Welcome to my website!

For the most part, I used www.Deepl.com to translate my texts. Here and there I made some changes purely by feeling. I hope people can still follow my musings. Don't you get it? Feel free to contact me, and we'll work it out together.

 

 

 

 

Days 1 through 141 are written from top to bottom, starting with the green block.

From day 142 onward, I'm working from bottom to top, so you can read it directly each day. I hope this is clear. (wink)

 

 

 

August 3, 2025

day 144

I only remember the end of my dream, but it was enough.

In the dream, I’m speaking with someone — I don’t know who, but it feels like a guide, a voice I trust.
We’re talking about something I once initiated, in another world: the task of creating a garden on earth.
A green space where people are allowed to simply be.
A place to recharge, to release negative influences, where healing may arise naturally.

Years have passed. And I’m invited to come and take a look.
I see a man walking through the garden. The man to whom I once gave that task.
He’s talking amiably with a woman walking beside him.
They are equals, relaxed, as if they’re sharing something — something that feels right.
And I am deeply moved. The garden is alive. Organic, breathing, true to its own pace and growth.
No rigid plan, no design, but a place that has become itself.
And I see: he did it. A little piece of heaven on earth.

Then he turns around… and I notice a small deformed arm.
I look at the voice beside me, questioning. And the voice says:
“Yes, that can happen when the incarnation doesn’t fully go as intended. The human body then shows a defect. But… it also means you remain in contact with our world.”

And then I woke up.

What is this? A metaphor for the development I’m going through now?
The workshop I once wrote, now fully lived and embodied.
It’s allowed to exist now. For me — and for others, once the book is done.
Learning to trust the natural evolution of life, despite pain, despite imperfections.
The man and woman as equals, relaxed, a complete whole.
The down-to-earth explanation for being born with a disability.

It all feels so fitting within my story.
It doesn’t matter whether I’m dreaming the dream — or the dream is dreaming me.
It gives me peace.
And meaning.

 

 

 

 

August 2, 2025
Day 143
Questions.
Memories are resurfacing. The questions I used to receive during the workshops I gave.
If it’s truly the purpose of life for humans to reach self-realization, then how do people in areas of poverty and famine ever get there?

That’s a good question — one that zooms out beyond my personal story.
The problem is that regions plagued by poverty, hunger, and war — often as a result of exploitation — create an environment where survival takes top priority. And when survival is at stake, other human needs, such as personal growth and self-development, fade into the background.

The immediate consequences of famine — malnutrition, disease, violence — make it almost impossible to focus on self-realization.
We're talking about economic exploitation (wealthy nations extracting resources), political exploitation (corrupt regimes, foreign interference, war), or social exploitation (discrimination and inequality) — and these are everyday realities in such regions.

Achieving self-realization in places of famine is an enormous challenge.
But if we address the root causes of famine and begin to empower communities, it becomes possible to create an environment in which individuals can reach their full potential.

At that point in the workshop, I’d often explain the model of macro, meso, and micro:
The world, the nation, the individual.
Efforts must begin at the global level, then move toward local governments, and finally to the individual — to make the growth of that individual truly possible.

And then I always return to one of the quotes I wrote down from a film:
"The sword is held with the heart, only a sincere heart can move it."

This quote suggests that wielding power — especially something as potent as a sword — requires more than physical strength. It demands purpose, integrity, and alignment with the heart.

It implies that any action — especially one with far-reaching consequences — must be guided by sincere intention and a strong moral compass.
A “sincere heart” represents a pure motive.
And the ability to move the sword (or power) justly is intrinsically tied to that sincerity.

This quote can also be seen as a warning: not to use power recklessly or for selfish gain, but instead to embody ethical leadership and accountability.

Sadly, in today’s world, this is a major issue.
Leaders like Nelson Mandela are the exception.

These kinds of questions bring me back to the here and now — with the realization that on a macro level, things have only become more difficult.
Which means that countless individuals are still being denied the chance to live their potential.

And I sense a shift in myself too:
I’m no longer only occupied with my own healing,
but through reconnecting with myself,
I begin to see the world around me again.

 

 

 

August 1, 2025
Day 142
Moods.

Through the rediscovery of my ‘older’ self, I notice shifts in how I experience the discomfort in my body. I’ve always had a connection to the language of my body. Being ill often as a child. That aha moment as a teenager when I discovered the book You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay. That awareness drastically reduced the number of illnesses I had at the time.

As a young adult, all of my complaints — even those linked to my congenital condition CMT — virtually disappeared through excessive yoga practice. At one point, I had myself examined, wondering whether I had miraculously overcome the disease. Sadly, from a scientific perspective, it was still progressing: the nerves were slowly dying, meaning the muscle strength in my legs and arms would continue to diminish.

During that intense yoga period, my sensitivity — which I had always possessed — became more pronounced. At times, it felt as if something or someone else was taking over. I called that part of me Ptah. Through it, I learned so much — about movement, philosophy, science, art, and more. It all came from within me, but didn’t feel of me.

Since I’m quite a down-to-earth person and struggled back then to combine the invisible spiritual world with daily life, I more or less threw myself into my marriage with Michel and together we started a family. That literally brought me back down to earth. Grounded — yes, even in the soggy mud, I’d say.

Twenty-five years of slogging through that mud, slowly accumulating discomforts, worries, pain. And then suddenly, the stroke in January turns out to be a turning point!
How heavy and difficult life — and my literal weight — had become.
In mid-March, I decided to take the helm and start this blog to explore what drives me. Open and raw, honest, unfiltered — and shared with the world.

What a task I gave myself. OMG.
Memories, grief, sorrow and pain — all of it passes beneath my pen.
And then, in that same wave of energy, I recently found an old box filled with journals, all kinds of notebooks filled with my writings and ideas. And I realized: the teachings of self-realization had always been present within me.
I never truly lost what I once knew. Even in retreat, even in disconnection, the wisdom remained in me.

So today, I’m taking a little distance from that box — because rediscovery can be exhausting, and my body now shows more clearly what kind of impact my knowing has when I choose not to feel, see, or experience it.

It’s the coping mechanisms that can go into the box.

Today, I’m just going to relax and watch some Netflix. Then I remember that for years I’ve been saving quotes from movies that move me in a folder on my laptop — a special file: “Quotes from Films.”
So I pick one for today. Let’s see…

“A sword filled with anger can’t even cut a rotten pumpkin.”
How beautiful is that?

I have no idea what movie that quote is from — I didn’t write it down.
But it struck me, and that’s what matters.

The expression suggests that even a powerful weapon (the sword) becomes useless if it’s wielded in blind rage (emotion), even against something simple (the rotten pumpkin).
It reminds us that emotional control and clear thinking are essential for effective action.

Most of all, I’m grateful to see that Annette — in her essence — hasn’t changed.
But what has become clearer is how growth and development really work:

Listening again,
and again.
Always a little deeper…

March 28, 2025
Day 16
Last night I fell asleep with a question on my mind: “What is happiness?”
I jotted it down—maybe for the blog, maybe just to come back to someday. It’s clear that I’m still not fully at peace with my body’s decline.
I’ve managed my congenital muscle disease quite well, even though it’s progressive. I’ve accepted it, completely—even after every little setback. But now? Now, everything is different. The way my body reacts is unfamiliar. I catch myself cursing internally:
“Annette, you’ve really become an old lady.”
“I’ve never been this stiff.”
“This fatigue is killing me.”
Grumble, grumble, grumble. Ton’s car had to go in for its annual inspection, so I drove him there.
The N3 was packed on the way back. The car radio is set to JOE these days—hits from the ‘70s and ‘80s. The music of my youth. As I sang along, I suddenly felt young again. Twenty, maybe twenty-five.
It’s the strangest thing—that your body can age and even deteriorate, but inside, you still feel exactly the same as forty years ago.
Still just as playful, just as cheeky, just as silly. And then it hit me—I asked myself that question last night: What is happiness?
That moment in the car was pure happiness.
Those golden little moments.
Seeing blossom in the trees and bushes. Daffodils. Spring. Music.
For me, that is happiness. And the fact that I can still experience it, despite all the setbacks—that, too, is happiness.
So, all in all, I’m still a happy person.

 

 

March 29, 2025
Day 17
Obsessive behavior. What is that, really?
To me, it’s something you just can’t let go of—something that takes over your mind completely. And yes, I recognize it all too well. Usually, when something catches my interest, I dive in headfirst.
Then I’m at it 24/7. It can last for weeks, months… sometimes even years. Everything around me fades into the background, and I barely register it—I don’t even feel empathy for it.
Terrible, now that I write it down—but unfortunately, it’s true. My yoga obsession lasted for years—and it ultimately cost me a marriage.
But it also gave me a lot: physical wellbeing, and a wealth of knowledge about Eastern practices and philosophies.
Once the obsession has run its course, I let it go completely—never look back. Which, I admit, can come across as heartless. My current husband has his own obsession: squash.
He used to play, coached his sons, and later became manager of the premier league team his son plays in. He even trained to be a referee at major tournaments. You could call it a hobby—but in the years we’ve been together, it no longer feels like one.
Before a match, he’s basically absent for three days.
You can see it in his eyes—he hears you, but he’s not listening. He often takes a roundabout way of telling me he’s signed up for another squash-related thing. I can sense something’s going on, and it starts to grate. I see the avoidance, but there’s no clarity.
So yes, from my point of view, it creates a lot of friction.
And yes, I know—of course I know—this also says something about me. Damn it! Right now, doing anything feels hard.
Still, I make myself go outside every day—for some literal fresh air.
This is the Netherlands, so the weather doesn’t always cooperate.
Walking isn’t really an option at the moment, but thankfully I can still cycle.
Because my body keeps failing me, I need support—I’m not able to go out on my own yet. Today, the weather’s lovely: blue sky, sunshine.
I was looking forward to a short bike ride.
But just now, my husband told me he’s going to watch his son play, and might be refereeing too.
He immediately shuts down any sign of disappointment from me and says,
“If you get hungry, there’s some yogurt in the fridge.”
And, “No idea when I’ll be back. Bye.” Outwardly calm, but inwardly fuming, I say—viciously—
“Well, if I drop dead, at least you’ll feel sorry later.” How horrible is that?
Seriously—so mean, and childish,
especially since I, of all people, understand obsessive behavior. So there it is: no matter how kind I think I am, there’s also a little jealous monster in me.
Is it jealousy, though? Or some other frustration?
Not being seen? Not being heard? Not being taken seriously?
Or do I secretly hope he’ll finally acknowledge and recognize his own behavior? Either way—this reaction of mine is not the way to go about it.
Let’s be clear about that. Whatever this is, wherever it comes from—it certainly doesn’t win any beauty contests…



March 30, 2025
Day 18
What does fear do to a person?
Or grief—what does grief do to us?
One thing became clear to me: grief never really ends—it just changes. Michel was 62 years and 117 days old.
Ever since I turned 62, I’ve felt restless.
Of course, it’s irrational to feel that way—but I feel it nonetheless.
And it’s no small thing that I even dare to write this down. This year, on May 8th, I will reach the exact age Michel was when he died.
And deep inside, some part of me believes I won’t make it that far.
What is that? Where does that come from? Michel was a healthy man—slim, strong, athletic, youthful for his age.
It never crossed my mind that he would be the one to go so suddenly, so young.
In my head, he was always going to outlive me. I always tell my kids and people around me:
“I’ll live to be ancient—squeaky carts last the longest.”
But actually saying out loud how uncertain I feel about my own mortality?
No. I don’t dare. I don’t want to. But now I’ve written it down.
Maybe someone reading this blog will come across these words.
It’s terrifying to give these thoughts any oxygen.
Am I being ridiculous? Silly? Hypochondriac?
What is this? Do I, deep down, not allow myself a long life?
Do I feel guilty that my children are left with just me?
I feel sad as I write this. Is it another piece of grief surfacing?
Can we ever truly process it all? “Just keep going with life”—that sounds so simple.
And honestly, there’s not much else to do.
But still, something does change.
Life doesn’t feel so “ordinary” anymore. Life and death remain a mystery.
You can try to give them meaning—through spirituality, through religion. I try to give life meaning by trying to understand myself.
Can I give more love?
Can I receive more love?
Can I be more love? How do I even do that?
With my loving thoughts?
My ugly thoughts?
With the darkest corners of who I am?
What do I do with them?
How do I change?
And so on. I can actively think about life, try to shape it, steer it somehow.
Though let’s be honest—control is probably just an illusion.
But let me live in that illusion for a little while longer. Death, though—that’s a different story altogether.
It just happens.
One moment you're here—and then you're not.
No breath, no heartbeat.
The body goes cold. Two weeks later, I was invited to the crematorium.
Half an hour later, I walked out with a bag.
Inside the bag was a container—my husband’s ashes. I remember how I walked to my car with that bag—so surreal.
Death—where are you?
What are you?
What do you do?
What?
How?
When?

March 31, 2025
Day 19
In my younger years, I was sick a lot. I went through nearly every childhood illness you could imagine—usually in the most severe form. Bone tuberculosis, a “veil” on my brain, malnutrition (anorexia), and so on. A whole range of conditions that I could have died from. As a teenager, I was visiting my sister (she’s 14 years older than I am). At the time, I had just learned that I had a serious, congenital neurological disorder. I was still trying to come to terms with it. Suddenly, my eyes landed on a book that was lying on the side table next to the couch. It was by Louise Hay: You Can Heal Your Life. I read the whole thing in one sitting. Louise Hay describes illnesses and conditions from A to Z. For each one, she explains the underlying thought patterns that may be connected to it, and suggests affirmations—new streams of thought—you can use to break those patterns. A process of self-healing. When my sister got home, she found me in tears—big, fat tears. It had touched me so deeply. It felt so familiar, so true.
From that moment on, I understood that persistent patterns of thought can manifest as illness in the body. Outwardly, I came from what people would call “a good family.” A proper home. A solid upbringing. But inside that home, the energy was toxic.
My mother had a narcissistic personality disorder—something that greatly shaped the atmosphere in our household. I don’t want to judge her now—it was a disorder. That means she likely had little control over it. For the person experiencing it, it might not feel that heavy. But for their surroundings, it can be.
Reading that book gave me insight into the many illnesses I’d already been through. And truly, from that moment on, aside from my congenital condition, I’ve rarely been ill again. But now?
What has been happening to me over the past year and a half?
It’s been on my mind. Why is walking so exhausting?
Why are people and conversations so draining? Is it that I don’t want to move forward?
People are my mirrors—do I not want to look into them? To some, this might sound far-fetched, but this is how I view life.
My heart arrhythmias, the stroke—if I follow my own logic, doesn’t that mean… not wanting to go on? Or maybe this blow was necessary—so that I’d begin asking deeper questions again, like I’m doing now in this blog. Either way, I can feel it’s helping me take yet another step in processing my past.
Much has already been dealt with, but now I sense there are still some remnants.
And I find that beautiful. That illness can carry meaning.
I’m not saying I could’ve prevented all of this—but I do believe it says something about me. Being willing to at least look—in the way Louise Hay encourages—is already something.
It doesn’t mean that people who don’t get sick are doing life “better” than I am.
No. They’re just walking a different path. I choose to give meaning to everything that happens to me. Without light, no shadow.
And without darkness, no light.

 

 

April 1, 2025
Day 20
I believe in the analogy between everything we can see, hear, feel, taste, smell, perceive, experience, and do—
and everything we observe in the universe and nature in all its forms. That’s why I often use metaphors drawn from nature. To illustrate this, I want to share an example from My Process (also found on my website), dated August 7, 2016: The water of the river flows smoothly and steadily, with the occasional rapid.
This represents my usual emotional state.
The trees along the riverbank lean over, and some of their branches hang into the water.
A few of those branches are broken.
The trees stand for the material world, for thought.
The broken branches are the wounds acquired in life.
They hang into the water—those wounds have left emotional pain behind.
The water keeps flowing, while the branches remain caught. Then suddenly a heavy downpour—so intense that the water level rises sharply.
This downpour represents the shock and immense grief of Mich’s death.
As the water rises, the current becomes stronger and faster.
The broken branches—the wounds from the past—break away. Clearly, this process carries off a heavy load of old pain.
Old pain that is now allowed, and able, to be released.
How beautiful it is to experience that such a painful, life-altering event can help you clear the slate on so many levels of your life. That’s how I see it: a kind of thread or reciprocity runs through everything.
You may choose to dismiss this view, but as I reflect on why I’ve always felt—both figuratively and literally—that I have to survive, I return to my conception. My literal conception happened under questionable circumstances.
Then, from the third month onward, my mother had to lie flat to avoid losing me.
You might think, “Wow, she must’ve really wanted that baby!”
But that’s questionable, too—it had more to do with the attention she gained from it than with love for her unborn child. I was due on Christmas Day.
In the end, I arrived 17 days late: January 11, 1963—during the harshest winter of the century.
My mother said she had to go to the hospital, and my father responded with something like, “Yeah, you’ve said that before.” Eventually, my father and the neighbors had to dig the house out—there was over a meter of snow.
When they finally reached the hospital, I was literally born in the elevator. What kind of thread do I see in this story, that I still recognize in my life? The questionable circumstances.
The lies, which have made me perpetually wary and slow to trust.
So many chances to become a miscarriage—mirrored by my many childhood illnesses and my deep, recurring desire not to be here. Because of my condition, I’ve never had feeling in my feet.
I’ve never literally felt the ground beneath me—not grounded.
My subconscious has always resisted living. That not-wanting-to-be-here, that strong wish to be invisible, has always been a part of me.
As a child, I was quiet, still—preferably alone in my room. And yet, I’ve also shown the opposite side.
Visually striking, strong both physically and mentally.
Some people can’t believe I ever made myself so small and invisible.
But that’s the version of me that lies closest to my essence. With fits and starts, I keep stepping back into life.
I fight for my place in this world. And yes, I’ve been saying all my life that I’ll grow very old.
Could that have something to do with the fact that I was born 17 days late? Maybe my whole life is somehow an echo of my conception.
Now all that’s left… is the elevator.

