out she had a severe kidney infection. If we had waited, it could have caused permanent damage to her kidneys. The thought alone still sends a chill through me—how close we had come to something far worse. She had to stay in the hospital, and it brought all my own trauma rushing back. I tried not to let panic take over, but at the same time my Professor Son needed care as well. Wordfather stayed with her in the hospital, while I stayed home to look after him. What was remarkable about my Riddle Daughter was that, despite how seriously ill she should have been, she lit up the entire ward with her laughter and liveliness. She was a bright, shining presence—even in the darkest moments.

I knew I had to do something. My heart pounded in my chest as I made an appointment with the GP. This time, it would be different. This time, I was determined to let my voice be heard—without saying a single word. When it was finally my turn, time seemed to slow down. The silence in the waiting room suddenly felt deafening. With every step toward his office, my resolve grew stronger. I opened the door and walked in, my face set, my emotions tightly contained.

I said nothing.

Not a single word left my lips. Instead, I took the specialist’s letter out of my bag—the letter confirming that my daughter had indeed suffered from a severe kidney infection. Proof that my intuition had been right. With deliberate precision, I placed the letter on his desk, directly in front of him. Then I tapped it twice. A silent accusation. Our eyes met. Mine filled with unspoken anger, his uncertain, almost startled. I let the silence linger between us, heavy and undeniable, and without another word, I turned and walked out. The door closed softly behind me, but the echo of that moment stayed. All my hospital trauma came flooding back with full force.

My Riddle Daughter was now under close monitoring, and we had to return to the hospital regularly for check-ups. She would need to take antibiotics every day until she turned eighteen. The thought alone was frightening—putting that into her small body every single day—but it was necessary. Her urine was flowing back from her bladder into her kidneys because she lacked the valves that should have prevented it. Because of this, she had to undergo frequent X-rays.

The worst moments were when she had to urinate for those tests. She refused again and again, and I understood her completely—who would want that? One day, her paediatrician, who was pregnant at the time, made a suggestion that left me in shock. She proposed using a radioactive substance during the X-ray to make the process more visible. My God—what were we even talking about?

Wordfather and I obediently made the appointment, but when we arrived at the radiology department, we were told that such a procedure was never performed on young children—only on adults. I stood there, frozen, feeling anger rise up inside me. That cold, clinical attitude—we know better—as if a mother’s intuition meant nothing. I had already felt that something about this wasn’t right, and yet again I had allowed myself to be pulled into that medical machine.

At the next appointment, the paediatrician—now having given birth—apologised to us. Apparently, her own experience of motherhood had brought something human back into her perspective. As if that was what it took.

Fortunately, a year later, Riddle Daughter was able to undergo surgery. It was a unique procedure: small incisions would be made to function as valves. The idea was brilliant—far better than a lifetime of antibiotics.

And the most beautiful part of all? The operation was successful. Since then, she has never had any problems again.

Het bericht 15. And Then Riddle Daughter Became Ill verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

My grandmother often became my lifeline. She would come by about four times a week, and the first thing she would do was open the curtains and say, “Oh dear, oh dear, sitting in the dark again, are you?” Then she would make coffee for the two of us, and we would talk about nothing and everything—small things, everyday things—and somehow we would always end up laughing. Her visits were small lights in those endless, heavy days. She brought warmth and a sense of normality, something I desperately needed in a time when I felt so trapped and alone.

I started writing poetry. School faded further and further into the background—it was my exam year, but I simply couldn’t keep up. One day, my dry-humour friend brought me some schoolwork and said, “If I had to go through what you’re going through, I would have killed myself.” That thought had never even crossed my mind. It shocked me. No—never. Because then everything would have been for nothing.

On February 12th, I wrote in my diary:
I feel strange, as if I have to stay in bed forever.
It feels like February 17th is meaningless. Why?

But it wasn’t meaningless at all. February 17th was the date—the day I would return to the hospital for X-rays and finally hear from the orthopaedist that I could get out of bed and begin rehabilitation. That date was carved into my mind. And when it finally came, everything seemed to hinge on it.

Because I couldn’t sit, an ambulance came to pick me up and take me to the hospital. More X-rays were taken, and then—finally—the words I had been waiting for: I was allowed to get out of bed. With a new corset, one leg fixed at a 45-degree angle, I could start walking with crutches. The corset was fitted, and I will never forget those first steps. I had imagined I would simply stand up and walk again, but reality hit hard. After four months in bed, my muscles were gone. Still, it didn’t discourage me. It gave me strength—strength to fight my way back.

⸻

20 February
It is over now
I am finally free
free from fixed feelings
I am human again

⸻

But once I was home again, everything changed in an instant. A phone call came—one that shattered everything. The orthopaedist had reviewed the X-rays again and was shocked that I had already been sent home. My spine had not fused properly. I had to stay in bed for another month.

I completely lost it. The anger erupted out of me. I threw my crutches across the room. I refused—I would not go back into that damned bed. That date had been my anchor, the point I had held onto in my mind. I had made it to that day. I could not stretch it any further.

My mother felt so sorry for me, but she couldn’t calm me down. In desperation, she called my Brigitte Kaandorp friend. She came immediately. She sat with me, grounded me, and somehow helped me find enough calm to lie back down in that cursed bed.

One more month. Just one more month. No longer.

⸻

a tear is sorrow
a wound is pain
you cannot stop
it must remain

⸻

And then, eventually, the day came when I truly was allowed to take the next step in my rehabilitation. I already had my plaster corset, so it was simply a matter of taking new X-rays. I must have asked the orthopaedist at least four times if it was really okay, and each time he reassured me with the same calm smile. I stayed in the hospital for a few days to relearn how to walk with guidance, to rebuild even a small amount of strength. Those days were intense. Every fibre of my body, every thought in my mind, was focused on one thing: walking.

The plan was to wear the plaster corset for three months, and then switch to a new one—without the strange 45-degree leg. That would mean I could sit normally again and truly begin to walk. For now, it was still crutches. But I didn’t care. I was out of that bed. That alone felt like freedom. Even with crutches, the feeling was indescribable. I could feel my legs slowly growing stronger, feel the fresh air on my face as I moved through the hospital corridors. Every step, no matter how small, felt like a victory.

Those three months passed surprisingly quickly. Eventually, I returned to school, though it was far from easy. Someone carried my bag for me, and when I had to go upstairs to a classroom, I was given extra time. It felt strange—to be allowed to be late without consequences. The school had decided that, because of how far behind I had fallen, I wouldn’t be able to pass my exams, so I was moved back a year. The idea was that I would start fresh the following school year.

But those months after the operation felt like a blur. I struggled to reconnect with my classmates, and all my friends had already graduated the year before. There was a distance now—a quiet emptiness between me and the people around me.

During that time, I spent a lot of time with my grandmother. My grandfather had passed away when I was twelve, and his loss had affected me deeply. We had shared a special bond, first through our love of horses, and later through gardening. Before my operation, I already spent a lot of time with my grandmother, but afterward, I sought her out even more. She became my refuge, my safe place. We talked endlessly, played shuffleboard games, laughed—and yes, she even let me smoke a cigarette inside. She would smile when I did, because it reminded her of my grandfather. First he smoked cigarettes, later cigars. It was a small piece of nostalgia that connected us both to him.

