After Professor Son was born, I decided to visit my local bar one last time—a place filled with memories and familiar faces. I cycled there, the child seat attached to the back of my bike. It turned into a warm, lively evening, full of laughter and conversations with people I hadn’t seen in a while. They congratulated me on becoming a mother, their words filled with genuine joy. It felt good to be back for a moment, to feel that I still belonged to that world.

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. ❤️