April 2, 2025
Day 21
Like many people my age and older, I was raised with the motto — “Don’t complain, just keep going.”
And not in a gentle way. My sister, who is 14 years older than I am, had what was proudly described as a Spartan upbringing.
My brothers and I were raised a little more mildly, but compared to the children around us, it was still quite strict. My brother and I have both had this neurological condition since birth.
In practice, this means we're always tired, 24/7, and in constant pain. Walking is a heavy burden.
But our parents loved hiking. So during our holidays, we’d go on long walks — hours and hours —
And yes, we had to come along. My little brother would cry his heart out and would often end up getting smacked along the way.
My mother had what they call “loose hands.”
I clenched my jaw and kept going because I didn’t want to be hit. Reading it like this in black and white sounds awful.
There were slides taken back then, and every so often, the whole family would get together to look at them.
They’d always laugh at the photos of my brother crying and my grim, strained face. Until the very last time I saw my mother alive, she had no consideration whatsoever for me or my illness. I think that kind of upbringing made me hard —
First and foremost toward myself, and secondly toward others. So how do I learn to love myself?
And from there, how do I love others?
How do I show consideration for myself?
How do I do that? People who don’t know me very well often see my attitude toward illness as positive.
But it’s not positivity — it’s conditioning.
They see me cheerful, never making a fuss about pain or discomfort. I understand their reaction,
But what I actually need is to learn how to show my pain —
At the very least, to express the emotions that come with it. I think that’s an important step for me:
To embrace myself, to feel sympathy for myself, and to learn how to comfort myself.
Clearly, I still have a long road ahead of me. This isn’t meant as an accusation toward my upbringing.
It gave me strength, perseverance, grit.
There was no room for emotions — so this is what I now get to learn. What I regret most, at this point in my life,
Is that I couldn’t offer that same kind of consideration to my children.
I hope they can see my willingness to gain insight and change. And who knows —
Maybe it could’ve gone the other way.
Maybe you were smothered in care and constantly supported.
You were allowed to fully express your emotions,
And you thoroughly indulged in feeling sorry for yourself. Then perhaps life would be about learning independence, strength, and resilience. Who’s to say? There’s no such thing as good or bad.
LIFE holds all of it.

 

 

April 3, 2025
Day 22

Today was another rehab day. I go twice a week.
When I arrived, I already felt exhausted.
First up: cardio on the bike. Awful. So tired!!!
Then strength training on the machines — that went okay.
Finally, balance exercises. Even though I’m making a bit of progress, it’s still very difficult.

Because of the fatigue, tears started rolling down my cheeks.
So incredibly uncomfortable.
Annette crying from physical discomfort — now that’s new.

But luckily, I wasn’t ashamed. Probably because only the therapist could see, not the other people in the room.

Meanwhile, a whole conversation going on in my head.
Why do I feel like this?
Am I giving up?
Am I setting my boundaries?
What even are my boundaries?
Why are these tears running down my cheeks?
What the hell is going on?

Relieved that I made it through, I headed home, soaked in sweat.

Once I got there, I told my husband I cried because I was so tired.
He asked, “Where do you feel the fatigue?”
“Where does it hurt?”

I absolutely exploded.

“In my big toe! Is that what you needed to hear?” I shouted.
What an absurd question.

My husband was a GP before he retired two years ago.
That comment of his made me so angry — and spiteful.

“This is exactly why I hate doctors,” I snapped.
“They may have knowledge, but they don’t actually know anything.”
“Fatigue and pain are two entirely different experiences.”
“And as someone who’s lived it, I can tell you: sometimes fatigue is worse than pain.”

And fatigue is not the same as sleepiness.

He wisely stayed quiet after that,
and looked like a sad little Pluto — the Disney dog.
Which, of course, isn’t what I want. I love him.

It’s not fair to him to hear — repeatedly — how much I hate doctors.
The truth is: I have deep-rooted mistrust.
So much damage was done in the past, and none of it ever helped me.

When I was twelve, doctors asked my parents if I could be used as a test subject for further research.
They said yes.
Not a body donated to science after death,
but a living, breathing girl.

Painful tests. Minor procedures.
Normally you’re given rest afterwards (that’s still the rule now).
Not me. I was pushed to be active — with all the consequences that entailed.

At twenty, I put a stop to it.
I scheduled an appointment with my neurologist.
Told him I knew more about my illness than any of them ever would,
and walked away from the entire system.
Never went back.

And now — here I am again.
Back in the system.
It hurts.
It frustrates me.

I feel like a hissing, biting kitten,
one that’s in deep pain — physically and emotionally.

But maybe this time, I get to do it differently.
Not letting others decide for me,
but staying as assertive and aware as I can.
And also: gentle with myself.

Tears are allowed.
Let them come — even the ones I felt fifty years ago but never let fall.

Hopefully, I’ll manage to work through all of this,
so I can be softer — both toward myself and toward my husband.

I really do treat him badly sometimes.
Luckily, I usually come back around quickly
and tell him it’s not about him, it’s all about me.

I’m projecting my anger and frustration onto him.
I know it, and I’m sorry.

With him, I feel safe.
With him, I can let it out.

Is it nice?
Does it feel good?
Of course not.

But bottling it up isn’t the answer either.

Maybe some tears — and a punching bag — are exactly what I need.

 

 

 

April 4, 2025
Day 23

Ton told me that it's a very common phenomenon to count down the days until you reach the age a loved one had at the time of their death. That restlessness often disappears once you’ve passed that age. I have that with Michel’s age. You also see it with children who grow older than their parents—there’s this sense of “I made it past that point.”
Very sweet of Ton to explain this to me, probably meant to comfort me. But honestly, my inner response wasn’t all that comforting. I thought: “Oh dear, am I just like normal people?” “Am I that ordinary?”
I didn’t say that out loud, but it definitely stirred something in me.
Why is it that I don’t want to be ordinary?
Why do I want to be different?
Why do I feel the need to distinguish myself from other people?
It’s kind of weird, really.
I remember when I used to get new clothes and then saw someone else wearing the same thing—I’d never wear it again. I absolutely hated that. My mother would grumble about it, but I don’t recall her ever getting really mad. I think she somehow understood.

But what do I even mean by normal? Or ordinary?
I don’t know exactly, but I did feel a bit off when Ton said that.

Yesterday I heard someone talk about her younger brother who had Down syndrome. She’s taking a course to learn how to let go and find happiness through exercises and practice. With tears in her eyes, she shared that everything she’s now learning in that course, her brother had naturally. He lived in the moment, always saw the sunshine, his glass was always half full.
The irony of how someone seen by society as “simple” can carry such deep wisdom in life.

Apparently, I carry the arrogance to make distinctions—between people I deem “simple” and those I don’t.
And apparently, I want to belong to the latter group.
That realization stings.

It just goes to show: when you dissect your own thoughts, you don’t always come out as a “nice” person.
I’m just a regular human being, with regular human emotions.
Every person I see, every person I know—whether I like them or not—is a mirror for me.

That’s the lesson I’m giving myself today.

 

 

 

April 5, 2025
Day 24

Loneliness. What is it?
I’ve always enjoyed being alone, for as long as I can remember. People often assume I must feel lonely, especially after Michel passed away. But the strange thing is: I never feel lonely when I’m by myself.

I can feel loneliness in relation to a person, or in a group — almost always in a group. Sometimes even in one-on-one relationships. Being in a relationship with someone is, for me, the hardest thing there is. Why is that? Is it because that person reflects something in me that I don’t want to see?

No, I don’t think it’s that.
I long to be understood. Being understood is deeply important to me. And if I’m not understood, then at least to be accepted and respected. When I’m unable to share my thoughts, when I feel there’s no space for what really matters to me — that’s when I feel truly lonely.

I also struggle with small talk. My husband recently called it “chit-chat,” which I found a funny and gentle word. I don’t want to judge small talk — really, I don’t! But if it goes on for too long, it drains me completely.
How do I protect myself from that?
I’ve learned some mental exercises to shield myself from it. Unfortunately, they don’t always work. When I’m weak, when I’m tired or low, I can’t manage it.

In that sense, social interaction becomes a kind of barometer — it tells me how strong or vulnerable I am at that moment.

I read online:
"You feel lonely when your social needs aren’t being met. It’s a state you experience, a feeling. Spending time alone, on the other hand, is more objective: it’s the simple fact of doing something solo, without attaching emotion to it."

Yes — I completely agree.
My social needs revolve around real conversation, genuine contact.

Later today, I’m going out to dinner with my husband and his former colleagues. These kinds of outings always tie a knot in my stomach. I feel nervous — afraid of that familiar loneliness creeping in. I know I’m not strong right now.
So not going would be an option. But I don’t want to disappoint Ton.

I’ve spent the entire day conserving my energy, so I’ll at least have some reserves when I go.
This challenge (and yes, that’s what it is for me) — I’m going to face it!

 

 

 

April 6, 2025
Day 25

Last night’s dinner went surprisingly well for me. We took the bikes to get there — just a half-hour ride. It was my first real exertion of the day, and right away I got to be out in the fresh air. I ride a cargo bike, which works really well for me. I can stay seated without worrying about falling over. My little dogs can ride along, groceries fit in easily — even suitcases when I go on a cycling holiday.

The joy I feel while cycling distracted me from the nerves I had about the upcoming dinner. If we’d taken the car, I probably would’ve spent the whole ride getting wound up, increasingly tense. But on the bike, I can relax.

When we arrived, I was given a seat at the corner, near the door. That instantly felt right — it’s exactly the spot I would’ve picked myself! Restaurants are always noisy, with everyone chatting. Because I’m profoundly deaf, it’s hard for me to understand much in that environment. But instead of resisting the noise, I decided to blend into it — to become part of the sounds around me.

There were three men sitting near me, mostly talking about sports. That gave me space to lean back and slowly acclimate.
Patrick — one of them — had had a stroke ten years ago and shared some of his experiences. I recognized so much of what he said. His wife Lydia also described his behaviour back then. Again: deeply familiar.

In the end, I went home feeling reassured, with some helpful insights and tips. It had grown dark and chilly outside, but I still enjoyed the ride home on my bike. Once we were back, I went to bed almost immediately. That’s unusual for me — normally I’d stay up and keep doing something, and not get to bed before 1:00 a.m. But because of what Patrick said about needing and allowing yourself to rest, I decided to try it.

And honestly — I liked it. I slept nearly all the way around the clock.

I’m proud of how I handled it all.
It was a day full of active, positive, and responsible choices.

 

 

 

 

April 8, 2025
Day 27

Maybe the things I write are familiar to others—or maybe not at all. What I notice is that even when we speak the same language, we don’t always mean the same thing. For example, Lydia told me that she was once so exhausted for such a long time, she even considered euthanasia. The doctors couldn’t find the cause. This meant she spent her days lying on the couch, only able to perform small tasks, then back to the couch to recover. Thankfully, she ended up with a cardiologist specializing in women’s hearts, and her symptoms have improved by 85%.

When I heard this, I was shocked. How could someone who is extremely fatigued think about euthanasia? Lydia has always been a very active woman, someone who could rely on her physical endurance. When that suddenly disappeared, she lost herself, her identity, her purpose to live—completely.

For me, it’s very different. I’ve never had great physical endurance. I’m chronically tired—I’ve learned to live with it. During the months I was stuck on the couch, I bought binoculars to watch birds in the garden. I dove into nature from my sofa. I started exploring things I usually wouldn’t take the time for. Reading, reading, looking things up online, and so on. My days would fly by.

Now, after my stroke, I’m even more tired. Recovery is slow, and that’s frustrating. But I’m starting to get a better grasp of this rhythm of doing something—then resting. I’m also slowly accepting my emotional rawness, the tears, the short fuse.

Am I doing better than Lydia? NO!
We’re responding from completely different life situations. Her exhaustion isn’t comparable to mine. Maybe the tiredness itself is, but not the experience of it. Experience comes from your history, your identity, from the person you’ve constructed yourself to be.

Lydia is a social person, full of contact, helpful, sporty. For her, being tired is hell. For me, it was a shock to discover how many people genuinely care about me. I’m not social. I hardly seek out contact. The connection I feel is in my heart, but it’s not easily visible from the outside. That’s something I want to try to change.

The older I get, the more I realize that judging others—or myself—isn’t fair. When we both look at the same tree, we each see something different. It’s the same with emotions and experiences.

 

 

 

April 9, 2025
Day 28

Happy with pain. That probably sounds strange again. But the truth is, I’ve had pain for as long as I can remember. Nerve pain that shoots through my body like stabbing knives. Repetitive pain—when I injure myself or bump into something, the first jolt keeps returning like a scratch on a vinyl record. And then there's the pain from temperature changes, which my body processes too slowly. They’re unpleasant, yes—but I’m used to them.

The therapist at the rehab centre closely monitors my progress. That way we can adjust the exercises—one step forward, one step back. Twice a week she asks how it went after the exercises. Today, I had something joyful to report:
I can feel my own pain again!
The pain I know how to deal with—not the heavy, dead weight feeling in my limbs. No, just good old familiar pain.

Since my stroke, I’ve been sleeping like a log. Normally, I sleep quite poorly. During sleep, the pain usually continues, waking me up and affecting the quality of my rest. Last night, I lay awake from the pain again—but I’m happy!
Happy to feel my own, recognizable body again.
For me, pain means I'm alive. It makes me feel joyful, and that joy gives me energy. Maybe it sounds twisted, but that’s how it is for me.

Not long ago, I watched an interview with Hans Stolp. He said something that stayed with me:

“Life does the work for you when you start searching for the enemies within yourself.”
“Live the pain, don’t project it onto someone else—transform that pain.”
“It’s yours, and therefore you are responsible for it.”

That’s exactly how I feel—whether it’s physical or emotional pain. That responsibility is mine. I can learn to live with it, and if I’m lucky, maybe even transform it. That’s the meaning I’ve given to my life with a disability.

The numbness frustrated me. Sometimes it made me angry. But this weekend, I truly accepted my fate after the stroke. Really!!!
I’ve let go of that anger.
I’ll keep practising patiently and let go of expectations.

And what’s happening now? My old pains are back. The numbness is fading.
That’s what Hans Stolp meant.
Oh boy, what a happy person I am.

 

 

 

---

April 10, 2025
Day 29

Dreams.

At 6:00 a.m. I wake up from a dream. I feel deeply irritated—at least, that’s the emotion the dream gave me when I woke up. I go to the bathroom, then get back into bed, determined to take control of the dream's outcome.
In the past, I’ve done this more often—choosing, right in the middle of a dream, that I don’t like it and changing it. Most of the time it works, and I know it can be done. Sometimes I even give myself the assignment the next day to change the dream from the night before.

My current husband, Ton, has a cheeky streak and likes to bend the rules. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m very strict when it comes to following rules. I get physically uneasy when people break them on purpose.
A small example… When we drive into a dead-end street and it ends in a bike path, he’ll just decide to drive down it. Even gets out of the car to see if the post can be removed. I find it unbearable!!!

In my dream, we’re in the car, Ton is driving, I’m in the passenger seat. We end up in front of a huge ditch, thick with tall green plants. It feels like a swamp. We need to be on the other side, and Ton just drives into it!
I get angry and yell at him: “My car can’t handle this!”
Ton is amused by both his own behavior and my yelling. He says, “Don’t make such a fuss, you can see we’re nearly across.”
He barely finishes his sentence when the car stalls and we’re sitting in the water, surrounded by plants, with a soaked and broken car.
That’s when I woke up.

Grumpy, I shuffle to the toilet. While sitting there, I pull myself together and decide to rewrite the dream.
Back in bed, I fall asleep again. Still pissed off, I’m back in the car next to Ton. It takes some effort, but I manage to switch places—I’m now behind the wheel, and he’s the passenger (time works strangely in dreams).
Don’t laugh, but I trust my guardian angels. Ton is a thorough atheist and thinks it’s all nonsense. In my dream, I speak with my angels and start the car.
One, two, three—finally, on the fourth try, I hear the engine come to life!
Carefully, I drive through the water, mud, and plants until we reach solid road again.
We made it!!!