As a child, I had always gotten along well with my grandfather. While the other grandchildren were a little intimidated by his sternness, I never was. I would simply climb onto his lap without hesitation. We often went to the market together, where he would buy crates full of fruit and vegetables—far too much for just him and my grandmother—but he loved sharing it with the family. Boxes of oranges or the best apples would be waiting at home. Whenever I visited, he would always say, “Come to eat everything again, have you?” And I would laugh and reply, “Yes, gladly!” It became our little ritual, something I always looked forward to.

When I was ten, we moved to a village where my grandparents lived. It was a new development, a newly built neighbourhood that felt empty and unfamiliar. My father wanted to buy a house, and my mother wanted to be closer to family. When we first visited, there was nothing but a small playground—not even a sandbox. It felt like a foreign world.

But there was one great advantage: I could cycle to my grandparents whenever I wanted. Those rides became part of my routine. My grandmother always listened—really listened—especially when I needed to talk. And every time I visited, she would take out that delicious chocolate with hazelnuts, her eyes sparkling as she did. It made every visit feel special.

Eventually, the day came when I received a new corset—one without the leg attached. What a relief. I could finally sit normally again and begin to walk without crutches. But there was something I hadn’t expected. I had been living in isolation for so long—hospital, living room, school—that I hadn’t truly been part of the outside world. I had always been driven to school. I hadn’t experienced traffic, movement, noise.

The first time I got on a bike again was overwhelming. The sounds, the movement—it all rushed at me. I felt dizzy, easily startled. It was as if I had stepped into an entirely new world, one I had to learn how to navigate all over again.

A Cup of Comfort

It’s okay.
You don’t have to make it beautiful.
You are allowed to grieve what was taken from you.
And to feel proud of everything you have rebuilt since.

It’s allowed to feel contradictory.
It’s allowed to stay heavy, even when it’s “over.”

And while you carefully try to find your place again
in a world that kept turning while you stood still—
know this:

You did not fail.
You are healing.
At your own pace.

Maybe you are someone who quietly gathers strength.
Between chocolates, shuffleboards, and memories.
Between crutches and bicycles.
Between scars on your back and soft hands on your heart.

This cup of comfort is for you.
Because you carry so much.
And still, you give love.

Rest for a moment.
You don’t have to do it alone.

Het bericht 14. Back Home verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

I lay in a tilting bed, an ingenious contraption that shifted position every four hours. One moment I was lying on my stomach, staring down at the floor, the next I was on my back, staring endlessly at the ceiling. By then I was back in the ward, and the stain from a leak in the ceiling had become so familiar I could have drawn it from memory. Every crack, every imperfection was etched into my mind. I was fitted with a plaster corset that began just below my chest and extended all the way down to my leg. It had zippers along the side so the top half could be removed for washing, after which I would be carefully turned onto my stomach so the bottom half could be taken off. It became a precise, almost mechanical routine—one that left little room for dignity, yet somehow became normal.

There was a male nurse who, whenever he was on shift, seemed to brighten the entire hospital. He was funny, effortlessly so, and had a way of making everyone laugh. I carry warm memories of him; he was a light in those dark days. There was also a Greek girl in the same ward as me, and in the evenings we would share jokes, laughing far too loudly for the liking of the nurses, who would repeatedly come in to tell us to go to sleep. Those small moments of laughter felt like tiny rebellions against the heaviness surrounding us.

The orthopaedist had a habit of walking in during washing time, even when the curtains were drawn. One time, a nurse firmly called out, “Doctor, we’re washing here—please wait outside.” For the first time, I felt someone standing up for me, as if there were still boundaries, even in a place where so much of me felt exposed. It felt like reclaiming a small piece of my dignity.

At night, there was no real rest. Whether you were asleep or not, someone would always come in to check something, adjust something, inject something. The rhythm of the hospital never paused—there were no weekends, no sleeping in, no moments where time slowed down. Everything continued in a fixed pattern, uninterrupted, a never-ending cycle of care and discomfort where personal space seemed to disappear entirely.

My Brigitte Kaandorp friend visited often, always bringing something special with her. One time, she brought a card from the entire class, filled with messages from everyone. Even friends from the youth club had written funny or encouraging notes. It meant so much. She also made cassette tapes for me, filled with music, including many songs by Tracy Chapman. I played those tapes every single day—they became my anchor in those endless hours.

From the very first day in the hospital, the smoking room became part of my routine. It was such a strange place, where parents shared their stories and laughter echoed in between. It offered a kind of relief, a moment of normality in an otherwise intense and stressful time.

When another X-ray of my back was taken, I didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary. But later that day, the orthopaedist came in with unexpectedly good news: the second operation would not be necessary. Everything looked stable and strong enough. He believed this would be sufficient to support my spine. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief, a deep, almost indescribable happiness. On the very day the second surgery had originally been scheduled, I was allowed to go home instead. I still had to remain in bed for three months, but I could do that at home. My mother wanted me there, under her care. Even though others advised against it and warned her about how difficult it would be, she remained determined. Her support gave me the courage to step into this next phase of recovery.

After the operation, I noticed that my concentration and memory were no longer what they had been before. An eight-hour surgery under full anaesthesia leaves its mark. My body felt drained, and my mind felt dulled. Postoperative cognitive dysfunction—that’s what they call it, I later learned. It can take weeks, sometimes months, to return to yourself again. I wasn’t able to pick up my schoolwork, even though lessons were offered in the hospital. I told myself that maybe, once I was home, I would be able to find my way back to it. But the emotional impact was just as heavy. The combination of physical pain and the long recovery weighed on me deeply. I often felt anxious, and at times, profoundly depressed.

A Cup of Comfort

Dear you,
Maybe you lay there too, still,
tied to weights and expectations.
You stared at a ceiling you knew better than your own face,
and wondered if anyone knew you were there.

You just wanted to go back to school,
see your friends, laugh,
smell chalk on the board instead of disinfectant.

But the days came in waves of pain,
and the nights were not dark
but endlessly bright with sorrow.

And still…
you endured.

Maybe you listened to music,
wrote invisible stories on the inside of your heart.
You held onto your dignity in small ways—
a glance, a joke, a quiet act of defiance.

You were brave,
even when no one saw it.

So here, now, a warm cup for you.
With all the softness you missed back then.

Because you have survived more
than most will ever understand.

And still…
you rise.

Het bericht 13. At the Most Inconvenient Times verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

At one point, they asked if they could take photographs of my back—not medical images, but regular photographs. I was taken into a room and asked to stand in my underwear and bra while they captured images from every angle. It felt strange and deeply uncomfortable, as though I had become something to be observed rather than someone to be cared for. Even now, I sometimes wonder whether I ended up somewhere in a medical textbook, a silent example of a rare condition. The thought that strangers might study those images is both unsettling and oddly fascinating—like being reduced to a case, a chapter in someone else’s learning.

And then there was that bed. That damn bed. I cursed it more than anything. There I lay, strapped into that harness, flat on my back with weights pulling at me, alone with nothing but my own thoughts. I missed my normal life in a way I had never expected—my friends at school, the simple rhythm of ordinary days. My parents could only visit twice a week, not just because of the cost, but because they had my younger brother and sister to care for. My mother did her best to arrange for others to visit me on the days in between, and I received many cards, small signs that I was not forgotten. But there were also days when no one came, and those days felt endless, stretching out into a silence that was hard to bear.

The headgear was unbearable. It pressed against my skull, making it almost impossible to sleep. Sometimes, when no one was watching, I would secretly take it off just to lie on my side for a moment, to feel even the smallest sense of relief. But the nurses noticed quickly. They were kind, but firm, and I understood that there was no real escape from what was happening to me.

Then came the procedure. A spinal injection, meant to ease the nerves and to determine whether there was enough space to reposition the vertebra. One day, my mother was with me as they took me into a separate room. The tension in the air was heavy, almost tangible. My heart began to race. And then, suddenly, they told her she had to leave. “No, ma’am, you can’t stay here. Please wait outside.” Panic surged through me as I looked at her—my safe place—walking out of the room. The door closed, and in that moment, I felt completely alone. Completely exposed.

As they numbed parts of my head, my breathing quickened. Fear settled into my body like something physical, something cold and tightening around my chest. Then came the drilling. The sound was overwhelming—loud, invasive, impossible to escape. Every vibration travelled through my body, shaking me from the inside out. Tears filled my eyes as the sensation became too much to hold. It felt endless. When it was over, I was left with a permanent metal frame, heavy and rigid, designed to slowly stretch my spine. It felt as though my freedom was being taken away piece by piece. Outside, my mother could hear me screaming. My own voice sounded distant, almost unfamiliar, as I cried out that I didn’t want this. It felt like punishment, like something was being done to me that I had no control over. In my mind, I promised I would never take off the other headgear again, as if this was somehow the consequence of having done so. The fear filled everything.

For years afterward, the nightmares came. Night after night, I was back in that room. The sound of the drilling returned, along with my own screams, echoing in a space where I was alone without my mother. The metal, the weight, the voices—everything replayed as if it had just happened. I would wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, needing time to realise that I was safe again, that I was no longer there. Those dreams became a constant reminder of that time, a time when I had no control over my own body and felt completely lost.

During the day, I was sometimes allowed to sit in a wheelchair. Those moments offered a small sense of relief—from the physical pain, from the monotony, from the endless stillness of that bed. Even a different view, for a short while, felt like something. But the fear and uncertainty never really left me. The only way I could cope was by withdrawing into my mind, by stepping away from my body as much as I could.

Then came the preparation for surgery. For three days, I had to empty my bowels completely. It began with liquid food—mostly thick custard—and ended with drinking only water. Twice a day, I had to undergo enemas, a tube inserted into my body while litres of fluid flushed everything out. It felt endless, overwhelming, far more than it probably was. And afterward, when the tube was removed, I had to rush to the toilet. It felt humiliating, as though I was losing the last pieces of my dignity. I tried to shut out the shame, telling myself it was necessary, that this was part of what had to happen. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier. The entire day became a struggle between my body and my will to endure.

Early one morning, they came to take me to surgery. The tension was thick in the air. The nurses tried to lighten the moment with jokes, but I felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. When the anaesthesia was administered, a large male nurse with a slightly comical face leaned over me and told me to count back from ten. I didn’t even make it to five. His face blurred, fading away, as I felt myself sinking—like slipping under water, disappearing into something unknown and frightening. I remember nothing of the surgery itself, thankfully. The thought alone of being conscious through something like that is unbearable. When I woke up in intensive care, everything felt different. My mother was sitting beside me, her worried face the first thing I saw. They had kept me under sedation for an extra night, and I felt disoriented, fragile, and incredibly small.

Het bericht 12. Admission verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

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.

Het bericht 11. A Bloody Mess verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

And yet, despite that pressure, I continued to grow. I taught myself web design and occasionally built websites for others. At the same time, my interest in the spiritual path deepened; I read extensively and immersed myself in everything connected to that world.

A few streets away lived a boy who was friends with my eldest. His mother and I became close, and she also had a son the same age as my Riddle Daughter. With her, everything was always a puzzle—trying to understand what she needed, what worked, what didn’t—while my Professor Son seemed to have an answer for everything. He had this disarming way of giving advice, like the time he suggested his little sister should eat more liver sausage so she could “live more.”

I often went cycling with that mother and the children, which was an adventure in itself. Riddle Daughter sat in the front seat of the bike, and Professor Son sat behind me. But oh, how he could make it difficult sometimes. Whenever we took a turn, he would lean—not in the opposite direction, as you would expect to help with balance—but often the same way, tilting dangerously just to get a better view. It’s honestly a miracle he never collided with a lamppost.

We also took the younger ones to baby swimming classes, which was a unique experience—wonderful, but also a little frightening. The instructor asked me to gently push Riddle Daughter away from me into the water, explaining that her natural reflex would be to swim back. At first, I simply couldn’t do it. It felt so unnatural to let go of your child like that. But the instructor stayed close, reassuring me, giving me the confidence to try. And what an experience it was—she swam right back to me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Meanwhile, the loneliness began to settle deep within me. The relationship therapy we had placed so much hope in hadn’t brought the change I had longed for. It felt as though we kept returning to the same point, especially when it came to his mother and sister. For him, there was no issue. For me, it became increasingly difficult. It wasn’t even that I couldn’t get along with his mother—the real problem was the way he always placed her first. In truth, I often felt like I came last, somewhere far down a list that included his colleagues, his friends, and his family.

In his work, he continued to grow and thrive. It seemed like he had everything—a career, a social life, the freedom to move as he pleased. I, on the other hand, couldn’t even imagine taking on more work, with my back problems and, as I would later discover, my ADHD. And then there was that relentless guilt—the feeling of wanting something for myself, while at the same time not wanting my children to be raised by others. It became an endless inner battle, a constant ping-pong match in my mind that never seemed to stop.

Financially, we managed reasonably well, but I was often the one who had to apply the brakes. I became the “bad guy,” the one who had to say no—to going out for dinner, to spontaneous spending—things Wordfather enjoyed all too easily. It felt like I was always the one holding the line, while he simply drifted through his own world.

It brought me back to my youth, to a time when—despite my back problems—I always tried to push through. Like during my secondary school years, when I travelled with my best Tienertour friend. Those summers felt like an escape from everything—responsibilities, expectations, limitations. We had looked forward to them for months, planning every detail.

A Cup of Comfort

Dear you,

Sometimes it feels as if your life has become one long list of responsibilities that only you seem to see. While the world keeps moving—and your partner chases his career—you remain standing, holding it all together. Children on your hip, groceries running through your mind, and a quiet guilt that never seems to stop speaking.

You haven’t lost yourself.
You are constantly becoming yourself again—
between cooking, cycling, crying, and letting go.

And while it may seem as though no one truly sees how heavy it can be, you keep giving.
You keep carrying.

You are not the villain.
You are the protector of the household.
The keeper of boundaries.
The quiet strength that says no when no one else will—because you know what is needed, even when it is not what is wanted.

Maybe you feel invisible sometimes.
Maybe it feels as though you are always last on someone’s list of priorities.