At 10:16 a.m., I wake up again.
It’s a dream that stays with me, so it must mean something. It’s telling me something.
I try to look it up on a dream interpretation site—by searching for individual elements, I might piece it together:

Driving a car — If you dream of driving, it represents ambition and how well you’re transitioning from one phase of life to the next. Look at the journey—was it smooth or difficult? This reflects how you move through life. Also note whether you’re the driver or a passenger, which suggests whether you’re taking an active or passive role in your life.
If your car breaks down, it may indicate you feel stuck or are facing seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

Swamp — Dreaming of a swamp may symbolize repressed and shadowy aspects of yourself. It can also indicate a sense of insecurity.

Plants — A dream with plants points to spiritual development and potential personal growth. Frequent appearances of green plants suggest a particularly empathetic and loving nature.
Alternatively, it can also mean you feel emotionally overwhelmed by a powerful woman in your life—like a mother or a domineering friend.

Four — Four symbolizes stability, physical limitations, hard work, and material matters (as in the four corners of the world). Four also means things are getting done.

Looking at this interpretation, it matches the situation I’m in now—and I find it hopeful. Life doesn’t always go smoothly, and I had temporarily lost the wheel. I felt uncertain, and a part of me grew angry.
But I also truly feel that this experience marks a new milestone in my growth as a person. Through hard work (in my case, also pacing my physical training), I believe I’ll be able to reduce my physical limitations to a manageable level.
And the way I feel now—I’m confident I can do it!

 

 

 

April 11, 2025
Day 30

Morality.
I visited a friend who knows my family well—at least, the family I was born into. We were talking about my father, specifically about his sense of morality.
Why did he tolerate so much from my mother?
Sonja said: “He’s the most moral person I’ve ever known, and I’ve always had a lot of respect for him.”
“He was a man of stature, a good boss, a businessman, and someone who cared deeply for others.”
“I think he tried to maintain that moral standard within his family as well.”
“That was a huge task.”
“In order to hold onto that, he had to make hard decisions—without regard for who was involved.”
“After my divorce, I was no longer welcome, and he made that very clear to me.”
“And you, Annette, were cast out too—even though you're his daughter.”
“In a way, he drowned in his own morality.”

Wow. I had never looked at it that way before.
I do know that my exaggerated need to obey the rules comes directly from this piece of upbringing.
I even panic when rules are broken.
But what actually is morality?

I looked it up, and this is what I found:
Morality refers to the division of actions or behaviors, within a society, into two types of rules. On one hand, there are actions considered correct or desirable; on the other, there are taboos—actions that are not.

We’re all raised with norms and values—with lessons about what’s good and bad, beautiful and ugly.
The danger here, I think, is that we often forget these rules come from conditioning, from our upbringing, from the way we’ve experienced life in society. And those rules are tightly bound to judgment.
That applies to my parents too.

It’s easy to judge others when we can hide behind the norms and values we’ve been taught.
But does it really make you feel better? Or even superior?
The same thing happens when we judge ourselves.
You feel you don’t measure up to the rules, the demands, the expectations of society.
Your self-confidence disappears—or maybe it was never there to begin with.
Self-undermining becomes a fact.

My father’s deeply rooted morality left deep marks.
On him. And on me.

For the first time, I feel compassion for him.
Maybe I can now understand why he dropped me so ruthlessly after my divorce.
For the first time, I see morality as stubborn.
For the first time, I see morality as inflexible.
For the first time, I see morality as something deeply rooted—maybe even born of dogmatic religion.

In the Dutch dictionary, moraal is also defined as zedenleer—“the doctrine of morals.” That sounds downright scary to me.

Immoral is supposed to be the opposite of moral, but I’d rather reinterpret that as flexibility and playfulness.

Hopefully, with these new insights, I can start to relate to rules with a bit more softness—
and feel a little less guilty about the path I’ve taken in my life up to now.

 

 

 

 

April 12 –

Day 31

Tears

Instead of feeling calm today, all I can do is cry. After giving birth, a woman often has a day full of tears—usually around day three. In this case, it’s about three months after my stroke, and I’m crying about everything. Why?

A conversation with my sister about our father and his sense of morality. He was a man I looked up to. He decided what was right or wrong, and I accepted it without question. His rules were my law. And yet, he made massive mistakes—with my sister and with me.

When he discovered who I really was at thirteen, he wanted to run us over with his car. He had always hoped I was his biological child. Until then, I would always cuddle with him, but from that moment on, he never touched me again. No hugs. Nothing.

After my divorce, I was no longer welcome. My parents even decided I wasn't allowed to see my own child. My father had told the school that they weren’t to release my child to me. And indeed—I wasn’t even allowed inside the school building! We had shared custody, so I had every legal right to see my child half of the time.

But the stress affected me physically. I simply didn’t have the energy to fight it. Going through the legal system against my father felt impossible at the time. As a result, I didn’t see my child for a whole year. When I was cautiously allowed contact again a year later, my father continued to ignore me—completely.

It hurt. And my response to that hurt was to harden. Just like I had hardened when I wasn't allowed to see my child. I carried on with my life as if I had never had a child. It was the only way I could survive it. How harsh and insane is that?

In the final years of my mother’s life, she needed some help. My sister and I took turns visiting. Twice a week, I’d go to her house. Every time I was there, she would say something hurtful or downright mean to me. That’s actually quite an achievement, to be consistently cruel.

Of course, I was used to it by then, and my hardened shell didn’t let much in anymore. Until one day, she said something about my daughter—something like: “Well, you didn’t want her anymore. Your father and I took care of her.”
“Pfft… and you call yourself a mother.”

In that moment, everything went red. I stood screaming in front of her, asking where she got the audacity to say such a thing. She raised her hand to hit me. As a child, I once told her that if she ever hit me again, I would kill her.

And now I was 58 years old, standing there, ready to kill my mother.

Instead of doing what I once threatened, I walked away. And I never saw her again. Two years later, she died of COVID. That was it. To this day, I’ve never missed her or regretted the decision not to see her again.

But I do feel sorrow that I never reconciled with my father.

Right now, my defense mechanisms aren't strong enough—because of the stroke—to remember all this without crying. Maybe I should be thankful that it’s stripped away that hard shell for a while. It’s not fun to cry like this, but I do think it’s good for me. It’s clearly my own unresolved grief.

I can now also see that my parents had their own inner struggles—that they were the way they were for their own reasons. As a child, you don’t consider why your parents are the way they are, or what they feel. You only feel your own pain, the rejection, the weight of it all.

I keep saying it: this stroke is helping me put some old, unresolved pieces into place. Strangely enough, without resentment toward my parents. It feels more like a quiet acknowledgment of how things went.

The tears are for myself—for the parts that never got to heal.

 

 

 

 

---

April 13 –

Day 32

Crumbs and Collapse

It’s unbelievable how much I’m confronting myself these days. Some of my defense mechanisms seem to be “out of order,” which results in me getting irritated or panicked very quickly. What’s striking is how directly the atrial fibrillation starts up—clearly stress-related. Everything I thought I had under control is collapsing like a house of cards.

Take, for instance, my fear of mess or dirt. By nature, I’m very tidy. Even as a child, my room was always neat, and I genuinely enjoyed giving everything its own “place.” My grandmother was always cleaning—maybe she had a touch of OCD. Looking back on how often and obsessively she cleaned, that might well have been the case. My mother was also extremely tidy; everything had to be spotless. She always had cleaning help twice a week, and later, once a week after the kids moved out.

When I first moved out on my own, I would do a big clean every single Saturday! The whole house—everything out of place, scrubbed and wiped down. Much later, when I lived with my whole family in a four-story house, I couldn’t keep up anymore. Five messy people against one tidy cleaning mom. After about ten years of fighting it, it became so overwhelming that I decided to live alone in Oosterhout. Maybe I had a burnout—who knows? It was too much, and I never went back to that house.

Due to various circumstances, my family ended up moving to Oosterhout a year later. My neatly reset life was thrown into chaos again. By then, I was a bit better at handling it. After Michel died and the kids moved out, I renovated the whole house with my oldest daughter and a friend. New kitchen, new floors, changed the sunroom—you name it. I had reset my little home. Organized. Just wonderful!

Why am I telling this?

Because my current husband, in my eyes, is also a bit of a slob. He sees that differently, of course. Which means that—without making a fuss—I’ll often re-clean the kitchen after he’s done. I go around quietly straightening things, putting everything in its proper place. This all happens more or less unnoticed. It doesn’t bother him, and it doesn’t bother me.

But now?

Now I flip out over every crumb or spilled drop. I go off like a piglet in distress! Crying with exaggerated sobs—seriously! I feel like I’ve lost my mind. No, it’s more like my emotional brakes are completely gone. It’s tough for the people around me, and also for myself. I’m aware of it. Unfortunately, it happens before I can even catch myself.

I had promised myself: count to five. Think. Breathe. Realize nothing is really wrong.
Damn it—I don’t even make it to one. I immediately launch into a meltdown.

Do I have a solution? Not really.
Just this: don’t be too hard on myself.
Right now, I can’t manage it any differently.
Trust that this phase will pass.
And when I’m back in balance, talk it over and explain.
That’ll be good—for both my husband and for me.

 

 

 

 

April 14 

Day 33

The Other Side of Patience

It’s becoming pretty clear that my emotions are out of control.
Did I really want to feel emotions again so badly?
Well—they’re here. In abundance.

I once taught my students that everything has two sides. A plus and a minus.
Let’s take the theme of patience as an example.
Are you extremely patient? Then you might be operating at +1000.
But the other side of that coin is -1000.
You’re always as much plus as you are minus.
So, you could also be equally capable of being extremely impatient.

If your patience is at +100, then your impatience is at -100.
That looks a little more balanced.
The higher the intensity of the positive, the higher the potential of the negative.

A high degree of patience could lead to rigidity.
A high degree of impatience leads to explosiveness.

I can be endlessly patient when I’m creating something.
I’ll start over a hundred times until it works.
People can insult me again and again, and I’ll say nothing.
People I love can walk all over me for a lifetime.

In this kind of patience, I think there’s fear.
Fear of not being liked?
Fear of losing someone?
Fear of hurting someone with a response?
Or another kind of fear I haven’t yet uncovered.

Right now—I’m explosive.
When a trait or virtue shows up in such extremes, it’s clearly a defense mechanism used to survive.
It’s not balanced.

So a so-called “virtue” like extreme patience may actually be the armor of trauma.
Wow—the thing I was so proud of turns out to have a whole other side.

And now that explosive side is erupting with full force.

Maybe… when this firestorm has burned out, I’ll be able to find some kind of balance?
Probably by changing.
By not being so afraid of rejection.
Because that’s where it likely started.

Just being honest about what hurts—without judgment.
Simply stating it.

As I write this, I already notice scenarios popping up in my head.
I’m afraid a confrontation will turn into a debate.
But what I would really like is to simply say “this hurts,”
without needing to prove it or defend it.

Right or wrong—if I feel pain, then that’s real.
It’s up to the listener to take it seriously or not.
But saying it might take the burn out of it.
It won’t scorch or harden me.

With my mother, I left in an explosion—
because I wasn’t able to keep calmly saying she was hurting me.
I swallowed and swallowed—
and then: BOOM!!!

I want to try now to say how something feels in the moment.
And if I can’t respond assertively right then,
to come back to it later, in peace.

 

 

 

 

April 15

Day 34

The Pillow of the Devil

“Idleness is the devil’s pillow.”
This was one of my father’s favorite sayings.
It comes from the Bible and roughly translates to:
“Laziness is where the devil rests his head.”

Despite his resistance to religion, my father held tightly to many Biblical doctrines.
He treated parenting like a craft—with strict and clear lines between right and wrong.
Love was present, but rules always came first.
Sayings like:
“Nothing in life is free.”
“Act with appropriate humility.”

He had an arsenal of proverbs and sayings, recited like scripture,
as if they were the only proper way to live life.

Reading too long was forbidden—both my parents saw it as laziness.
So I read in secret.
Even as an adult, I’d read with a lingering sense of guilt.
On holidays, I’d smuggle books with me.
If my mother caught me reading, she’d fly into a rage.
We had to do something “useful” first.

Like when we wanted money to buy something fun, like a kite—
we had to peel turnips first.
My parents would head off to the beach, enjoying their peace and quiet,
and we peeled vegetables.

Eventually I decided I’d rather read than peel.
My little brother held on a bit longer—he had hobbies that required money:
kites, fishing gear, building projects.
So he kept peeling turnips longer than I did.

Yeah, yeah—nothing in life is free.

At home, we got allowance for washing cars, weeding, painting fences.
Nothing wrong with earning your pocket money—
but it felt rough compared to our friends.
They got money just to go to the pool or the playground.
We didn’t know how lucky we actually were compared to kids in other parts of the world.
Perspective wasn’t part of the lesson.

My brother and I cried our eyes out whenever Dad stuck to his guns
and we weren’t allowed to join our friends.
Kids can be harsh.
We became outsiders.
Of course the other kids couldn’t make plans around our uncertain participation.

We were both loners, each absorbed in our own worlds.
And when we were allowed to play with the neighborhood kids,
things rarely went well.
They’d been playing together for years—
they had unspoken rules, hierarchies, social codes.

And then there we were,
my brother and I—each with our own “flaws”:
dyslexia, giftedness.
Socializing was hard for both of us.
For me, it never really became easy.

Humility was also a major theme for my father.
He’d say things like:
“Oh? You want that?”
“Who do you think you are?”
“Well, aren’t you full of yourself?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re smart. Try learning some humility first.”

He’d cut you down the moment you dared to rise above the crowd.

My mother, on the other hand, was completely different.
She showed off my achievements—at school, at university.
But she looked down on the boys I dated—too working-class for her taste.
She was ashamed when I bought a house in what she deemed a “low-class” street.

As long as I stood out above the crowd in her eyes, she was proud of me.
The moment I dropped below that threshold,
she dropped me like a stone.

All the while, she was keeping secrets of her own—
things she’d never want in the light of day.
But she put on a polished facade for the outside world.

All in all, not the easiest soil for growing a stable identity.

It’s no use endlessly rehashing why things were the way they were.
But it does help to recognize and acknowledge the behavior that came from it—
so that I can move forward.

I’ve accepted the past for quite some time now.
But it’s through writing like this that I really see the roots—
the why behind who I am.

That means change is possible.
From now.

 

 

 

 

April 16

Day 35

The Black Horse and the White Horse

In my normal, everyday life I rarely see horses up close.
But I do find them beautiful animals, and I always pet them when I get the chance.

This morning I woke up from a dream.
In this dream, I had to take care of two horses—a black horse and a white one.
They were roaming freely in a field, playful, almost teasing me a little,
as if testing who they were dealing with.

The task was to bring them back to an enclosed area by late afternoon.
After some final playful nudging, they both came to me gently and walked with me to the fenced area.
There, I had to close the gate with a complicated lock.
For some reason, I remember it was a green padlock.

Then two people came to check if I had managed to close it properly.
I don’t know who they were—no idea if they were men or women.
They noticed the gate was still open and the white horse was gone.
Apparently, I hadn’t locked it correctly.

One of them showed me how to properly fasten the lock.
It had an extra security feature I hadn’t been aware of.

We—me and the two people—decided to each go in a different direction to search for the white horse.
I mounted the black horse and, without hesitation, rode off in a particular direction.

Suddenly, I found myself in a city.
It felt incredibly familiar.
It was the neighborhood from my childhood.

My black horse seemed inclined to go a certain way,
but I firmly steered him down a street that I instinctively knew would lead to the white horse.

And there he was—behind some bushes, calmly grazing.

I approached the white horse slowly and carefully.
He saw me and also walked toward me—calm, friendly.
He greeted me with his nose and those kind eyes.
He let me put a bridle on him without protest, and I took the reins.
And the three of us—black horse, white horse, and me—walked back together.

That’s when I woke up.

I felt peaceful, loving, and absolutely not panicked during the dream.
On the contrary—I felt a deep sense of trust.
So waking up felt comforting and warm.

Of course, I looked up the dream symbolism...

Horse – Horses represent strong, physical energy. You are being called to channel your untamed power. A black horse symbolizes mystery, wildness, and the unknown—sometimes even the occult. A white horse, by contrast, represents purity, prosperity, and luck. A horse in a dream is a good sign. It may also reflect intuition and a sense of community.

Riding a horse – If you are riding a horse, it symbolizes a relaxed connection with another person or a social group. It’s a positive sign—potentially even for material abundance or spiritual fulfillment. It could also point to new career or life opportunities on the horizon.

Grazing horses – Grazing horses suggest a sheltered or grounded life. It might mean you're willing to find middle ground with someone, or that you're learning to accept other people’s flaws.

Three – The number three symbolizes life, vitality, inner strength, imagination, creativity, energy, and self-discovery. It often points to a trinity—like past, present, and future, or father, mother, and child.

Lock – A lock in a dream suggests you can’t access something you want. You may feel shut out from a situation or part of yourself that wants expression. If the lock is open or becomes open, it shows readiness for connection, expression, and emotional access.

Green – Green represents growth, development, and new beginnings. It can also suggest a need for nature, healing, and balance.

This dream started in nature, then took me back to my childhood neighborhood,
and then returned me to nature again.

To me, this dream is clearly connected to the journey I’m on right now—
the emotions, the memories, the acceptance of my past.
And ultimately, the strength I’m starting to draw from all of it—
both outwardly and inwardly.

I'm deeply grateful for this dream—
and what it showed me.