But in the heart of your children,
you are the sun everything revolves around.

So take a sip.
Rest.
Breathe.
Lean back for a moment.

This cup of comfort is for you—
mother, woman, human—
who rises again every single day,
even when no one sees how much you have already carried.

Het bericht 10. Pulling and Pushing verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

That evening, as I realised I didn’t even have a single photo of my pregnant belly, I asked Wordfather to take one. Less than two hours later, around eleven o’clock, the contractions began. I called my mother, who was going to help with the postnatal care. When she arrived, Wordfather and I left for the hospital. The contractions quickly started coming one after another. In my attempt to stay relaxed, I tried not to clench my hands into fists, but to keep them open, my fingers stretched out.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was told it didn’t look like I was in labour yet and that we should come back when things became more intense. Back at home, my mother was surprised to see us return. What could we do but wait? I waited for it to get worse—but it didn’t get worse. It was already intense. And then, suddenly, my waters broke, and immediately after that, the urge to push took over. Panic set in. What now?

We called the midwife, who promised she would come as quickly as possible, but the minutes felt like hours. It was around three in the morning by then. My mother joined us, and I stood there, leaning on both her and Wordfather, trying to hold on. The urge to push was almost impossible to resist—it felt so unnatural to hold it back. I don’t remember who looked first, but the baby’s head was already visible. Finally, the midwife rushed in, pulled on her gloves, and I asked, “Can I?” She said, “Yes.” And just like that, she was born—her hand raised above her head like a tiny superhero.

I had been completely unprepared for the birth. There was nothing ready in the house. While everyone ran around in a kind of frantic chaos, searching for whatever they could find, I lay there—half in shock, half in awe. And there she was, being weighed… on top of the puzzle I had been working on for days.

It didn’t take long before she was nicknamed “Puzzle Child,” and later “Riddle Daughter.” And she truly was. With her, everything felt like a puzzle—constantly trying to figure out what worked and what didn’t in raising her. My eldest had been an open book, easy to talk to, easy to guide. But she was entirely different—a mystery in her own right. Two completely different children.

The next morning, Professor Son jumped excitedly onto the bed, shouting that he had become a big brother. The news had clearly touched him, as if he had taken an important step in his young life. His joy filled the room, and we shared that same sense of happiness. A new chapter had begun for all of us.

It brought me back to my own childhood, when I was nine years old and my mother was pregnant. I remember feeling that same excitement, that same anticipation. Just like Professor Son, I couldn’t wait to step into my new role as a big sister. Curious as I was, I devoured every book and article I could find about babies. I was so enthusiastic that I even gave a presentation about it at school—and scored a nine!

When my little sister was finally born, I was overjoyed. My brother, however, felt quite differently. He didn’t like it at all, and it didn’t take long before arguments followed. As my sister grew older, she began to irritate me more and more. My mother explained it by saying I was becoming a “touch-me-not plant.” She always had a proverb or saying ready to explain everything, which is why I started calling her “the proverb mother.”

My little sister didn’t make it easy either. She would constantly take my things, only to enthusiastically help me search for them afterwards. Strangely enough, we always ended up finding them behind the toilet. Whether that was magic or a clever trick, I’ll probably never know.

On weekends, she would crawl into my bed early in the morning. I was about twelve by then, she around three, and while all I wanted was to sleep in, she would chatter endlessly. Puberty had taken hold of me, and my favourite activity had become sleeping. Still, it was my job to look after her in the mornings. It often felt like I had a human alarm clock with no snooze button.

These memories of my childhood began to blend with my experiences as a mother. The pain of my recent birth faded quickly, and by the second day after giving birth, I was already walking through a garden centre, buying Mother’s Day gifts. It felt as though I had my body back again. I was relieved to feel like myself, without the physical limitations that pregnancy had imposed on me for so long.

What still moves me deeply is that my mother was there during the birth and stayed with us during those first days after. I carry that in my heart. Those first ten days flew by, but in that time, we were able to truly bond—to just be together. Because after that, life quickly returned to its rhythm, now with two children. The chaos of everyday life took over, but those first moments of pure connection remain with me.

I also cherish the memory of calling my grandmother that week, overflowing with everything that had just happened. I told her all about the birth—how quickly it had gone, and especially how I had given birth standing up. She listened carefully, and when I finished, she said something that stayed with me:

“You are such a primal woman—giving birth standing up. That is the power of nature.”

Her words hit me deeply. She gave me a sense of pride, of connection to all the women who had come before me. And you know what? She was right. It is actually quite unnatural for women to give birth lying down, working against gravity. Giving birth standing up felt so much more aligned with what my body wanted to do—as if I had rediscovered an ancient wisdom within myself.

The fact that my grandmother recognised that and gave it a name made it even more meaningful. It felt like a confirmation of something I had always known deep inside: that there is a strength in women far greater than we sometimes realise.

Het bericht 9. The Birth verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

The emotions that rushed through me were a confusing mix of disbelief, fear, and deep uncertainty. How could this happen? Just when everything was about to move in a different direction, life itself seemed to come to a halt. It felt as though I had been thrown into a storm—one where nothing was certain anymore.

I kept asking myself how on earth I was supposed to do this. Alone. With Professor Son already at home, and now another child on the way. The anger I felt toward Wordfather and toward the situation itself was quickly overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. This new life inside me did not bring the joy one might expect. Instead, it tied a knot in my stomach—a heavy awareness that everything had suddenly become even more complicated.

As the reality of the pregnancy settled in, I felt the walls around me closing in. The weight of responsibility pressed down on my shoulders. I didn’t know how to move forward, how to embrace this new turn in my life while the storm was still raging. The uncertainty, the fear, the loneliness—they washed over me all at once. And yet, one thing became clear: I had to find a way to keep going. For myself. And for the life growing inside me. Despite the chaos surrounding me.

After I found that strength somewhere within myself, Wordfather and I decided to try again—to fight for our relationship through therapy. This pregnancy was heavier, both physically and emotionally. Something strange began to happen. I started to feel afraid of my own Haflinger.

It was as if a veil of anxiety had settled over me. Suddenly, I became acutely aware of how dangerous horses can be. Perhaps it was the protective instinct of pregnancy, those hormones sharpening my sense of caution. Where I had once walked into the stable with confidence, I now felt a quiet, persistent fear rising inside me. Going to the stable each evening became harder and harder, until I was faced with a painful decision.

Wordfather, as always, quickly found a solution. He had located a retirement stable—a place where my Haflinger, who had already been twenty years old when I bought him, could live out his days in peace. He wouldn’t have to do much anymore and would even be admired for his beautiful long mane. The thought that he could stay there, cared for and appreciated, gave me a sense of comfort. It was a gentle solution to something I found incredibly difficult to let go of.

For the next three years, they kept me updated on how he was doing. They sent me photos regularly, showing how well he was cared for. Although I missed him, I also felt a sense of relief. It was clear that he was where he belonged, and that gave me peace.

By the fifth month of my pregnancy, I could barely walk because of the pain. I spent my days sitting cross-legged, working on large puzzles. Sitting like that shortened my muscles and nerves just enough to bring some relief. It reminded me of waking up after my first back surgery—my body slowly adjusting, my muscles and nerves finding their place again.

The household fell entirely on Wordfather’s shoulders, and he didn’t like it one bit. But he did it, because there was no other choice.

Our eldest, during that time, was incredibly sweet to me. He would often sit beside me, quietly puzzling or playing with his Lego at a small table by the window that I had set up just for him.

A Cup of Comfort

Sometimes life arrives with both hands full of lightning—
precisely at the moment you thought: this is enough.

You find yourself standing in the middle of chaos. A new life growing inside you, old pain surrounding you, and no one who truly understands what it is asking of you.

Maybe you feel confused.
Maybe you are tired of fighting.
Or afraid of what is still to come.

Know this: the eye of the storm is also a place.
A place of stillness, where you are allowed to breathe—just for a moment—before everything begins to move again.

You don’t have to fix anything today.
You don’t have to know how.
You don’t have to smile while your heart is breaking.

This page is for you—
for your courage to stay,
for your love that keeps beating even when everything around you feels unsteady.

You are not alone.
Truly, you are not.

Het bericht 8. The Eye of the Storm verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

But as I unlocked my bike to head home, I suddenly heard someone shout, “Look at that child seat! That woman has a baby!” Those words hit me harder than I expected. They cast a shadow over the entire evening. It was as if I was being pulled back into the reality of my new role—a role that had changed everything. From that moment on, I never truly went out again. Occasionally, I would stop by the bar in the afternoon for a cup of coffee, but it felt different. The carefree freedom I once knew had quietly disappeared, replaced by responsibility and care.

In a way, it reminded me of that failed weekend with my Brigitte Kaandorp friend. It had promised to be legendary. My parents were away for a few days, and I had the house to myself. Naturally, she came over so we could enjoy our freedom together. We had planned everything perfectly: a night out in a nearby town, about fifteen kilometres away, riding on her moped. She was a year older and had that glorious Tomos, so I always rode on the back.

That evening, we were completely ready. We had dressed up, styled our hair, carefully chosen our outfits for a wild night ahead. Full of excitement, we got on the moped and sped off. But halfway there, in the middle of the open polder, the inevitable happened: the moped suddenly died. It looked very much like the spark plug had given up. There we stood, in the quiet darkness of the countryside, miles away from anything resembling nightlife.

Our grand plan had suddenly turned into a long, exhausting walk home.

As if that wasn’t enough, the rain started pouring down. What a disappointment. We couldn’t help but laugh at our misfortune as we trudged through the dark, our “night out” turning into nothing more than a long walk back. In the end, it became an adventurous and unforgettable night—just not in the way we had imagined. We arrived home drenched to the bone, like two soaked cats. And although our plans had quite literally washed away, it became one of those stories we would always remember: the night the moped failed us in the middle of nowhere, on our way to an unforgettable evening that never happened.

Not long after, Wordfather and I moved from the flat into a family home, about twenty minutes away from his mother, but closer to the city. I had hoped that the distance would make things easier—that it would give us space to build a life of our own, without the constant proximity of her presence. But the change brought little relief. The tension remained, and I still felt the weight of her expectations pressing on me.

Our new home, however, came with its own hidden problem. At the time, the city was dealing with a serious issue: rotting foundation piles caused by falling groundwater levels. Our house was no exception. The estate agent had reassured us it wasn’t severe—yet—but it lingered in the background, a quiet, persistent uncertainty.

Meanwhile, Wordfather received a promotion. He no longer worked at the airport, which also meant I could no longer travel with him to work on the two days I worked each week. The balance between work and motherhood began to weigh heavily on me. I felt guilty leaving Professor Son with my sister-in-law while I went to work, yet I wasn’t ready to give up my job either.

Then, something unexpected happened—something that made my heart race.

I had always dreamed of having a horse or a pony of my own. It was a deep-rooted wish I had carried with me for years. And believe it or not, Wordfather’s company wanted to keep him so badly that they decided to sponsor my horse. That’s how Lucky came into my life—a beautiful Haflinger. I was over the moon.

Lucky found a home with a local farmer who also kept Haflingers. As a child, I would spend hours cycling through the polders, always searching for a pony or horse to care for. My love for horses ran deep. Out there, in the open landscape, I found peace—surrounded by nature and animals that always seemed to understand me.

Those moments were my escape, my small piece of paradise where everything else faded away.

Even though my parents couldn’t afford riding lessons, I always found a way to nurture that love. Together with my Tienertour friend, I went every Wednesday to a place where we could rent two ponies for a small fee per hour. It was my chance to learn, to grow, to ride. I taught myself by watching others, by feeling my way forward. And it felt incredible—especially when we rode out onto the heath, my pony and I breaking into a full gallop. The wind rushed past my ears as we moved together, completely free.

Of course, not without the occasional absurd moment—like the time I accidentally swallowed a large fly mid-ride. After that, I kept my mouth firmly shut whenever we galloped. That feeling of freedom was impossible to put into words.

After those bursts of speed, we would return slowly, walking side by side, soaking in the quiet and the connection between us. Those moments on the heath were precious—a time of pure joy and deep connection with these magnificent animals. It wasn’t just a hobby. It was a passion that helped shape me, that gave me something steady in my teenage years. And now, finally, I had a reason to step out in the evenings again: Lucky.

I was careful with my back—never sitting through the trot, always leaning forward during the gallop. It became a beautiful time, a much-needed release in a life that was growing increasingly heavy. Even on weekends, I found my peace there. Together with the farmer’s granddaughter, I often went on long rides through the countryside. I also stayed in touch with Lucky’s previous owner; she would come and stay over now and then, just to visit her old companion again.

Het bericht 7. The Aftermath (of Birth) verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Every Sunday, it was already set in the agenda: dinner at my mother-in-law’s. It felt as though I was playing a role in a family performing a carefully rehearsed play. Everything appeared fine on the surface, but underneath, there was so much left unsaid. No one really spoke about what was going on; everything was quietly swept under the rug. At times, that made it hard for me to breathe in that environment.

My sister-in-law and I never truly connected. She was so different from me—more reserved, more contained—while I longed for openness and freedom. Those Sundays began to wear me down. I found myself craving something else: time with my own family, or simply a day to myself. A day without obligations. A day to just be.

I worked two days a week, and on those days my sister-in-law would take care of Professor Son. What seemed convenient at first quickly led to tension. We clashed often—perhaps because we simply didn’t understand each other well enough. The strain at home grew heavier, especially since we were still living in a flat close to my mother-in-law’s house at the time. She could literally see whether our lights were on when we got home from work, and the phone would ring almost immediately. There were moments when I would say, “Let’s just keep the lights off—I need some peace.” And yet, at the same time, I felt guilty. Because I understood her too. She was alone after the death of her husband, and that loneliness had forged an unbreakable bond between Wordfather and his mother.

Wordfather had lost his father at a young age—a loss that cut deeply and left scars that would never fully heal. At fifteen, he was pushed into a role he had never chosen: the man of the house, the protector of his mother and sister. That loss bound them together in an intense way, their connection becoming a chain of loyalty and mutual dependence. He took on responsibility not just as a son, but almost as a replacement father figure—something that made sense, given the circumstances. But the role he had taken on back then continued to follow him, even as he began a family of his own.