 

 

 

April 17 

Day 36

No More Locked Doors

It’s so strange and special,
how many memories are surfacing lately.

I’m gaining more and more insight into my quirks.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had claustrophobia.
I never lock the bathroom door.
If a lift is too crowded, I absolutely won’t get in.
No lock locked.

When my brother and I were little,
we had to lie down in our rooms at lunchtime if we were home.
My mother kept this up until we started elementary school.
We were absolutely forbidden from leaving our rooms—
and if we did, she would explode in hysterical anger.

Of course, we weren’t happy with that.
Sometimes we tried sneaking out of our rooms.
What we saw then, we didn’t want to see.
So we quickly ran back to our rooms.

By the time I was three, I could already read and write.
A small, bright child—
who already understood that what my mother was doing wasn’t okay.
But I was too young to confront her.

So I found another way.
I started teasing her.

Just before lunch, I’d go into the bathroom,
lock the door, and sit perfectly still.
She would call out for me to come out.
But I stayed silent.

She’d try to unlock it from the outside,
but I held the lock in place with my hand.
It drove her mad.
She would say she was calling the police—
but actually, she called my father.
He’d tell her she had to handle it herself.

I would sit in there for hours.
By the time everyone came home for dinner,
I’d quietly sneak out of the bathroom.
She couldn’t unleash her rage anymore because my father was there.

She was used to hitting fast.
She always wore rings—
so it stung badly when she hit.
Or she’d grab the woven rattan beater.
The welts would burn on your skin.

When I had teased her,
I remember taking my punishment in silence—
never shedding a tear.

But sometimes, she lashed out for no reason at all.
When I was eight or nine, she once slapped me in the face,
even though I had done absolutely nothing.
She probably missed out on a fling because of me.

Without thinking, I hit her back.
Right in the face.
And I hissed:
“If you ever hit me again,
I’ll go right through you.
I’ll kill you.”

She never hit me again after that.
And we never spoke of it again.

Being trapped—
literally and figuratively.
Trapped in my little bedroom.
Trapped by my mother’s whims.

It’s no surprise I became claustrophobic.

Right now, my body feels like a prison—
but my mind is free.
And that’s where I focus:
on being a free person.

All locks will open.

I trust that my body will grow strong again.
And I’ll move forward—reborn.

 

 

 

 

April 18 

Day 37

Everything Finds Its Place

It’s so fascinating how this works.
And I’m truly grateful that it works.

By giving myself the task of looking at my behavior
with the question:
“Where does it come from?”
I can now describe past situations without pain—
more like telling a story.

In the past, I used to talk to my sister or my closest friends
about my childhood—
always with a lump in my throat,
with pain, with confusion.

Understanding—
that was so important to me.
But why did I need to understand?
Did it still give me a sense of control
over something that had already happened?
Of course not.

Now I see:
it’s all about letting go.

My stroke caused my emotions to become uncontrolled.
Everything just comes out—freely.

And I’m curious—what more will I discover?

Yesterday, I wrote about how my mother
used to forcefully claim her free hours
to do her own things.
And suddenly—ding—a little lightbulb moment.

Since the age of three, I began having nightmares
in the month of February.
Week after week, always the same one.
Then they’d stop—
and come back again the next year in February,
lasting several weeks again.

Eventually, the dreams stopped.
But even now, when I close my eyes,
I can still see that nightmare.

My bed slowly turned into a pit of snakes.
Mostly black snakes,
slithering over me, around me—
thousands of them.

In the corner of my room stood three tribal men
with spears in their hands,
bones through their noses,
wearing only a small cloth.
They stared at me intently.

I would wake up in a sweat,
heart pounding.

This nightmare has impacted me more than once in my life—
and still does.
I have a phobia of anything serpent-like.
Snakes, worms, eels—
no way.
There is no chance I’d ever eat eel.

Once, I was in the academic hospital in Leiden for nearly a year.
A dark-skinned boy was brought onto our ward—
lying on what looked like an ironing board
that they would flip him on every so often.
He had been transferred from a field hospital in Africa.

When he arrived, he was lying face-down.
In the middle of the night, I woke up—
and there he was, staring at me.
The nurses must’ve turned him over.

His eyes—those eyes—
just like the ones in my childhood nightmare.

I started vomiting like crazy.

Later, we got to know each other
and of course, nothing was wrong—
but that first moment in the night
triggered something old and small and scared in me.

I’ve often wondered
why those nightmares started,
and why they suddenly stopped.

Yesterday, I finally understood.

I had secretly escaped from my bedroom
and through the bars of the stair railing,
I saw my mother near the front door
intimately with a strange man.

I don’t think it left a deep impression—
but I did flee back to my little room.

Later that week, I snuck out again
and saw her naked on a bed,
with a naked man on top of her.

That scared me.

I probably couldn’t grasp what I was seeing at that age—
but it frightened me deeply.

I asked my mother what had happened.
I can still see myself sitting on her bed beside her,
on the white cover with big, leafy waves and pink flowers.

She told me:
“That couldn’t have happened,
because it didn’t happen.”
“I must’ve dreamed it.”

And that’s when the nightmares began.
Every February.

Years later—when I was eight or nine—
they suddenly stopped.

That was right after I hit my mother in the face
and told her I would kill her
if she ever laid a hand on me again.

Maybe her secret affairs gave me a deep sense of insecurity—
just like her quick temper and violent hands.

But the moment I hit her back,
I took control.
And in doing so, I felt safe again.

Amazing, really.
This story from my childhood has come full circle too.

Everything finds its place.

How beautiful is that?

 

 

April 19

Day 38

Improvement Day

Today was what I’d call an “improvement day.”
I’ve made a conscious decision to change—or improve—some of my behaviors.

In this case, I’m trying to be a bit more social.
Will I find that life becomes kinder or more enjoyable as a result?
Or might it give me something I can’t even imagine yet?
Or maybe I’ll discover that I don’t want to—or even can’t—change?

Normally, I don’t initiate contact with people I don’t know.
At rehab, there are always the same people around when I’m there—
but still… I don’t know them.

Last week, a good friend of mine came to visit.
She used to come swimming with me in warm water therapy
for my neurological condition, 35 years ago.

She knows me quite well and accepts me just as I am.
She also knows that I don’t interact with people around me,
but encouraged me to try.
According to her, it’s actually pretty “normal” to do so.

And as I said, I am willing to change—at least in some areas.

So since last week, when I enter the building,
I say “Good morning” out loud.
About 8 people respond with “Good morning” in return.

In that moment, I’m seen.
That’s a huge step for me—
to walk around there as a visible fellow human being.
Gone are the days of walking to my bike like a ghost.

Today I even went a step further.
I’d misjudged the time—
I thought I still had half an hour to chill at home,
but I was already supposed to be at physio.

As fast as I could, I made my way there.

In the changing room, I struck up a conversation
with a lady I see every week.
She told me she’s been coming to rehab physio for ten years.
To be honest, she told me more than that—
but I can’t remember what it was.

That’s something I need to work on too:
retaining what people tell me.

To get to the exercise room, I have to climb the stairs.
Since I’d left the house in such a rush,
I arrived gasping for breath.

“Good morning!” I panted.
Everyone responded in unison.

The woman closest to me made a comment about my breathlessness.
Normally, I’d mutter something and quietly move away from her.
But this time, I stayed—
explaining how I’d rushed out the door and blah blah blah…

That was her cue to stop exercising
and start telling me all about herself.

I honestly don’t remember what it was about.
I did pick up that she has two dogs.
I’ve filed that away—could be useful for a future “cozy” chat.

The physiotherapist calls her Lies,
so I assume that’s her name.

There’s another man—Arie—
who often stays seated on an exercise machine long after he’s finished using it.
Sometimes I need that exact machine,
and normally I just sit nearby, quietly—
visibly irritated but still pretending to be patient—
waiting for him to notice and get up.

Today, I walked up to him
and kindly asked if I could use the machine.

As he stood up, he started chatting with me.
And I even responded with some casual, friendly banter.

Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten what that was about too—
it seems “small talk” doesn’t stick with me.
But maybe that kind of talk serves another purpose—
one I still need to understand and learn to value.

In any case, I went home feeling good.
And also a little proud of myself.

 

 

 

 

April 20

Day 39

A Mother's Shock

One of my children made a film for their graduation project.
Through crowdfunding—a whole ordeal—they managed to scrape together the money to make it happen.
Eventually, it worked out, though everything still had to be done on a shoestring, requiring creativity to produce something worthwhile.

Proudly, he invited us to the premiere of his film and that of a fellow student.
Leaving aside the fact that both films were technically well-made and overall quite good,
I was shocked by their themes.

The alienation.
The emptiness.
The aimlessness.
The suffocating atmosphere in both films—
It was heartbreaking.

I find myself worried about this generation.
Do they feel no optimism?
Is there no hope?
What are they trying to say?
Am I the one seeing it too bleakly?
Am I watching with a different lens?
Different generations, different times?

I don’t know.
But it stayed with me. It still does.

There was applause for my son and his fellow student.
People voiced their admiration, saying how good the films were.

But inside, strange things started to happen.
My body felt shocked—
almost nauseous.

I heard myself say to my son:
“I’m proud of you.”

I’ve learned not to say what I really feel in moments like that,
or to share all the thoughts racing through my head.
People are often startled by my blunt honesty,
so this wasn’t the right moment for that.

This was about his creative achievement,
about completing his degree successfully.

Later, in a calmer moment, I’ll ask him about it.
Why this film?
What was going through his mind when he made it?

On the drive home, my husband Ton told me he’d felt the same eerie unease I did.
Phew. What a relief.

I told him I was glad I had said I was proud—
instead of blurting out that I didn’t understand it at all,
and that it had left me with a terrible feeling.

That was a deliberate shift—
to pause and think:
What am I doing here?
Who is this moment really about?
What’s important now?

I’m glad I went. For my son.
I had reasons—health-related—to cancel,
but I stuck to my new resolutions and went anyway.
And honestly? That deserves a pat on the back, if you ask me.

When I got home, I looked at my watch—
the one that tracks my heart rate and other stats—
and saw that during the film,
my heart had been seriously overstrained.

So that’s why I felt so awful.

My body had experienced intense stress
just from watching those heavy, oppressive themes on screen.

And now, after my stroke,
it’s so much clearer that any form of stress
can trigger atrial fibrillation in me.

On the one hand, it’s unsettling—
on the other, it’s helpful to see that link so clearly.

I’m learning more and more about how I function,
and I’ll be able to take that into account in the future.

Of course, I shouldn’t get overly fussy with this knowledge.
It’s impossible to avoid all stress.
But I can become more aware
of the things that affect my mood and wellbeing.

Right now, I’m managing fairly well—
especially when it comes to setting boundaries.
Without guilt.
Without shame.

 

 

 

April 21 

Day 40

No Consultation

No consultation.
My friend Hilde and I have both had partners who, quite frankly, never felt the need to consult about anything.
We were the ones who organized, arranged, made decisions—
even bought a car if the time called for it.

Today we talked about this with our current partners.
These men do want to have a say.
Both Ton and Wietze find it strange, even abnormal,
that we hardly ever consult with them.

So… what can I say to that?
I can only speak for myself.

The truth is:
I’m extremely independent.
I’ve grown used to steering my own course in everything.

My father had very strict rules—
especially compared to other kids my age.
And I stuck to them.

My mother, on the other hand,
was always bending (or breaking) the rules.
She only enforced them when it suited her.

Consultation was not part of her vocabulary.
She bought whatever she wanted and would say things like:
“Oh come on, your father won’t even notice.”

She once had all the furniture taken away and replaced it with new stuff before Dad got home.
And indeed, he didn’t even comment.
She had left his chair, after all.

There was no consistency between my parents—none.

At 17, I moved out.
As soon as I could, I wanted to be independent.
My father said,
“That’s fine, girl. But we won’t help you.
Once you’re out, you’re out.”

My own rules.
My own choices.
That’s what I wanted.

Never again being told what I can or can’t do—
I still feel that in every fiber of my being.

There were moments when I had no idea how I’d make ends meet.
But I’d rather starve than crawl back home.

A butcher in the city center, where I lived at the time,
noticed I was struggling.
He told me to stop by around closing time.
Then he’d see what was left.
He would give me meat—
sometimes even bread, potatoes, and vegetables.

My independence grew out of being stubborn and defiant towards my parents.
Maybe even out of revenge.

Wow—
I always tell Ton that I’ve never done anything in my life out of revenge.
But now that I think about it…
Years later, I paid my father back using his own sense of moral judgment.

My mother used to do cruel things
and twist the story so that I—or someone else—got the blame.
I once tried to speak to my father about this, calmly and reasonably.
He just said:
“Yes, I know, girl. But I stand with your mother.
It’s her I go forward with, not you.”

That gave me zero sense of safety as a child.

Years later, when I was married to Michel,
my father called to say that this man wasn’t worthy of me—
that he shouldn’t be in my life.

I calmly told him:
“I understand what you’re saying.
But I’m going forward with him—
and not with you.”

I guess that was revenge, too.

So…
Where can I feel safe?

Exactly.
I’ve always had to find safety within myself.

Deep down, I carry a fundamental distrust of people.
And honestly, my experiences with partners haven’t exactly encouraged blind trust either.

So when someone says,
“It’s strange you don’t consult with your husband,”
my response is:
“Oh really? Is it?”

 

 

 

 

April 22 2025

Day 41

 

Two things today. Hilde just sent me a short video of Adelheid Roosen in which she says:
“Getting older brought me to the layers of childhood panic from so long ago. That panic stares me straight in the face.”
“That’s when you carry something far too big for your age.”
“You’re supposed to be carried at that age.”
“It’s so overwhelming that you think—and therefore also feel—I’m going to die from this.”

That quote is so incredibly familiar! It immediately triggered a mental shortcut to my extreme fatigue. Because of my neurological condition, CMT, I’ve been chronically tired all my life. As a child I could be utterly exhausted. Unable to get out of bed, just sleeping. Every two or three months I had to stay home from school for two days to sleep. After that, I’d be somewhat recharged, just enough to keep going again. I even once slept for three days and nights straight. The GP would check to see if I was actually still “sleeping.”

Later, when I no longer lived at home, I was still chronically tired, but not as extremely as I had been back then. Now, after my stroke, I’m once again extremely tired. They say it comes with the territory and that I should expect it to take a full year before I can really say things are getting better. Well then, I’ll wait and see.

Still, the way Adelheid said what she said made me think: could the extreme fatigue I’m experiencing now be connected to my childhood in more ways than one? I never made that link before. But all these memories are resurfacing again—not painfully, but with insight.

Could this exhaustion partly be the fatigue of processing? I probably wasn’t just tired in my youth because of my condition, but also because of the secrets my mother made me carry—secrets no child should be burdened with. Her pervasive narcissism, something no child can handle.

Once I moved out and put more distance between myself and my parents, the exhaustion got much better. Now, through aging and the stroke, I’ve come back to those earlier layers of myself as a child. It’s a kind of threefold exhaustion:

1. From my illness.

2. From the stroke.

3. From finally being allowed to process what I had to set aside as a child because it was too much to bear.

Realizing that gives me a little peace—a tiny bit less frustration over the extreme tiredness.

 

 

 

 

April 23, 2025
Day 42

My husband wonders why I would be tired from processing old things. He says:
“Okay, I understand that as a child you were tired because it was too much to process, but why would it happen the same way now?”
“What do you feel with this tiredness?”
“What do you feel when processing?”
“Is there really no pain?”
“No pain—then why this tiredness again?”
“If there is pain, why don’t you allow yourself to feel and express it?”

Whew. Another balloon popped.
I really don’t know yet!!!

It feels more like I’m observing how things were back then—without judgment. But with understanding for why my reactions and actions are the way they are. Understanding how I shaped myself.

What has become clear to me is that it’s about vulnerability.
Coincidentally, I had a conversation with my sister about this. She’s 14 years older than I am, her childhood was even stricter and painful in different ways. Half a generation older—different times.
But still, the same home, the same parents and their issues.

I texted her:
“The final stretch is always done alone.”
“You and I have to learn to accept help in that final stretch.”
“To show vulnerability.”
“That’s our lesson, I think.”
“We know how to walk through hell and back.”
“But showing vulnerability—not so much.”

I say that oh so wisely to my big sister—but of course I’m saying it to myself too.

Probably, if you allow yourself to be vulnerable, you also allow the emotions that come with it.
Anger, tears, etc.
It’s all in there, but it just doesn’t come out fully.
My eye sockets hurt constantly.
Crying more might actually help, I think.

Vulnerability is really hard for me.
But I try to answer honestly.
Not just say I’m doing okay.

A cousin asks:
“Hey Annet, how are you doing?”
“Physically, are you able to do more already?”
“How do you feel?”

My honest reply:
“No, unfortunately not.”
“I’m still extremely tired and walking outside is still very hard.”
“I breathe and I live—that’s the most important thing. I shouldn’t complain.”

So at least I show that things aren’t great yet—but I still tag on that little line: “I shouldn’t complain.”
Heaven forbid I sound pitiful.

A tiny start in daring to be vulnerable—with a disclaimer.

Even though I know real strength lies in vulnerability—it remains hard, hard, hard.
So much still to learn!!!

---

April 24, 2025
Day 43

Today it’s exactly 10 years ago that I got a call from the hospital.
They were trying to reach my husband Michel but couldn’t get through.
Could I please contact him and send him urgently to the hospital?

For me, this particular day has always been the hardest.

By 10 a.m. we were at the hospital.
Around 2 p.m. Michel sent me home.
And at 5:30 p.m. he called me and said I could come pick him up.

“Hi, can you come get me? I’m done.”
“I’m standing at the pharmacy for some painkillers.”
“Oh yeah, I have a malignant tumor in my liver the size of an orange.”

That was it. That was the news.
Panic. Crying, crying!!!
Maybe five minutes of wailing, maybe even screaming.
And then… silence.

In a total trance I walked to my car to go pick him up.
Honestly, it was dangerous to be on the road like that.

From that moment on, I don’t think I really cried again.
Yes, maybe wiped away a tear or two.
Months after he passed away, I cried a few times.

I think this is how it works for me—if something is too intense, my outward emotions vanish.
You end up in a kind of bubble, completely wrapped around you.
It feels strange—you can still function, even absorb information, but the pain, the grief, is dulled by this bubble-like shield.

In hindsight, I find this a beautiful, almost universal phenomenon.
It feels like the universe takes care of you in the darkest moments.
Like you are ultimately not alone.
I really felt carried by that bubble.

As a young adult, I always told everyone I’d had a great childhood.
And I truly felt that way.
Michel told me that what I described was far from normal.
Because of him, I began to look at things differently.

My current husband Ton is shocked by the stories from my childhood too.

Could it be that I was carried back then as well?
That I lived in a protective bubble?
Has the universe been holding me in loving arms all this time?

It was Michel who shifted my view of the past.
I became angry, indignant.
It wasn’t pleasant—destructive, even—for me and for the people around me.

I played the victim role quite fully in adulthood.

Now it’s time to lift up the child Annette—who was a victim of her situation—
and carry her lovingly, unconditionally,
by ME: the Annette of now and of the future.

---

April 25, 2025
Day 44

Happy today—two friends came to visit.
Barbara, who I’ve known for 45 years, and Jolanda, for 35.
More and more, I realize that I have far more friendships than I thought.
And they’re real friendships—mutual respect, loyalty, genuine love.

What happened to me that I isolated myself so much from all these people?
Why did I make my world so small?

At one point I left Dordrecht because my family—and everyone who constantly dropped by—became suffocating.
It all got to be too much.

For years, I hardly went to Dordrecht.
If I absolutely had to, I’d go straight to my destination and rush back home.
Every single time I crossed the Moerdijk bridge toward Dordrecht, I’d get terrible stomach pain.
No joke. Every time.

Now I’ve been living in Papendrecht for four years,
and I still avoid Dordrecht.

Coincidentally, in the past month I went out for dinner twice in Dordrecht.
Cycling through the city center—somewhat timid, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone.
What is that?

Surely I’ve come far enough by now to keep “energy vampires” out of my life?
That’s something I can control.

My trauma is tied to the city—and to the people who live there!!!
Even the friends who still live there.

It’s time to let that go.
It’s all in the past now.

Dordrecht is a beautiful city.
The friends who still live there are worth seeing and investing more attention in.

And it’s important for me to be more social again.

In the end, I am the conductor of my own life—
I get to choose who plays in it, how much, how often, how fast.

I can set the tempo all by myself, without guilt or shame.

Today I took the first steps, by making an appointment with those two friends,
with the intention of doing this more often.

Another 180-degree turn for me. I’m proud of myself.

I’ve always taken pride in being an autonomous person.
But due to all the little PTSDs, I can now see how much of that autonomy has eroded.

Years ago I was in therapy for all those PTSDs.
There were so many that my therapist was amazed I still functioned so well without medication.

In the end I had 18 EMDR sessions.

In EMDR you have to do a task while thinking about a shocking event.
That puts extra pressure on your working memory.
That pressure might make the memory and emotions feel fuzzier—less intense.
And the image becomes less charged.

EMDR can feel intense because it aims to process painful emotions and memories.
The goal is to tackle negative associations and eventually help reduce stress and promote healing.

Apparently, those EMDR sessions did reduce or even remove the tension and pain—
which is probably why I can now describe past events like a story, without emotion.

What I’m focusing on now is the behavior I learned from all that.
Especially the behaviors that no longer serve me.

That’s what this blog is all about for me!!
Which patterns are still useful to me, and which are not?
How will I change them?
How do I go about it?

These are my first steps.

 

 

 

 

April 26, 2025

Day 45

Fake it till you make it!

It refers to the idea of projecting confidence in order to convince yourself that you can achieve a goal, even if you feel you don’t yet have the necessary skills.
After rehab, I took it a step further. The usual “good morning,” which I get back in chorus, now came with something new: I started listening, remembering names, and even said mine out loud. Our physiotherapist is getting married and someone suggested we give her flowers as a group. Ted raised his hand to organize it. I called out that I wanted to join in. Yep... and suddenly there was cheerful chitchat, all while I finished my exercises neatly. I even threw in a comment here and there and wrapped up with “have a nice weekend.” Naturally, they all said it back in chorus.

Ton was supposed to pick me up, but he wasn’t there yet, so I decided to start walking in the right direction. That in itself is progress — that I dare to walk after an hour of training. With a cane, yes, but still. Laughing, I got into the car at the end of the street. I told Ton how I had opened up socially. “How did that feel?” he asked.

At first I said, “I don’t know.” Then, a bit guiltily: “Well, actually, like I was performing a trick.”

Writing this down, I feel like a bit of a phony. But my discomfort with socializing doesn’t come from a bad place. Ugh, that sounds like an excuse. And when someone uses an excuse, to me it usually feels like they’re avoiding responsibility. Which is exactly what I do want to take!

It’s mainly my own mistrust, and secondly, not knowing how to deal with small talk. So why feel guilty? It feels like a trick, because right now, it is a trick. Changing behavior also takes training — just like my physical exercises are still clumsy and far from perfect.

I'm glad I thought this through more deeply. I could just as easily judge myself as a stranger might. But if I want to change behavior, I take responsibility for it — and that means I take it seriously.

At first it’ll feel fake. But:
I will fake it till I make it!

 

 

 

---

April 27, 2025 

Day 46

Go with the flow is really how I move through life. I mean that when plans change — an appointment, road signs, dinner plans — I usually don’t make a fuss. Often, I think afterward: Phew, I’m glad it turned out differently than I expected.

Dordrecht is tied to a lot of trauma for me, so celebrating King’s Day there wasn’t something I looked forward to. We decided to go for a bike ride — first through Papendrecht, then into the Alblasserwaard region, through the little villages. In Papendrecht we cycled through a massive crowd toward the river, intending to follow it to Alblasserdam. But when we got there, we couldn’t get through!

Our options were: slowly squeeze back through the crowd — or hop on the ferry that had just docked. Ton glanced at the ferry. I thought: Okay, I guess we’re going to Dordrecht.

Cycling into the city center, Ton said, “Well, now you can work on your Dordrecht trauma — and socialize, hahaha.”

Sometimes life clearly has other plans than mine.

It was busy there too — but actually kind of fun. We ran into a cousin and her partner, had a nice chat, and made plans to go biking with them this summer. We took the ferry back across and had a bite to eat in Zwijndrecht. Everyone was in orange, cheerful vibes everywhere. Then biked home to Papendrecht.

Once we got back, I was completely wiped out.

Now here’s the kicker: we usually bike 20, 30, even 40 km through these villages and fields. I love it — healthy, tiring, but not exhausting. I wear a Fitbit that measures heart strain using various factors. After a regular bike ride, my heart strain is zero — just like today.

But yesterday, my Fitbit recorded heavy heart strain. Even though we only biked about 20 km over six hours. Clearly, being surrounded by so many people takes a toll on me physically.

Maybe the trauma tied to Dordrecht still has more impact than I’d like to admit. Ton and I could both see it clearly.

There’s still work to do.

I want to challenge myself to seek out crowded places at least once a week. Avoiding them won’t teach me to feel safe in them. Hmm… maybe once a week is a bit much — let’s start with once a month.

I’m glad I’m taking all of this seriously. That I’m examining it instead of brushing it off.

 

 

 

---

April 28, 2025

Day 47

A good day!

It’s my granddaughter’s birthday — I got to speak to her and sang for her.

And for the first time: visible progress in physio rehab!

After more than three months, I can finally say: something’s improving. So happy!

Three months isn’t long, of course — but for someone as “patient” as I am, it turned out to be quite frustrating.

All my feelings and emotions are lying completely exposed right now, without much control. It takes getting used to, but it’s also… clear. These past few months have been a remarkable experience. I’m really trying to give meaning to it all.

My life came to a halt. And now, slowly, I’m moving again — with all the life experience I’ve gathered. Reflecting, keeping what’s proven valuable, and changing what’s no longer needed.

By approaching both my physical and mental rehab in this way, it feels like truly meaningful work. Actively working on myself. Enjoying it without guilt or shame.

So there’s not much to write today about my behavior. It was simply a good day.

Exercises, cycling, a nice encounter with a cousin, great weather...

This is what you’d call…
HAPPINESS.

 

 

 

 

---

April 29, 2025

Day 48

You’d think after such a great day, I’d sleep like a baby.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

At 4:45 AM, I woke up from a nightmare. My heart pounding, full of fear. It was an intense dream — different people, chases.

But what stuck with me most was the ending.

In a barn — a large, farm-like barn — I saw a girl lying there, covered in blood. She’d been murdered. I stood there staring at her, shocked. That’s the image I woke up with.

It took me over an hour to fall back asleep without seeing that dead, murdered girl every time I closed my eyes.

Once again, this nightmare has had an impact. Of course I went looking for meanings.

Witnessing a murder...

Dreaming about murder often leads to confusion and questions. These dreams reflect our deepest thoughts and emotions. They may stem from a fear of losing control, or a desire for change.

Being a witness to a murder in a dream can represent deeply rooted fears and concerns. One key interpretation points to fear of losing control in life.

When life feels chaotic or unpredictable, that lack of grip can cause intense emotions. In such a dream, the murder might symbolize failed attempts to maintain control.

Your inner self might be signaling that life is currently putting too much pressure on you — that you risk losing your grip.

It can also indicate a desire for stability, especially if you’ve recently felt overwhelmed. Becoming aware of this fear can help you process it and move toward greater balance.

Such dreams may also suggest a yearning for change or a new direction — perhaps due to stagnation or dissatisfaction.

The more you ignore these desires, the more loudly they’ll show up in your dreams. It’s important to take them seriously and reflect on how to introduce change into your life.

The girl...

A girl in a dream often represents the playful, innocent, childlike part of yourself.

To me, this seems crystal clear: I am going through deep changes.

I’m done with the pain of the past. That child isn’t here anymore.

The stroke definitely felt like a loss of control. But now, I’m slowly regaining it — getting a grip on my life again.

How beautiful that this showed up in a dream.

It felt like a nightmare because of the fear — but maybe, after such a good day, I should actually see it as…
progress.

 

 

 

April 30, 2025

Day 49

A day like today feels too good to be true. Waking up, having a relaxed breakfast, just chilling with Ton. Sunlight pouring into the living room, beckoning us to go outside. Walking is still not an option, but biking is. So we set out at ease on our bikes, looking for nature. Water and healthy crackers packed. Shorts, sunglasses, sun visor. Who can stop us?

We were out all day, taking breaks on benches to eat and drink. Everything so relaxed.

We don’t talk much while cycling. We mostly just comment on what we see — the animals, flowers, water, anything that catches our eye in nature. We enjoy the sun, the breeze, the views, the silence…

It recharges me.

Back home, I only then notice how sweaty and tired I am. Quickly give the dogs something, then change clothes and lie down in bed to read or watch a show. Ton woke me around dinnertime — apparently, I fell asleep instantly.

On days like this, everything falls away. No obligations, no appointments — just outside on the bike, in the sun. Nature and silence… My mind empties, too. I’m not thinking about anything. I’m just being.

I know life can’t always be like this, but I’m grateful for these recharging days.

Thank you, Universe!

---

May 1, 2025 

Day 50

Physio still went well today! Last Monday, for the first time, I saw clear progress. And after biking 40 km yesterday, I was curious if today would still go okay. And… it did! So happy.

Even my social behavior toward the group has improved. People no longer respond out of habit, but as if they know me. That’s pretty funny.

Because it’s so new to me, I’m very aware of how I feel. I’m friendly, I smile, I respond. And because I stay focused on my exercises, I finish early. As I leave, I call out cheerfully, “Enjoy your days off — we’re off Monday, so see you Thursday!”

The moment the words are out and I walk toward the door, I immediately feel a screen drop between me and them.

Wow!!! So this is how it works — and the only difference now is that I actually notice it happening.

It’s definitely not “good” yet, but it is a step forward.

I literally felt a screen fall, and it made me instantly unreachable. That must have always been there — I just didn’t know it.

Of course, people bump into that screen, and they’ll interpret it through their own sensitivities. Which probably doesn’t always come across as very positive.

There’s still work to do here.

Tomorrow is my brother’s birthday, the day after that a wedding, and then my granddaughter’s birthday. Normally I’d make up an excuse to skip one or two of these events. But with my new mindset, I’m going to take on all three — three social events in a row.

Ton dropped the dogs off at the groomer’s in Oosterhout. This afternoon, we walked them in the woods nearby. Not far, but still a decent round. I was proud I could do it — after training in the morning and walking in the woods in the afternoon.

It was warm, so I opened the car windows. Ton asked me to unlock the button for his window. I tried a few times but couldn’t figure it out. Then he said, “It’s the top button.”

I snapped, “Yeah, what do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?!”

Ugh. So unpleasant of me.

Lately, I’ve been quick to get irritated like that.

Fortunately, I feel it immediately and can take it back just as quickly, saying I didn’t mean it that way. But still, this is something I want to get under control again.

Definitely still a work in progress.

---

May 2, 2025

Day 51

Today is my oldest brother’s birthday. Normally, he lets us know when he’s celebrating, but this year — silence.

He lives 16 km from us. Every day, I want to do something for my rehabilitation. In nice weather, biking is the best choice. So I thought: let’s bike to my brother’s today.

If he’s not home, Ton and I will have had a good ride, and that’s fine too.

But he was home! We had coffee and then biked another 5 km to visit brother number two — who was also home, although just about to leave. He insisted we come in and even canceled his appointment.

My brothers never reach out to me. We only see each other at birthdays. I don’t celebrate my own, so they never come over.

Both had a stroke a little over a year ago. Of course I visited them afterward. Funny enough… now that I think about it, they’ve never come to visit me. The youngest called and sent a message, though.

Does that hurt? No — it’s always been like this.

The oldest is quiet, never says much. If you ask him a direct question, his eyes fill with tears, but he says nothing.

He seems kind and attentive to his family. He didn’t grow up with that, either. When I ask, it turns out he still has aftereffects from the stroke. I have to guess whether he liked us dropping by.

The youngest is loud and obviously happy to see me. He drowns out his pain with volume, and spontaneously brings up things from the past. Without me prompting it, he shares how our mother and her behavior have been on his mind again lately.

Ton and I just listen.

I don’t share what’s been on my mind. I don’t mention my blog.

He also says he hasn’t been the same since his stroke.

They are part of my inner journey.

With one, I have to ask and listen. With the other, I just have to show up — he’ll start talking right away, and I can listen.

They use different words, but what they say feels very familiar.

What do they mean to me? Do I feel a connection? Do I feel pain? Is it hard for me to see them?

What’s clear is: I feel good. It doesn’t drain me. So no, I don’t carry pain or heavy emotions around my brothers.

I think I respect them for who they are — and maybe I love them.

I’m not entirely sure, because it feels pretty neutral.

But they are part of me. Part of my life.

Hard to name the feeling exactly.

All in all, we biked 38 kilometers and visited two people. Tired, but satisfied.

I feel good.

 

 

 

---

May 4, 2025 

Day 53

Pffff... Today we went to my granddaughter’s birthday. It went fine — we were outside in the garden. It was busy and very loud.

And then, suddenly, I completely collapsed on the inside.

In moments like that, all I want is to flee — to get away as quickly as possible.

In the car, I have to cry. Quietly, though. Tears just run down my cheeks.

For the first half hour I’m completely silent. Just… nothing.

I think I need to start approaching social events differently.

Even when I feel good, even when I experience a sense of enjoyment or connection — I should decide to leave then, right at that moment.

That way, I leave with a good feeling. And the memory will be a good one, too.

Now, I clearly went past my limit. I became completely exhausted and ended up feeling terrible. That’s not fun for me — and not a nice memory of the party, either.

Why do I stay too long?
Because everyone else does?
Out of duty?
Or because I’m afraid to hurt someone’s feelings?

Why do I do this to myself?

I really don’t think that parties or visits have to be some kind of punishment.

I just haven’t found the key yet — how to make it satisfying both for me and for the other person.

The fact that I can even say now that it must be possible, shows I believe in it — and that’s already one tiny step forward.

Something else: today is Remembrance Day in the Netherlands. At home, I watched the ceremony on TV, and again the tears streamed down my cheeks. I was thinking about my late father-in-law, and my deceased husband.