I could see it—how deeply rooted that bond was. How it had carried them through difficult times. It was admirable, that loyalty and devotion. But it also created an invisible distance between us. I truly wanted to be a good daughter-in-law, but it often felt as though my own boundaries were being crossed. There was always a third presence in our marriage—his mother—like a shadow lingering just beneath the surface.

Instead of building our relationship as partners, I was often pushed aside for the dynamic that already existed between him, his mother, and his sister. I found myself caught between wanting to support him in his loss and needing to build a life and family of my own. It became a constant struggle to find space for myself—to be seen, to be heard—in a relationship shaped so strongly by his past and his unbreakable connection to his family.

That feeling of being left out, of never truly belonging in my partner’s world, became painfully clear during outings with his family. These were never small gatherings—they were full-scale family events, with all the aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended relatives present. Every outing felt like a performance, a stage where everyone had a fixed role to play.

While I had hoped we would attend these occasions as partners, something entirely different would happen. Instead of walking beside Wordfather, I would see his mother immediately take her place at his side. Together, they approached the family—she as the matriarch, he as her devoted son. And me? I followed behind, the children in my hands, like an extra in a play where I would never have a leading role.

His sister always seemed to thrive in that environment. Confident, almost energised by it. Together with her husband, they formed a duo that set the tone—often with subtle jabs and sharp-edged jokes that made me shrink with discomfort. Every remark, however small, cut through me, while I tried desperately to hold on to my dignity.

Whenever I glanced at Wordfather, searching for some kind of support, the response was always the same: “Stop whining.” It was as if my feelings didn’t matter—as if I simply had to accept that this was how things were.

Meanwhile, Wordfather seemed to move effortlessly through it all, feeding off the attention around him. He socialised with everyone, laughed at every joke—whether it was at my expense or not. My role, it seemed, was reduced to caring for the children, without any real space or voice of my own.

It would last an entire evening, sometimes even a full weekend, during which I felt myself drifting further away—not just from his family, but from him as well. While he reconnected with his past and strengthened his family ties, I was left behind, caught in a growing sense of isolation and invisibility.

Het bericht 6. The Umbilical Cord verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

As the pregnancy progressed, something began to shift. Around the sixth month, that fairytale started to blur at the edges. It was no longer just about glowing and enjoying. I could feel how this tiny human being was taking up more and more space, how my body was adjusting completely—and sometimes resisting. Everything became heavier, more uncomfortable, and those once gentle hormones began steering everything toward that one inevitable moment: birth.

In the midst of all this, something else happened. Wordfather and I, both convinced we knew exactly how children should be raised—“We would do it better!” we always said—decided to get married. At first, we thought we would keep it simple, just a quick visit to city hall. But our mothers quickly intervened. They wanted it to be a celebration, however intimate. And so it was. Even my grandmother was there, and despite our initial hesitation, the day felt warm and filled with love. It became a moment of connection—a moment where we celebrated our future as a family, together with the little life growing inside me.

Of course, I was stubborn. Medically, a C-section had been advised, but somewhere I had read that recovery after a natural birth is often quicker. That the body somehow recognises the process, as if it says: “Yes, the birth has happened—I repeat, the birth has happened.” The midwife agreed with me, though there were risks involved. The birth would take place in the hospital, and if anything went wrong, a medical team would be ready to step in. Wordfather didn’t like the idea at all—he was worried and would have preferred the safer option. But I felt determined. This was what I wanted.

The moment I had been moving toward for months turned out to be a shock. The first contractions began, and instead of the euphoria I had imagined, the only thought running through my mind was: “Was I really looking forward to this? Really?” Because anyone who has been through it knows that giving birth is one of the most intense, raw experiences you can have. It is overwhelming, painful—and yes, at times, it feels like pure hell.

But I held on. Despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the doubts creeping in, I remained determined to do it my way. And I did. A natural birth, without the medical team needing to intervene. The feeling of victory—of having faced my own fears and doubts and come through stronger—was indescribable. I had done it, against all expectations.

The moment you hold your baby for the first time, the pain seems to fade. Nature has a way of softening that memory, of shifting your focus to the miracle you have created. And it’s true: despite the sleepless nights, the diapers, the endless care, we often find ourselves thinking… maybe one more?

I still remember standing in front of the mirror two weeks after the birth. What I saw was almost unrecognisable. A pale face, dark circles framing my eyes, and a fatigue that seemed to live deep in my bones. “Is this it? Is this parenthood?” I wondered, trying to understand how I had ended up here.

By then, Wordfather had already returned to work, and I was left to find my way in this new rhythm that had completely taken over our lives. It felt as though I had suddenly been given the lead role in a play without ever seeing the script. Every day brought new challenges, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t silence that voice in the back of my mind—the one whispering that maybe I wasn’t good enough, that I would fail as a mother.

Those fears only grew heavier under the weight of new responsibilities. There seemed to be an invisible pressure everywhere—to embody the perfect image of motherhood—while inside, I felt myself quietly falling apart, piece by piece.

The past year had been a whirlwind, filled with changes that had turned our lives upside down. Wordfather and I had barely had the time to truly get to know each other before Professor Son arrived. In truth, we were still strangers, and the distance between us only grew. The first cracks in our relationship had already begun to show during the pregnancy. While little seemed to change for him—he continued his work and social life as usual—I felt the loneliness settling deeper inside me.

How many evenings had I sat there, waiting with dinner, hoping he would come home on time, only to hear once again that he had to work late? It became almost routine. I remember a scene from a film where a woman, who had to throw away dinner every night because her husband always worked late, finally snapped and dumped an entire pot of food onto his desk at work. I often played out that same act of revenge in my mind.

But actually doing it?
No… I didn’t have that kind of courage.

Het bericht 5. From Expecting to Becoming verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Once we found an apartment and my IT boyfriend finished his studies, life quickly turned into that picture-perfect script: house, tree, little animal. He landed a good job straight away in the fast-growing IT world. Everything seemed perfect—a company car, a comfortable life. From the outside, the picture was complete. But inside, something kept gnawing at me.

As he lost himself in his work and became a true workaholic, I felt more and more alone. Even at night, he would leave for the office, as if the glow of his monitors mattered more than our conversations. The pressure of that life began to suffocate me. I had spent half my teenage years in hospitals, in a body that kept letting me down. And now I found myself here—in a life that had been mapped out for me, a comfortable but suffocating bed I didn’t belong in. My wild side hadn’t disappeared. Deep down, I felt an overwhelming urge for something more—something that was truly mine.

One day, I made a decision that changed everything. I ended the relationship with my IT boyfriend, walked away from that comfortable life, and moved to a new city. I wanted to feel the energy of the city, but not one so big that I would lose myself in it. This new place felt safer—smaller, but alive. I already knew a few people there, like my ex’s best friend, who had also become my friend. That gave me something to hold on to in this new environment.

That city became my playground, my escape. My local bar became my second home, a place where I could be found almost every evening. I dove headfirst into nightlife, doing everything a rebellious teenager would do—except hard drugs. I smoked, I partied, and I lived as if there were no tomorrow. Until one night, reality hit hard.