Of course, I think about my Jewish and Indonesian family, too.

My children are a Jewish–Asian mix.

The war lived on in my husband, and my children — as the third generation — were affected by that as well.

Probably also because of my current fatigue, I’m extra emotional today — especially when I think about the impact the war had, and still has, on my family.

Then, just before midnight, I sit down to write today’s blog post — and I notice it’s Day 53.

My late husband, the father of my children, was born in 1953.

Even in this way, he shows up again — at 11:42 PM, just brushing past me on the edge of the day.

---

May 5, 2025

Day 54

It’s Liberation Day. I see the sunshine outside, but also the branches swaying heavily in the wind.

I’ve spent the entire day in bed.

I feel “weepy” — that’s what I call it.
Not depressed, that feels like too big a word.

But I haven’t been able to get moving at all.

The only thing that moved were the thick tears rolling down my cheeks.

This time, it’s different from what I’m used to.

Normally, on days when I feel like this, the tears don’t actually come.

At the end of such a day, my eyes are usually red, swollen, and sore — and that’s often followed by a pounding headache.

That didn’t happen today. My eyes are fine. No headache.

Ton leaves me alone. Every now and then he checks on me, gives me a gentle pat, and then goes off to do his own thing.

Why I feel like this, I don’t know. It’s a mystery to me, too.

All I can say is that this “mood” is familiar.

I’ve really tried today to figure out what’s behind it, but found no answers.

So I thought: let me look online and see if I can find anything about this…

“Weepiness”…

Apparently, crying releases stress hormones and toxins from the body. When you cry, it reduces stress so that your body can begin to relax. That’s why it feels so good afterward.

Often we hold back tears because we don’t want to make others uncomfortable.

This explanation actually lifted my spirits a bit.
It also makes sense that my eyes aren’t swollen today — maybe there was some stress released?

What was striking: the tears stung in my eyes quite a bit.

Were those the toxins?

I came across another article:

7 Reasons Why Crying Means You’re Strong.

Crying is one of our emotional connections to the world.
It’s often seen as weakness, but it actually shows strength.
It allows us to celebrate positive things, and helps us release the negative.
Crying is a natural bodily response that helps keep the brain healthy.

Here are the 7 reasons:

1. Tears help you let go and move on.

2. Tears have various health benefits.

3. Tears reduce stress.

4. Tears help us cope with loss and grief.

5. Tears help when you’re feeling depressed.

6. Tears are a sign of strength.

7. Tears help you feel when you don’t know what to feel.

Well… reading this, I’m actually grateful to have had a day of gentle crying.

Yesterday, I thought a lot about my late husband — and how I still miss him from time to time.

This blog is also bringing up so many buried emotions.

Knowing that this feeling — and the tears — might be healing, makes me feel grateful again…

…grateful that I committed myself to this “writing-discovery-journey.”

 

 

 

May 6, 2025

Day 55

The feeling from yesterday hasn’t passed yet.

After a full day of crying in bed, I told myself I had to push through and go out for a bike ride, even though it was cold and very windy.

Because of the wind and my unheimlich feeling, once again the tears rolled down my cheeks.
Only this time, I could at least blame the wind.

Ton always comes along for the ride.
We don’t talk much — I love the fresh air, the meadows, the rivers, the ditches, the animals, the quiet that lives inside the sounds of nature.

Many farms have little shops, and growers often put their produce out on display.
That’s often where we buy birthday presents — like today.
All of this happens in silence, while the tears quietly stream down my face.

There are clearly two different people inside me at the same time.

One is quietly enjoying it all — and one is softly crying and having flashbacks.

My youngest daughter rarely reaches out.
That hurts.

When I think of her, I feel unsettled, even anxious.
Is she okay?

She keeps flying through my thoughts — and right behind her, her father appears in my mind.

How would he handle this?

He always managed to reach her more easily than I did.

In silence, I talk to him — asking if, from some other place in this universe, he could keep an eye on her… maybe help her somehow.

Then suddenly, a gust of wind.

And I see myself as a small child, clinging to a lamppost during a huge storm.

I was walking home from school, through that storm — a storm I’ll never forget.
Branches and garden debris were flying all around me.
The wind literally knocked me over, and I had to crawl on my knees to reach the lamppost.

I sobbed my heart out, I was so terrified — just hoping someone would come and rescue me.

All the other kids were picked up by worried parents.
I lived the farthest away from school.
No one came for me in that frightening storm.

And of course, no one else was out in that weather — no one saw me there.

This image stays with me as I keep biking.

Why am I thinking about this now?
Is something going on with Moira?
Or is this just another memory I need to pass through again?

I don’t know.

When we get home, I feel proud of myself.
I challenged myself — and I went biking, even though I didn’t feel good, even though it was cold and windy.

Of course, I send a message to my daughter, hoping to hear something.

But I don’t.

So later, I try calling her.
No answer.

There’s nothing left for me to do but shake off this unheimlich feeling and trust that she’s okay.

---

May 7, 2025

Day 56

Just to be clear — I’d like to explain once more why I started this blog.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been engaged in self-awareness and consciousness.

For a long time, I was deeply involved in yoga — both practicing and teaching it.

There are so many things I’ve been fascinated by over the years.
When something grabs me, I dive in deeply — often to the point of actual expertise.

Think of astrology, numerology, astronomy, quantum physics, psychology, organizational science, business theory, mythology and legends… you name it.

It all fascinates me. I want to know everything about it. I throw myself into it — and then suddenly… silence. I stop.

I used to feel ashamed about that — especially because my family saw it as a “bad” habit.

They made me feel like I never finished anything — while the depth with which I explored a topic was anything but half-hearted.

I was often bored at school. Back then, there was no opportunity to move faster.

As a teenager, I spent time in a hospital and was tested daily by a psychologist.

Turns out, I have a very high IQ.

Only when I started studying psychology did I finally understand why I take things in so quickly — and why I get bored so easily after.

Someone like me constantly needs intellectual stimulation and challenge.

I’ve come to accept this about myself — and even value it, without shame.

So no — it’s not like I don’t know what’s happening to me right now.

I do understand that living in the NOW is the key to happiness.

I know all about letting go, all the techniques to grow from awareness into consciousness.

For 30 years, I taught about life’s big questions.

Now, after my stroke, I’ve lost some of my control — mentally and physically.
And that’s what inspired me to start a new journey of inquiry:

Why do I do what I do?
Why do I think what I think?
Am I paying attention to the signals?
From my body?
From my intuition?
My dreams?
My flashbacks?
And so on.

I want to observe this every single day for a year.

To write out loud what I think and feel.
To take off my masks.
To dare to be vulnerable.

So many changes.
So much physical weakness.

I’ve gained 30 kilos in a year.
Uncontrollable tears.
So much…

On May 5, one word kept echoing in my mind — I told Ton I didn’t know why I was crying, but that this one word kept appearing in neon lights in my mind’s eye:
ABANDONMENT.

I didn’t dive into it in that day’s blog, because I didn’t yet know what to do with that word.

Then came yesterday’s flashback of myself as a little girl in that storm.

And today, I think I understand it.

Maybe, right now, I am that abandoned girl again — lost in the storm of all my vulnerabilities.

My physical and mental control has temporarily left me — because of the stroke.

But let’s be honest: that storm did eventually pass — and I could walk home.

When I looked up the word “abandonment,” I only found three synonyms: loneliness, silence, and jungle.

That actually made me happy.

The word “silence” speaks to me.
And I believe it may be the essence of everything.

---

May 8, 2025 

Day 57

The sadness and the tears were gone today.

At rehab, everything went better and more smoothly than before — so the therapist gave me a new challenge.

Horrible, in every way!

So simple, really…
Hold a stick in one hand and place it on the ground in front of you.
Easy, right?
Then, with one foot, place your toes behind you on the ground — just shift your foot about 20 centimeters backward.

There I stood, holding the stick, frozen stiff, trying to figure out how I might move my leg backward.

Nope. Nothing.
I couldn’t make it move at all.

And there it was again — tears streaming down my cheeks, even a deep sob.

The therapist said:
“Well done!”
— “But I didn’t move an inch!”
“That’s true, but you sent the signal — and the more you do that, the more you’ll see it’ll work.”
“And the crying and sobbing — that’s perfectly normal. It’s an emotional release from your body, not from you.”

Early on in rehab, I would often choke up.
Back then, I thought it was frustration — maybe even shame — definitely a mental emotion.

Slowly, things started improving, and I managed to do those difficult exercises.
Well — they’re very simple exercises, but for me, right now, they’re really hard.

Now a new simple exercise gets added — and I feel immediately that it’s not me, but my body that starts to cry and sob.

And even that is progress.

Strangely enough, that awareness made all the sadness and tears vanish the moment I finished the exercise.

I cheerfully waved goodbye to everyone and went home.

It even inspired me to start doing some of these exercises at home — of course, in consultation with the therapist.

Until now, because I found rehab so hard, I’ve felt resistance about going.
I’d give myself a mental pat on the back for simply showing up.

But today — despite the intense experience — I felt inspired for the first time.

 

 

 

 

May 9, 2025 

Day 58

Can you learn from the mistakes of others?
For me, this is a charged topic.

My sister, fourteen years older than I am, has always been a role model to me.
Unfortunately, many pitfalls crossed her path in life.

As a little girl, I absorbed all of that — hoping to never fall into the same traps myself.

When I was an adult, I once told her this.
She got furious.

She knows me so well that she could completely tear me down — with sharp, cutting words disguised as subtle remarks.
She never communicated directly, just in venomous little jabs.

And only after she left, I would feel the cramps in my body — actual pain in my heart.

Who did I think I was, daring to learn from her mistakes?

Now we’re forty years further on. We’ve both grown and developed.
I assume she’d see things differently now.

But for me, there’s still a tiny hook in my heart — a small sting that remains.

This week, a friend asked if I’d join her for a conversation with the bank about a mortgage or loan.
Of course I wanted to help. Two heads are better than one.

It all sounded reasonable.
The bank employee would run the numbers, email them, and today we’d have a FaceTime call.

I had already taken some notes during the first meeting, just to prepare and get a sense of what to expect.

Now, the truth is — my financial past was a complete mess.
My husband and I fell into multiple traps with long-lasting consequences.

My brain tends to work like this:
I don’t consciously dwell on conversations like the one with the bank.
I let it go and trust I’ll handle it in the moment.

Then, suddenly, in my mind’s eye, I see a past financial trap — one I’ve already burned my fingers on.

I tell my husband:
“This seems like one of those setups we’ve regretted before.”
“I’m going to write it down — it’ll be the first thing I ask about on Friday.”

And so I did.

And... yep! I was spot on.

While my friend was talking to the banker, I quickly ran the numbers — numbers that, notably, the bank hadn’t included in their official calculations.

We were both shocked.
She immediately decided not to go through with it.

She was so grateful she had asked me to help with the meetings.
If she’d done it alone, she would have signed — and been stuck with the consequences.

That moment brought me right back to my sister’s anger, all those years ago.

Is it really so strange to want to learn from someone else’s mistakes?

I did some research and ended up on the Psychology Today website.
Roughly translated, it said:
“Learning from the mistakes of others is a powerful way to live a more fulfilling life. It allows us to avoid unnecessary pain, make wiser choices, and develop more compassion for ourselves and others.”

I also came across professional insights on learning from others’ mistakes.
The recommendations in an article about project training were based on studying dozens of past pitfalls — so those lessons could inform future projects.

No need to go into detail here — but clearly, it’s not strange at all to want to learn from mistakes others have already made.

I’m glad I could explore this piece of myself — and even more glad I could use my mistakes to help my friend.

---

May 10, 2025

Day 59

This morning I asked Ton, “How are you doing?”
He said: “Yeah, well, it’s all a bit boring.”

Boring?!
I felt instantly attacked.

A whirlwind of thoughts shot through my head:
“Oh, so I’m boring now?”
“Well, what are you even doing here then?”
“As if you’re so exciting!”
“I’ll just go find my own place — you can have your exciting life on your own.”

Really — I went straight into a full-blown mindfuck.

I went to the bathroom and continued the mental spiral there — how to start the separation, how to divide everything up.

Back in the living room, I told Ton his comment upset me.

He tried to explain — gently, and without blame — that things lately have been different because of my condition.

That of course it’s hardest on me, but he’s affected by it too.

Something in me knew my reaction made no sense — so I didn’t argue.

Instead, I got dressed and suggested we go for a nice bike ride to Kinderdijk.

It turned out to be a wonderful day.
We enjoyed ourselves, did our shopping at a local farm store.

Back home — calm, content, relaxed. Not boring at all.

It’s funny — there’s not much to report physically or mentally today.
Except for that one moment this morning — that word “boring” hit me like a slap.

Why?

I think… it touched on guilt.

Guilt that our life is a bit “on hold” because of me.
Yes — that’s it. Guilt.

Totally irrational — but still, it surfaces.

Honestly, I’ve felt that guilt my whole life.

Because I can’t always be physically active.

One symptom of my illness is chronic fatigue.

To others, that might look like laziness.

When I do something I enjoy, I often have more energy — just like anyone else.
But when you’re healthy, that difference isn’t so visible.

I’ve often been judged in the past:
“She’ll do this, but not that...”

Being called lazy left a mark.

It gave me a lasting sense of guilt — for not always being “productive.”

But of course, that’s nonsense.

I am active, whenever my body lets me.

Still, it’s another little hook I’m encountering now — especially after the stroke, which made me more vulnerable and less resilient.

It stings.
But thankfully, not for long.

I managed to shake it off fairly quickly — and enjoy the rest of the day.

---

May 11, 2025 

Day 60

Apparently it’s Mother’s Day today.

I got out of bed early — for me, that is.

The house was quiet. Ton was out walking the dogs.

Waking up takes me 30 minutes to an hour these days.
I’m physically present — but that’s about it.

Ton came home — and a few minutes later, the doorbell rang.

That startled me.

Who rings the bell early on a Sunday morning?
I wasn’t even properly awake — or dressed.

I yelled to Ton:
“Don’t open the door! Don’t let anyone in!”

But he did anyway.

I felt a surge of anger rise up:
“Why did you open it — damn it!”

Ton, by now used to these reactions, calmly said:
“Mother’s Day.”
“Well, so what?!”

I ran to the bedroom — trying to calm myself.

Who would show up unannounced on Mother’s Day?

There could only be one answer: my eldest daughter.

My body settled down.

I went into the living room — and there they were:
My daughter, my granddaughter, and her partner.

“This really wasn’t necessary,” I said immediately.

“I know, Mom,” she replied. “But I saw something that screamed ‘Mama’ to me. It was so you.”

It was a candleholder — and yes, it was lovely.

Of course it was sweet of her.

But in those moments, I can’t seem to show joy or affection.

I can easily hug my granddaughter — but not my own children.

There’s always some kind of reserve between me and them.

Yet if anyone ever hurts my children — I turn into a lioness.
I’d tear someone apart for them.

I think about my kids a lot.
I worry about them sometimes.

But I rarely reach out.
Sometimes weeks — even months — go by without any contact.

That sounds cold.

But the truth is:
I love them to the core of my being.

So why the distance?
Why don’t I reach out more?

What lies beneath that silence?

I think I’ll sleep on that.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll find an answer.

 

 

 

 

May 12, 2025

Day 61

Yesterday, at the end of the day, I went to Ikea to pick up a small cabinet. It was Sunday, Mother’s Day, the weather was beautiful—so I figured it wouldn’t be very busy. And indeed, it was completely quiet!

Ton and I had agreed to walk through the entire store so that I’d get my training in for the day. One of my best friends passed away unexpectedly last year. We used to go to Ikea together regularly, just to see if there was anything new. This was the first time I’d gone back since she died. It hit me, just for a moment, but I told myself not to get caught in missing her—instead, to think of the good memories. It's a subtle distinction, but luckily, it worked.

When I got home, I received a message in response to my blog:

“I remember you once told me your mother ‘showed you all the corners of the room.’ I don’t think I responded to that at the time, probably because I couldn’t imagine your mother actually hitting you. But I have to say, with the wisdom I’ve gained over the years, I absolutely believe you now!”

My reply was:
“I never really thought about whether people would believe me or not.”
“I don’t think I talked much about what things were really like at home.”
“My mother had a narcissistic personality disorder, which meant she always presented herself to the outside world as a very kind person.”
“It went so far that we, as children, didn’t even try to speak up about it.”
“I could say so much more, but that’s the past.”
“It’s the now that matters, right?”

Still, the thoughts of my friend came back again. She had often witnessed the cruel tricks my mother played—towards me or others. I used to tell my close friends and my partner that my father wasn’t my biological father, but whenever I confronted my mother with it, she always denied it. Then, after my father had passed away, my mother suddenly felt the need to come forward and say that he, in fact, wasn’t my biological father.

I will never forget how my friend reacted. She burst into tears and said, “So many absurd things happen in your family, but I never believed this one!”

That thread—people not believing me—has run through my entire life. I was talking about it again with my husband: how strange it is that someone with such a serious personality disorder is believed, and the actual victim is not.

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There’s a foundation in the Netherlands called Het Verdwenen Zelf (“The Disappeared Self”) that writes about these things. I’m including a few paragraphs here to give an idea:

Many victims describe how lonely they feel in their experience with the narcissist, because they constantly run into walls—often shouting into the void. And these walls tend to be thick: institutions, the justice system, mental health care, the police, and not least of all, their immediate surroundings.

Bystanders—and even professionals—often struggle to grasp that these unbelievable stories are actually true. People don’t want to let go of the positive image they hold of humanity and the world. There's a strong resistance to accepting that such darkness exists. It’s often a bridge too far to let that reality in.

Many victims, myself included, have been hurt by victim-blaming. These are responses filled with judgment or reproach, which trap the victim in their trauma—or even deepen it. Sometimes, these reactions become traumatic in and of themselves. Most of the time, there is probably no ill intent, but they still hurt. Because what happens then is the same thing the narcissist has always done: putting the responsibility for the abuse on the victim.

And that’s triggering. It brings on flashbacks, panic, and pain.

Victims long for recognition. But what they often get is ignorance—and the deeply ingrained tendency to approach everything through what Iris Koops, in her books, calls “normal criteria.” These are the social rules that apply when there’s a healthy dynamic between people—a balanced exchange with mutual respect. But such dynamics simply do not exist in any relationship with a narcissist.

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That’s the explanation in a nutshell. Let it be clear: having a parent with a personality disorder like that has an enormous impact on a child. It shapes the child’s personality—and the environment around them, too.

I’ve done a lot of research on narcissism to try and understand how it works, to develop compassion for myself. Also to have compassion for those around me who don’t understand. In fact, even for the people who’ve judged me instead.

Because more often than not, it’s not the narcissist who seeks help—but those around them who truly need it. The narcissist has no issue with themselves. They’re self-satisfied, confident, and therefore have no reason to seek support.

Luckily, my sister has also spent years working on self-awareness, on the “how” and the “why.” I’ve been able to talk with her about this. That has made the weight of it all just a little easier to carry.

 

 

 

May 13, 2025

Day 62

Crowds. It’s still hard for me to feel comfortable in larger groups. It was busier than usual at rehabilitation today. First, I start to feel uneasy, then slightly short of breath. I told the therapist, “It’s too crowded for me, I’d rather go home after I finish this exercise.”
Inside, I was screaming: “Get out, get out, as fast as possible!”
But then it occurred to me that it could be a challenge—to just continue, even among all these people. That had been my intention, after all. And what do you know? I actually managed it, and I think I even made a little progress. Tiny, but still a step forward.

Ton and I had plans to go to his youngest son’s place for a BBQ, for his ex-wife’s birthday. It was going to be outside, so less overwhelming. Still, I tried to wriggle out of it, as subtly as I could: “Ton, why don’t you go on your own? I’m tired, I’ll just stay home and rest with the dogs.”
He clearly didn’t think that was a good idea—and truthfully, it was a lame excuse. Totally insincere.
So off we went to the BBQ. I spent most of the time observing, not really participating in the conversations. It honestly felt like surviving.
I clearly haven’t found the key to actually enjoying social gatherings yet. Like a little kid, I was so happy when I could get back on my bike and head home.

Today was much more relaxed. I had a GP appointment, and then we planned to go cycling again. We try to make sure I get some form of training in every day.
Around 2:30, we headed toward Alblasserdam, and suddenly we were surrounded by schoolkids on bikes. It made me feel overwhelmed again—entire flocks of them going the same direction as us.
So we took a different route, one where we figured fewer kids would be heading.
We ended up biking about 20 kilometers, in total peace and quiet.

It’s still very difficult to be among groups of people. I’m still overly sensitive to too many stimuli. That was always the case to some degree, but now it’s much more intense.

My GP emphasized that my symptoms can easily last a year, and I’m only 3.5 months in—so it’ll require patience.
Normally, I’m very patient. But now? Not at all!
I react instantly. Occasionally, I manage to talk myself down and delay my response. That’s progress, for now.
I wonder if I’ll ever actually enjoy the whole group thing…

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May 14, 2025

Day 63

Another beautiful day. Instead of cycling, I wanted to try walking. Ton and the dogs came along—off to the Lingebos. I took my Nordic walking sticks so I wouldn’t have to worry about balance and could walk upright.
Oh dear, oh dear, how disappointing it was again!
All in all, we only managed to walk about a kilometer there and back to the car. It was pure suffering—not one second of enjoyment, not even of the silence or nature.
There was no one in the forest, which normally would’ve made me so happy.

Pfffft, it’s so different from walking on the treadmill during rehab.

When we got home, I wanted to chill in bed and watch some TV. End result: I fell asleep within seconds, and Ton woke me just now for dinner.
I woke up with a splitting headache and asked him first for paracetamol and then to massage my neck and shoulders.
That sweetheart did all of it right away.

My mood has been neutral all day—no small bursts of anger or anything like that.
It’s clear I’m not feeling frustrated. I’m just accepting this as part of my recovery.
Tomorrow, I’m back at physio—feeling optimistic.
Simply happy with such a relaxed day…

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May 15, 2025

Day 64

Being proud of myself. Oof—that’s a tough one.
Sometimes I feel proud of myself when I overcome something or push through something I really didn’t feel like doing.
It’s in the small, personal things that I can occasionally feel pride—the little pats on the back I give myself.

But in the bigger picture, from a societal perspective, I feel more shame than pride.
I didn’t finish my studies, I didn’t have a career, I didn’t “achieve” anything in the eyes of the world.
In fact, at one point, my family and I were so poor we had no choice but to live on a campsite for years. That was only possible thanks to a municipal tolerance policy—otherwise, we would’ve been homeless.
Not exactly something to be proud of.

I was declared 100% disabled at the age of 21.
From that moment on, you’re not seen as a valuable member of society.
More of a burden—your wings clipped, your freedom to grow within society taken from you.
An income that will never rise above social welfare levels.
And unfortunately, that’s what the outside world sees. That’s what you’re judged on.
Also not something to feel proud of.

Do I still want a life that feels livable? If so, then I’ll always need a partner with an income to make that possible.
For someone with an independent spirit like mine, that’s not something to be proud of either.
Having a disability while also being fiercely independent—it’s not an easy combination.

So chest out, chin up, and thinking I deserve to be seen?
NOPE.

Still, I do think I’ve handled these shortcomings with grace—and that, I can feel proud of.
I’ve faced my fair share of setbacks in life, but I’ve never let them blow me away.
I’ve always searched for a positive twist. Not to look tough—but to keep enjoying life.

Naturally, you start noticing small things: the budding leaves in spring, the birds, the animals around you.
Colors, light—they can move me deeply.
Yes, I’m proud of the fact that I notice those things and that I let them touch me.

Let me be clearer: the conscious noticing of everything around me—that’s something I’ve gained because of my unemployment.
I now have the time, and I take it.
And all of this has nothing to do with money or status.
It’s how I’ve developed as a person in this life so far—and for that, maybe I can allow myself to feel a little pride now and then.

Let’s just say I feel more content than proud.

 

 

 

 

May 16, 2025

Day 65

Today, I’m eight days older than Michel, my late husband, ever became.
Why am I even thinking about that? Is it fear—especially now that my heart is acting up again?
Because of the new medication, it feels as though I’m running a marathon. Even at rest, my heart rate stays high. My heart rattles around in my chest. Very unpleasant—and a little frightening.

Am I being a hypochondriac, because Michel keeps coming to mind? Or is something else going on?

What I keep thinking about is my compulsive habit of counting things. If I see a pattern, I start counting circles or lines—anything repetitive.
In a hotel, I’ll count the wooden panels along the wall. When I look at a clock, I focus not on the time but the numbers in a numerological way.
Pulling into a parking lot, I count the cars—note which colors appear most often.

In my head, I’m constantly taking snapshots of everything I see.
Because of this, I can tell years later whether the trim on a house has been repainted or whether a little painting on a wall has been moved.
At traffic lights, I don’t just see red or green—I notice the number underneath the light too.

Totally irrelevant things, yet I keep counting, keep taking mental photos.

It’s not something I consciously decide to do—I just see a lot. Big or small changes always catch my eye.
In that way, I’m always ON.

I used to read silly romance novels. Now, I watch Netflix series to switch myself OFF.

Probably, it’s both—the tension around Michel’s age and death, and the compulsive counting.

This inner journey I’m on is confusing, exhausting, and fascinating.
Hopefully, my heart will calm down once the medication starts working. Right now, my body feels agitated, and I have to work hard to stay mentally calm.

Everything feels amplified right now. The compulsive counting is more intense—probably a way to regain a sense of control, to mask the uncertainty.
And because of the repetition, it even becomes a kind of meditation.
They’re all unconscious strategies to manage my whole being.

It’s beautiful to notice that this survival mechanism is still working, even now, when I’m supposedly calm.

It’s not always about fight or flight. Even in physical confusion, my system tries to stabilize.
Normally, I’d just feel all kinds of things—but not really notice how they operate in me.

Simply by making myself write about how I’m doing, I uncover these unconscious mechanisms.
Isn’t that incredibly interesting?

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May 17, 2025

Day 66

The moment I wake up early in the morning, I can feel it right away—my heart is still racing.
“How does it feel?” my husband asks.
He used to be a GP, so he often asks me probing questions—which I sometimes find really annoying.

How do I explain this? “Restless” is probably too vague.

“You know that jolt you feel when you’re startled—your heart suddenly pounding?”
“Well, I feel like that 24/7.”

That answer made it clear. Not that it brought me any closer to a solution, but at least he understands.

My head is buzzing. I feel like I could faint at any moment. It makes me feel insecure.

Yesterday, I was deeply worried—genuinely afraid of dying.
In my mind, I kept seeing my friend who died suddenly last year from heart issues.

Today, I want to shake that feeling off.
Let my body race, and just trust that it’s the new meds needing time to kick in.

That’s what I’ll try—and I’ll check in again tonight to see if I managed it.

I did it!!

We went cycling. The wind was pretty strong, but that didn’t matter.
My heart rate stayed high—around 100 beats per minute, all the time.
Luckily, cycling didn’t make it worse.

The challenge today was to let go of the anxious thoughts about the restlessness in my body.
And it went surprisingly well.

Nothing changed since yesterday—except my mindset.

I’ve often succeeded in separating my physical body from how I experience life.
Despite pain and discomfort, life remains beautiful.

I’ve always managed to enjoy what is there.
Sometimes I lose sight of that—like these past days, with my rattling heart.

I’ll give these new meds a few more days to see if they regulate my heartbeat.
If not, I’ll contact my cardiologist again.

I’m confident I’ll get this under control.

So glad I rediscovered this old piece of myself today—Annette as she once was.

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May 18, 2025

Day 67

Asking for help.
Today’s theme is: how hard is it to ask for help?

My husband and I see the world very differently. We love each other. We’ve had a connection for almost 50 years.
We’ve been together for seven years now—and luckily, still in love.

People say women are from Venus and men are from Mars, but we must be from entirely different galaxies.
Okay—don’t exaggerate—different universes altogether.

I know I have pretty strong ways of dealing with situations.
One of them: never asking for help.

Why don’t I ask?

Firstly, out of shame.
Never show that I can’t handle something. Stay invulnerable. Be creative. Find solutions.
Take full responsibility for mistakes or shortcomings.

Secondly, out of fear.

Why fear? I ask myself.

I’m afraid of being rejected.
Afraid of being judged.
I don’t believe people’s love for me is strong enough to help.

My husband asks for help to make things easier for others.
Just to give someone a little nudge in the right direction.
He does it out of love, respect, and a deep trust in the person he wants to help.

We can offer help, but it would be wonderful if others could join in.

Very sweet of him, of course. But me…?
The thought alone made me nauseous.
Yes—literally sick, almost to the point of throwing up.

That’s how deeply ingrained it is in me to never ask for help.

And with my heart racing like it has been these past days—this sure isn’t helping.

Right now, I don’t know how to get out of this feeling.

Ton finds it totally normal to help each other and ask for help. I see it all the time in the family and background he comes from.
It’s like a world outside of me—something I can only observe.

It’s a double-edged sword.
It seems lovely to support each other that way, and to ask for help,
But where is the line?

I told him: “You go ahead and ask for help—just please don’t involve me.”

We approach the same problem from completely opposite directions.
Anything with “too” in front of it—too much, too little—deserves a closer look.

We’re not together by accident.
We still have a lot to learn from each other.

 

 

 

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May 19, 2025

Day 68

Clean or compulsively clean?
Our son-in-law had a role in a film, and the premiere was scheduled for the evening of May 19th in Venlo.
Naturally, it’s lovely to be part of what our children and their partners are involved in.

Ton had the idea to turn it into a romantic little getaway and, as a surprise, booked a B&B in Maasbree.
The weather’s still gorgeous, so it sounded like a perfect plan.

There’s just one problem: my heart rate won’t go below 100 bpm, my oxygen saturation has dropped, and I feel dizzy.
Ton called the cardiologist, who was grumpy as hell and refused to give any advice.
"Just leave and make an appointment," he snapped.

So I made a decision—I’m switching back to my old medication tonight.
Over a week ago I felt better than I do now. That’s my choice, I can’t go on like this.
We took the mobility scooter and headed out anyway, determined to see how things would go.
I brought the old meds with me to start again tonight.

But first… the house needed to be cleaned before we left.
Ton was rushing around, being incredibly sweet, taking care of things so we could get away smoothly.
All well-intentioned, of course.

But then I walk into the kitchen—and completely lose it.

He had put some little containers with notes on the dirty induction stove for our youngest son, so he’d know how to feed the animals.
I burst into tears, furious, and threw everything off to start scrubbing the kitchen.

Sobbing, I yelled, “The house HAS to be clean when I leave!”

“I know, sweetheart,” he said calmly.

“Then WHY don’t you DO it?!” I shouted back.

And so, with a heart rate of 135–140 bpm, we finally hit the road.
Normally, I’d drive—but given how I was feeling, that didn’t seem smart, so I let Ton take the wheel.
(Ha! That alone says enough about my condition.)

While driving, Ton said again:
“Of course the house should be clean—but your definition of ‘clean’ is borderline obsessive.”

As I tried to breathe deeply and lower my heart rate, I decided to let it go, apologized for my outburst, and chose to enjoy the day.
Luckily, Ton is used to how quickly my moods can flip.
He understands that right now, I’m a bit more on edge than usual.

This man is truly a blessing to me.

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May 20, 2025

Day 69

We had a really fun, lovely evening.

At the cinema, we were in row 10—which was quite a climb up a lazy (like in every theater nowadays) staircase.
I think I spent 20 minutes just panting to recover from that short ascent.

Still, the evening was great.
We got back to the B&B at 1:45 AM. I immediately took my old medication, and despite my heart racing, I fell asleep straight away.

And this morning—a miracle!

Just one little pill, and my heart rate was back to normal, my blood pressure was perfect, and my oxygen saturation was amazing.

Wow!!!

I can’t even describe how happy I was to feel okay again.

Life instantly looked brighter.

I’m still walking with a cane for balance, but I’m no longer gasping for air.
No more walking five steps to the bathroom and nearly passing out from a racing heart and dizziness.

No—just me again. The recovering Annette who’s a little wobbly, but stable.

Back behind the wheel, we had a lovely day, meandering through the villages of the Land of Maas and Waal.

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May 21, 2025

Day 70

Carpe diem.
“Seize the day” is a call to make the most of life and enjoy it.

After truly awful eight days, during which all my energy drained away and life itself felt unbearably heavy, I feel reborn.
That sounds almost religious, but it really is a spiritual experience to feel better this quickly.

To see how, in the span of a week, my will to live can plummet—and then, in just one day, return in full force…
It’s extraordinary.

Today, Ton and I cycled 38 kilometers.

We enjoyed the countryside, the greenery, the many brightly colored wildflowers, the lambs, calves, cygnets, ducklings, grebe chicks, moorhens, and goslings.
The green was greener than green…

And I could cycle without getting tired.
Pedaling hard against the wind—without gasping for breath for even a second.

Everything in full bloom.
The sun, the wind, the blue sky—a true celebration.

Ton and I loved every second.

You’d almost think you need to go through a pitch-black hole to truly appreciate the world around you again.

Happiness really is in the moment.
Not in past memories or future plans—or worries.

No, the decorations of life are strung up now, in this moment.

For me, that means being outdoors, connecting with nature.
When the weather isn’t great, my joy comes from creative work, or being inspired at a museum or exhibit.

I clearly feel that everything is possible again.

So grateful that today, I could experience peace and love again—in the here and now.
Definitely another step forward in my rehabilitation process.

 

 

 

 

May 22, 2025
Day 71

Silence.
Karen comes to help clean once a week and asked if we’d like to put on some music—it helps her work better.
Just to be clear: I love music. I enjoy many different genres, but only when I want to hear it. Most of the time, I prefer silence.

And since my stroke, I’ve become even more sensitive to stimuli.
Too many triggers—too much sound, too many people, too much of anything—makes me feel unsettled.
It’s not that I’m a hermit by nature. I’ve definitely had my wild years: parties, discos, lots of friends, preferably hanging out in big cities.

But as a child, I loved silence. Few friends, happiest alone in my room reading or doing something creative.
I think that quiet child is still the truest version of myself—and the one I feel most comfortable being.