I was so drunk that I fell off my bar stool and didn’t even feel the ground when I hit it. That moment became a turning point. I could have broken my back. That fall was the wake-up call I needed. It was time to change direction. Time to step out of that whirlwind of intoxication and recklessness, and take responsibility.

I started looking for a part-time job and slowly took control of my life again. At my local bar, I mentioned that I was looking for work. As luck would have it, someone from an employment agency had left a card at the bar that week with the message: “If you hear of anyone looking for work, we still have openings.” I seized the opportunity and called the number.

On the other end of the line was the voice of Wordfather—though at the time, I had no idea he would one day become the father of my children. He asked if I could come by to register. The job would be at an airport. Not long after, I found myself standing there, ready to sign up. A week later, I found a note under my door asking me to call him back—he had found a job for me. When I called, he asked how my German was. “Not great,” I admitted honestly. German had always been a disaster for me. My oral exam had been a complete failure; I couldn’t get a single proper sentence out. The more I tried, the more I got tangled in my own words. I couldn’t sink any lower, I thought at the time.

When the exam was finally over, the teacher looked me straight in the eye and asked, “Do you promise you’ll never do anything with German?”
I couldn’t help but laugh and replied, without hesitation, “No, I will never do anything with German.”
He smiled and said, “Then I’ll give you a 5.5.”
That tiny bit of mercy just barely got me through.

Wordfather laughed when I told him and said, “Don’t say anything—just go to the interview. At least you’ll get in.”

And he was right. The interview went smoothly, and I got the job in billing. The company felt right, and I quickly found my place there. My life began to revolve around work—and that was fine. At that point, it was all I needed. Still, Wordfather had to remind me again and again to submit my hours on time and send in my timesheets—something I was notoriously careless about. The funny part was that I had to send those tiny timesheets in ridiculously large envelopes because there were no smaller ones anywhere in the company.

One day, a German client called with questions about an invoice, and the call was transferred to me. I broke out in a sweat. Everyone in the department looked at me, because my supposed German skills were one of the reasons I had been hired. I picked up the phone, trying to sound confident, and said: “Sprechen du English?” To my relief, the client replied, “Ja, yes.” The entire department burst out laughing. Yes, I had been exposed—but I was good at my job. And that was noticed. After three months, I was offered a one-year contract.

We had made a deal: if I got through my probation period, Wordfather and I would go for a drink at the local bar—the same bar that turned out to be his regular spot as well. That evening, somewhere between the drinks and the conversations, our relationship began.

True to form, I managed—of course—to injure myself at work. I stepped into an open binder I had left on the floor, and my foot was pierced straight through the thick sole of my shoe. A trip to the emergency room followed, where it turned out I had been lucky—a deep but clean wound. Because I couldn’t travel on public transport for a while, Wordfather offered to drive me. Before long, I started staying over at his place—it was simply more practical.

Everything moved fast. Too fast, really. Three months later, I found out I was pregnant. Even the morning-after pill hadn’t worked. Truthfully, I had never wanted children, partly because of my back problems. The appointment at the abortion clinic had already been made.

But one evening, as I lay in the bath, a deep sense of doubt washed over me. I thought about the tiny life growing inside me. The hormones were undoubtedly playing their part, but what I decided that night would change my life forever.

Het bericht 4. The Fair(y)tale verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Two months earlier, in the summer, I had discovered that picturesque village, just a twenty-minute drive from my sister and my parents. What immediately caught my attention was a charming little house near the village centre. Crossing a small bridge, walking past the church, you would suddenly find yourself among the shops. Across from the house was a school, and between them a strip of green where sheep grazed peacefully. Zen—the perfect balance between countryside and town. Best of all: we could afford it.

Once the keys were handed over, it felt as though a door to a new world had opened for us. As I walked through the empty rooms, I could already hear the children’s laughter echoing in my mind. This would be their place—the space where they would run, play, and grow up. I felt so happy, so full of joy.

And that garden… I knew instantly: this will be our safe haven. Here, we would find peace, away from the chaos. Here, sitting on the terrace with a cup of coffee, I would finally be able to breathe again.

At the start, all the gardens were separated by fences, but at the far end they opened up, allowing the children to move freely between them, playing together from yard to yard. It reminded me of my own childhood. Back then, my neighbourhood was a paradise for a child. We dug holes in the sandbox and turned them into little dens, covering them with sheets. After dinner, we played “buskruit,” a wild mix of football and hide-and-seek. We played curb games, roller-skated, skipped with elastics, or hopped across chalk-drawn patterns. Every day was a new adventure on the pavement. That was what I wanted for my children too.

The desire to live closer to my sister and my parents had slowly grown while living in the big city. I dreamed of more space, a larger garden, perhaps a decorative garden or even a vegetable patch—somewhere the children would have room to play. Away from the noise of the city, closer to nature.

That longing for a big garden had roots in my own childhood. My grandfather had a beautiful vegetable garden, and I often went with him to help. It was a place full of scents, colours, and calm, where everything seemed to grow in perfect harmony. One time, I brought along my faraway-adventure friend, who was always up for something new. My grandfather asked us to take some garden waste to the compost heap, and we happily did—until we suddenly saw a snake. Startled, we ran, our hearts pounding in our throats. But my grandfather, ever calm, waved it off. “Oh, don’t be silly, it’s probably just a viper,” he said casually. Well, you can imagine that I didn’t go near that compost heap again after that.

My grandfather was always pleased when I had “loan ponies”—ponies I was allowed to care for as if they were my own, even though they belonged to someone else. Not only because he knew how much I loved it, but also because he was quite fond of the manure for his vegetable garden. “Ask if I can take some of the manure,” he would often say, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Usually, that was fine. Later, sitting at the table, he would take a bite of his broad beans and grin, saying, “Oh, these taste so good thanks to Loan Pony Number Three.” Yuck, I would think—yet I always laughed at how effortlessly he wove the cycle of nature into his humour.

My mother-in-law, however, was far from pleased that we would be moving two hours away from her. During a car ride to the garden centre, she made it very clear that her son would never leave the city where she lived. Still, I stood my ground—something that was not appreciated. This house felt right in every way. It was the place where I saw us living, growing, building a future. This time, I would not give up.

The first setback came when we tried to sell our house in the city. The estate agent, who had previously claimed that the foundation issues were no problem at all, suddenly acted as if the house was unsellable. But I refused to be discouraged. Determined, I took photos myself and placed an ad online. For a small fee, our house was listed—and within a week, there was already a response. A man who wanted to live close to his sister showed interest and came to view the house. He saw the renovated extension, perfect as an extra bedroom, and decided to buy it.

It felt like a huge victory.

When I told the estate agent I had sold the house myself, his surprise was unmistakable. A thought crept in—one I could never prove and still don’t know if it’s true. My mother-in-law knew this agent very well… So why had our house suddenly become “unsellable”?

By the time we had truly settled into our dream home, autumn had fully arrived. The house was small—everyone had an opinion about that—but I didn’t care. What others saw as limitation, I saw as possibility, especially with the long garden. I immediately imagined extending the house. Wearing my grandmother’s old coat, with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, I walked into the garden, already making plans in my head. A trampoline could go here, a cosy terrace there.

It was a beautiful autumn day—the air crisp but not cold, the sunlight soft. I sank into a garden chair, letting my face rest in the warmth of the sun, and allowed my thoughts to drift.

How did I end up here? Is this paradise?

We enjoyed the house, the space, the quiet it offered us. And yet, beneath it all, there was an undercurrent I couldn’t ignore. While I tried to feel at home in this new place, Wordfather commuted daily back to our old city for work. Four hours a day—two hours there, two hours back. We hardly saw each other, and more and more, I felt like I was carrying our family life on my own.

Every evening, I cooked twice: once for the children, and then again for him when he came home around eight. Sundays were always reserved for my mother-in-law. No matter how much it frustrated me, I couldn’t change it. Those Sundays meant I barely had time left for my own family. I felt like I was constantly running, always busy, never stopping—never having a moment for myself. Time for me—for rest, for breathing—simply no longer existed.

The tension between us kept growing, like a storm that never quite breaks but is always there, hanging in the air. Slowly, without realising it, we began to drift apart.

And it felt familiar.
As if I had lived this before.
As if I was slipping back into the pattern of my previous relationship.

Het bericht 3. A New Beginning verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

Scientifically speaking, I was already there when my grandmother was pregnant with my mother. Apparently, women carry all the eggs they will ever have from birth. So yes—there I was, a microscopic possibility, tucked inside my mother’s ovaries while she herself was still safely held in my grandmother’s womb. That’s where this story really begins: three generations of mothers in the making, already intertwined before any of us even took our first breath.

Generation after generation, parenting and pain are passed down like family traditions. You might think you’re the first to discover that raising children sometimes feels like trying to steer a runaway rollercoaster—but you’re not. This runs deep. My grandmother passed her own version of motherhood on to my mother, complete with its strengths, its blind spots, and its quiet traces of trauma. My mother, in turn, passed the baton to me—with love, with imperfection, and with everything she carried that she perhaps never fully understood herself.

That’s how I learned that trauma doesn’t announce itself at birthdays or family dinners. It slips quietly through generations, hiding in well-meant advice and in the smallest, almost invisible gestures. My mother had her struggles, just as I have mine, and for a long time I told myself I would do things differently. That I would not repeat the same mistakes. But who was I trying to convince? It turns out that becoming a mother comes with an unspoken subscription to the same patterns, the same pitfalls, the same impossible expectations. And so, while I tried to become the “perfect” mother, I slowly began to realise that I was part of a long lineage of women—each of them carrying their own battles, their own silent weight.

Years later, the father of my children entered my life. I used to look up to him. He seemed to have everything I felt I lacked: an education, a sharp command of language, and a kind of confidence I could only dream of. He corrected my sentences constantly, as if he were the grammar police. At first, it felt attentive—almost caring. But over time, it became suffocating. My voice began to shrink. My thoughts would disappear halfway through a sentence, lost in the shadow of his perfectly structured words.

His influence reached far beyond our conversations. It seeped into our relationship, into our marriage, and into the way we raised our children. He carried his own generational wounds, and they shaped his way of parenting just as much as mine shaped me. While I tried to find my place as a mother, he held the reins tightly. My attempts to make my own choices were often overshadowed by his dominant presence, leaving little room for my instincts, my voice, or my way of doing things.

That pattern didn’t just exist in conversation—it followed us into pregnancy itself. I still remember the moment he compared pregnancy to a vending machine: “You put money in and get cigarettes out. So whose cigarettes are they?” It was a strange, almost absurd comparison, but it landed harder than I expected. It made me painfully aware of how, at times, he seemed to see me less as the mother of his children and more as a vessel. Small remarks like that, combined with his controlling role in our relationship and in raising our children, slowly planted a feeling in me that I didn’t quite matter.

And that’s where the seed of The Worst Mother truly began to take root. Not in one dramatic failure, but in a long chain of small moments—moments where I felt like I was falling short, as a partner and especially as a mother.

But maybe that’s also where our strength lies. We learn. We fail. We get back up and try again. Because in the end, no matter how messy it gets, it is all driven by love—and by the stubborn, relentless desire to do what’s best for our children. Even if that means, at times, passing on something we wish we could have left behind.

And that, dear reader, is where The Worst Mother begins.

Because it was only when I allowed myself to fail…
that I finally began to find who I really am.

So take off your shoes. Make yourself a cup of tea—or coffee (or pour a glass of wine, I won’t judge). And step into this story with me. The story of a woman who slowly begins to take off her mask.

a small cup of comfort

For those who believed mothers had to be perfect.
For those who broke in silence.
For those who shouted in helplessness, and stayed out of love.

For the mother with empty hands and a heart full of questions.
For the woman who lost herself in the tight mold of being the “right” example.

For those who were called “bad”—or worse, began to believe it themselves.
For those who were given a name before they could name themselves.

For you.
Reading.
With an open gaze—and perhaps a crack,
right where the light finds its way in.

May this confession not be a plea for forgiveness, but a bridge.
Not an excuse, but an acknowledgment.

This is where the story begins.
Of falling and staying down—
and then, suddenly, finding the strength to rise again.

Welcome to THE WORST MOTHER.
In capital letters, because it no longer needs to be whispered.

Het bericht 2. The Origin of the Worst Mother verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.

THE WORST MOTHER

And yes—capital letters. I’m writing this book because I want the story to be told. Not as a warning. Not as a victim’s chronicle. But as a testimony. Of a mother. A daughter. A human being. Because somewhere, across generations, something got lost. And maybe—just maybe—words can build a bridge again.

Let’s be honest: there are many mothers who get labeled “bad.” Why? Because motherhood is hard, and everyone always has something to say about it. Maybe it also has something to do with the fact that, biologically, all mothers share one thing: a cunt. And in our language, that word is also an insult—loaded, sharp, heavy. Everything that comes out of it becomes suspect, laughed at, or dismissed as difficult. It’s just… “wrong.” While, quite literally, it is the beginning of life.

Isn’t that strange?

I have screamed, cried, begged, soothed, promised, and messed up. I’ve dropped plates—literally and figuratively. And all the while, I was trying to find a manual for motherhood. Spoiler: it doesn’t exist. Or maybe it does—but I probably threw it out with the recycling by accident. For years, I held on tightly to rules. No foul language. Proper table manners. Talk about your feelings without raising your voice.

You guessed it: mission failed. I wanted to be a mother who did everything right. But in the end, I became a mother who did a lot of things wrong. That’s where this story begins. Not to gain sympathy. Not to seek approval. But to tell the truth—my truth.

Because there is no filter that makes motherhood prettier than it really is. Loving your children well is complicated. Raising them is falling down, getting back up, and then still tripping over a Lego brick that shouldn’t even be there anymore.

Maybe you read this and think: “Wow… that’s intense.” Maybe you think: “Damn… that’s familiar.” Whatever your reaction is—you’re welcome here. This book is an ode to imperfect parenting. To all the mothers (and fathers) who keep trying, despite everything.

And sometimes… are just tired of trying so hard.

Het bericht 1. The name verscheen eerst op De KUTste Moeder.