Still, I don’t want to keep avoiding birthdays, parties, or other events with multiple people.
I’ll keep trying to feel okay in those situations, too.

But this morning? The radio stayed off.
Lovely silence. Serenity.

Even during physical rehab, it was quiet—we were only three people. What a blessing!

By nature, I’m calm and quiet. I think from my teenage years onward, I threw myself into a loud, hectic life for various reasons.
One of them was probably to avoid emotional pain—to make life so noisy that it would drown everything out.

And then suddenly it stopped. I was done with it.
I wanted only peace and quiet.
That’s when I moved to Oosterhout, to our little house in the woods, and never looked back.

Silence is a powerful instrument.
It has the ability to create space, demand attention, and allow for deep reflection.

Now I’ve been living with my husband in Papendrecht for a few years.
At first, I heard traffic rushing by all day long.
Luckily, my system eventually adjusted, and now it’s just background noise.

But my body still jolts at sudden loud sounds—like a siren, or if Ton suddenly starts speaking without me noticing he’s nearby.
Now that I think about it, my stress level and blood pressure may have crept up because of that, subtly but steadily.
And my current condition certainly doesn’t help.

So how can I find or preserve that vital silence again?

Looking into it, I realize I’ve already been making good choices:

• No radio or TV on at home

• Spending time in nature

• Seeking out quiet places

• Painting in silence, doing meditative activities

What else does silence do for a person?

Physical benefits of silence:

• Lower blood pressure and reduced stress hormones: Multiple studies show silence lowers cortisol, the stress hormone. This has a direct impact on blood pressure and heart rate.

• Improved circulation: The calm that silence offers helps relax muscles and improves blood flow—beneficial for the whole body.

• Boosted immune system: When you're relaxed in a quiet environment, your body can focus more on regeneration and healing, which strengthens immunity.

Mental well-being and emotional balance:

• Room for reflection: Silence gives you the space to process your thoughts and feelings, helping you become more self-aware and emotionally grounded.

• Increased focus: Distractions lower concentration. Silence helps bring your attention back to the present, making you more effective in work and study.

• Enhanced creativity: Without constant interruptions from noise and stimuli, your brain is freer to think and come up with new ideas.

Creativity and silence:

• A blank canvas for the mind: In silence, your brain can zoom out and see the bigger picture—leading to “aha” moments and fresh solutions.

• Room for intuition: When we’re quiet, we’re better able to hear our inner voice—often drowned out by daily noise.

• Inspiration from nothingness: Great thinkers and creatives—artists, writers, composers—have often said their best ideas came to them when they withdrew into silence.

It’s clear to me that being more socially present is a good idea.
It helps the people around me feel seen, appreciated, and respected by my physical presence.

But, as I’ve said above, my craving for silence remains a solid intention.

So what does it all come down to?

Balance.

This morning I happened to talk to my therapist about this—how I have no issue with strength, but I do struggle with balance.
So my challenge, in every sense of the word, is… BALANCE.

 

 

 

 

May 23, 2025

Day 72

A glimmer of hope, brought on by a spark—or resurgence—of my energy.
Not that I’m suddenly walking better. No, not that.
It’s more mental. I feel more energetic. In my mind, I’m already painting again, I’m getting ideas for new pieces, and that’s a good sign.
I even felt inspired to go on a cycling holiday and actually acted on it—booking the hotel, arranging the car, trailer, and a sitter for the animals.

Ton and I had an errand to run in Dordrecht, and instead of taking the car, we rode our bikes.
We brought rain jackets since the weather looked a bit uncertain.
We passed through a neighborhood where some family members live and decided to stop by.
Cycling in doubtful weather is new for me. Cycling through residential areas is something I almost always avoid.
And dropping by spontaneously? Very rare for me.

So many things I did today that I can be proud of.
To most people it probably doesn’t seem like much, but for me, it’s a clear step in the right direction.

Whenever I feel creative urges returning, I know I’m doing well.
Being out in the world—and even visiting someone—without feeling anxious is extraordinary for me.
Usually, I want to flee, to get away as quickly as possible.
But today? Not at all!!!

All day long I felt good and relaxed.
When we got home, Ton measured my blood pressure and heart rate—everything was perfect.
It’s becoming clear to me that my behavior mirrors how I feel.

Just to be clear:
Because of my neurological condition, I can’t walk or move properly—and that’s largely separate from how I feel.
Fatigue or energy loss from too much pain—that’s what makes me feel unwell.

I’m rarely grumpy, but I can get irritated quickly, which makes me snap.
Thankfully, that irritation usually passes quickly.

Even just a bit of energy is enough to make the sun shine again for me.
When I do have energy, I’m patient, gentle, kind.
I don’t react from conditioned responses, and therefore no unpleasant memories surface either.

No, when I have energy, I live in the moment—
And I’m able to hang up my own streamers.

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May 24, 2025

Day 73

Intentions.
These past few days, I’ve been seeing so clearly how my patterns have worked throughout my life.

When I’m tired or in too much pain, you won’t see me.
I retreat, become invisible to the outside world.
I read, watch films, or make something—depending on the severity of the symptoms.

And the moment I do have energy, I become active, make plans, and have all kinds of intentions.

From the outside, it often looks like I’m either rushing or standing still.
People around me often try to hold me back from the "rushing" part:
“Take your time, slow down…” they say.

Unfortunately, that’s not how it works for me!
It’s not just seize the day, it’s seize the moment.
Because before I know it, the energy is gone again.

My mind, my thoughts, my mental world—they never stop.
They work overtime constantly.
But my body can’t keep up.

Which means I live with intentions about half the time.
I’ve learned to accept that I can’t always take action.

When I was 12, I was told I would have to learn to live with my illness.
Yes, the pain, the numb arms and legs, it’s all unpleasant—but hey, having big ears isn’t fun either.

But what’s truly difficult to live with is not being able to do what I envision.

“Body and mind are one,” the saying goes.
But in my case, they’re two independently functioning parts of one person.

I’ve always said there are two Annettes:
the physical Annette, and the thinking Annette—two completely different people.

But lately, I feel there’s a third Annette:
the observer.

The physical, the thinking, and the observing Annette—these three are constantly in dialogue with each other,
trying to stay balanced and function as one whole person.

The person Annette, standing in her own strength.

How do I do that?

By making decisions that matter to me.
For example: I’d rather seize the day and make the most of it than go slow and miss out on beautiful moments.
In essence, I cram a full life into half the time.

And when I’m tired or in pain, I stop doing anything at all.
This means many things are left undone, and intentions keep piling up.

Yesterday, I had a burst of energy and made full use of it.
One of my longstanding intentions—even from before the stroke—was to tidy up my studio.

Yesterday I thought: “Finally! Tomorrow’s the day.”
And yes, I got started. Two-thirds is done already.

I planned to take a short rest and then finish up…
But I slept straight through until dinner.

That’s my life in a nutshell.

On a bad day, it frustrates me—
but when the three Annettes are in balance, it doesn’t.

When they respect one another, give each other space,
they function as a unit.
And that is the Annette standing in her strength—
The Annette I apparently am right now.

---

May 25, 2025

Day 74

Friendship.

My friend who got married on May 3rd came by today.
Ton and I had set out to attend the wedding celebration,
but we had car trouble and decided not to go.

Sure, we could have gone to great lengths to borrow a car,
but in that moment, I saw it as fate—
a sign that I could take my rest instead.

Dineke and I have been friends for a long time.
About thirty years ago, we instantly clicked.

They say love at first sight exists—
I experience that sometimes with friendships.

It’s an invisible attraction.
It just happens.
You don’t have to make an effort—it simply is.

It’s a feeling. A recognition.
A kind of soul connection.

A deep spiritual bond between two people.
A sense of resonance, understanding, trust, and unconditional love.
It goes beyond ordinary friendship or romantic relationships.

That may sound like an exaggeration—
but that’s exactly how it feels with Dineke.

And I’m lucky enough to have several friendships like that.
It’s truly one of my blessings in this life.

When we see each other, it adds to my happiness—
it gives me energy.
No matter how much time has passed.

Whether it’s a day, a week, a month, or a year—
the moment we’re together, it’s there.

Today I thought again:
Let me see what philosophers like Aristotle said about friendship.
And it turns out to be quite interesting…

---

According to Aristotle (over 2000 years ago), there are 3 types of friendship:
(And they’re still relevant today.)

1. Friendships based on utility
   These are practical friendships—neighbors, coworkers, classmates—
   people who help each other based on shared needs.
   Once that usefulness fades, so does the friendship.
   These are often about mutual benefit rather than a deep bond.

2. Friendships based on pleasure
   These are friends you enjoy spending time with—
   people you go out with, play sports, or laugh with.
   But if your interests shift, these friendships often fade, too.

3. "Good" friendships
   These are rare and deep—friendships built on mutual respect, shared values, and genuine care.
   They bring out the best in each other.
   According to Aristotle, these are friendships that last a lifetime—
   as long as both people remain virtuous.

---

I think this is beautifully described.
I recognize all three types.

When I moved to the little house in the woods,
I let go of the first two types.
The lifetime friends remained.

Sadly, due to age, I’ve already begun losing some of them.
But I know they’ll always be with me—in my memories.

A grateful person—that’s what I am.
Yes, I am.

 

 

 

May 26, 2025

Day 75

When is it truly carpe diem? When do I want a new challenge? When do I take rest? How do I balance my energy and my desires?

Today at physical rehab, things went really well again. So well, in fact, that I began to feel a bit of boredom creeping in. I’ve been doing the same exercises twice a week for four months now. It took quite a while before I noticed any real progress. Fortunately, the progress is visible now. I said to my therapist: “Next time, I think it's time to take a step forward.”

I went home full of energy. I still remember our first conversations—how he explained that the goal of training was eventually to gain energy and strength, rather than lose it. Well, today deserves a little celebration: after more than four months of rehab, I came home with more energy than I left with. That’s quite a change from being completely wiped out and unable to function for the rest of the day.

Once home, I enjoyed a cup of coffee and then got back to cleaning my studio. We loaded the car with things to take to storage. For over half a year I’ve had plans to reorganize that space, and finally, I’m able to take action. Ton and I went to our storage unit, placed some boxes there, and I’m planning to clear out the shed next, and store more things there.

On the way home, Ton said to me: “Did you notice you didn’t take a rest after physio today?”
It’s amazing, really. Such a shift.

But once we were actually home, I was tired. Not completely drained, but tired enough to lie down.

Now a few questions start to rise in me:
Should I change or intensify my exercises so that I keep some energy afterward?
Or should I push harder and accept that I’ll be exhausted again after training?

This is what balance looks like. But how do I find it?
Probably through trial and error. Small steps forward, then backward again.

If I keep doing the same routine, at the same pace, I’ll get bored—and start resisting going to rehab. But I’ll keep some energy afterward.
If I push harder and make it more of a challenge, I’ll probably be more motivated—but left with no energy for the rest of the day.

Every change calls for new perspectives, a new attitude, new insights—and a new balance.

---

May 27, 2025
Day 76
Rain. It’s been raining all day, and it feels good. Good for nature, for nourishment and growth. Inside the house, it gives me a cozy, sheltered feeling.

Rain often symbolizes cleansing and renewal. Just as it washes the earth, it can also serve as a metaphor for purifying the soul. After a rain shower, the world looks fresher and clearer—just as we can feel after an emotional release.

I ask Ton if we have any plans today. Our calendars are clear, so I take that as a sign to pick up my painting Masks again.

For the past few days, I’ve felt the itch returning—creative energy stirring again.
I began this painting not long after my stroke. It was a burst of expression after something deeply cutting, but quickly it became too much. I turned into an emotional, unregulated being. Life became all about recovery, rest, emotions, and trying to balance.

There was no space for anything else.

Everything I’ve taken on so far didn’t come easily—I saw each as a challenge. Having visitors, going out, birthdays, a day trip.
I’m still not fully recovered, but I can now look at the world with fresh eyes.
A new beginning, with new insights, and even more gratitude.

This is also a time for me to confront the ghosts of the past one more time—so I can let them go for good.
By simply letting it happen in the moment, not going out searching.

I’ve discovered over the past few months that this is what works for me. The dreams and memories appear out of nowhere. I look at them, write about them, and then I can finally release them.

Yes, this period of rehabilitation is, in many ways, a kind of cleansing.

As a Shaolin monk once said:
“To let something new happen, something old must disappear. Sometimes that means letting go of everything you thought you knew.
Empty this cup and begin again. That’s not easy, but it’s the only way to get what’s blocked to start moving again. Fill your cup again—with new experiences, with new knowledge.”

That’s what the rain reminds me of today.
How beautiful it is, that what feels uncomfortable or difficult also carries potential.
For nature, nourishment and growth. For me, new insights, a chance to begin again…

---

May 28, 2025

Day 77

Dreams.

Usually, when I dream and it lingers, I write it down. My dreams are often predictive. I dreamed of Michel five years before I met him—described him exactly. The story of that dream turned out to be an accurate metaphor for what was to come.

Dreams are a living part of my life. I write them down but don’t always interpret them right away. I store them in memory and let them go.

Today, one from last year suddenly returned to me. I looked it up:

April 22, 2024.
I dream of a circuit I have to complete. It begins with a dangerous stretch: wild canoeing. I feel pretty calm about it, confident that I’ll get through it unharmed.

Indeed, there are dangerous moments, but I stay in control.
I experience this dream as Annette. There are others completing the route too—though I can’t remember who. Just the feeling: they are loved ones and familiar people.

Suddenly we dock. It’s a jungle. There’s a kind of desk where you have to show your ticket and get instructions for the land portion of the route.
While I’m at this desk, a huge snake emerges from underneath—wrapping around my legs, my body, my neck, even sliding under my clothes.

The snake has human-like, pale skin.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been terrified of snakes.
Since I was about three, I’ve had recurring nightmares of falling into a pit of snakes.
I’d wake up drenched in sweat, heart racing. That eerie feeling would linger for days.
Even seeing snakes on TV—I’d change the channel immediately.

Now, here I am in this dream, completely wrapped by an enormous snake.
And I realize: I have a choice.
Either I give in to the terror, or I let it happen—and trust that I’ll survive this without panicking or pulling away.

I do feel some fear, but I manage to stay calm.
I let it happen and try to breathe as slowly as I can.
I have no idea how I’ll get out of it, or if I even will.
With lots of inner dialogue, I manage to stay steady.

Some of the people I’m with have already passed the desk and are waiting for me in the distance.
Strange—they didn’t seem to encounter any snakes. But so what.
I’ll see what happens.

Slowly, I start walking toward the others.
As I move, the snake begins to unwind from me. It takes a while—the snake is very long.
But by the time I reach the others, there’s no snake left.
How or why this happened, I don’t know.

It feels like I’ve conquered something huge.
I feel proud.

The others have no idea, and I don’t tell them.
I just move on.
Then I wake up.

And the dream stays with me so vividly!!!
61 years of fear when dreaming of snakes.
And now, in this dream, I choose to approach it differently.

I wake up calm.
And it doesn’t feel like a nightmare—just a dream.

Now I’m 62, more than a year later.
And physically, a lot has happened.

That severely infected toe that kept me from walking for months.
Then I twisted my knee, tearing my meniscus—pain and swelling.
Both the toe and the knee still haven’t fully healed, though they’ve improved.

Then that night I had to go to the ER because my heart rate wouldn’t drop below 180 bpm.
And finally, the stroke.

You could say I’ve travelled a pretty rough path this past year.

A year in which loved ones were present—but mostly from the sidelines.
A year of facing fears.
A year of consciously choosing to live differently, in new ways.
A year where I re-entered the healthcare system—a place where many of my traumas are rooted.
A year in which, despite intense emotions, I managed to stay calm—because I was able, time and again, to look inward.

I won’t dissect the dream completely,
but it does feel like it was a signpost,
showing the path that lay ahead.

And it’s comforting to see that even in the dream, I thought about how to handle things.
To deal with fear and setbacks consciously.
To transform them into something positive.
Into growth.
Into a good development.

 

 

 

 

29 mei 2025

dag 78

Hemelvaartsdag. Ten eerste heb ik vandaag mijn schilderij 'Maskers’ afgemaakt. Trots op mezelf weer creatief bezig te zijn geweest. Tot nu toe bleek het voor mij een onmogelijke taak. In een opleving was ik hieraan begonnen, de revalidatie vergde echter zoveel dat er geen energie meer overbleef om iets anders te doen dan. Een tijd lang bestond mijn leven uit trainen en op bed liggen. 

Op dag 7, 20 maart, heb ik geschreven over de betekenissen van dit schilderij.

Vandaag op Hemelvaartsdag denk ik altijd aan mijn schoonmoeder die op 21 mei 1998 op Hemelvaartsdag is overleden. Een markante dame, zeer eigenzinnig. Geen gewoon Indisch meisje….. 

Dagen voor haar overlijden ging iedere nacht het plafond open en kwam er een fanfare langs met Louis Armstrong muziek. Aan haar bed stond dan een meisje van een jaar of 11. Lange donkere haren in een wit jurkje. Volgens mijn schoonmoeder een klein Indisch meisje. Ze vertelde dit soort dingen alleen aan mij op het moment dat we samen waren. Ik zei dan tegen haar : “Waarom ga je niet mee met de fanfare ?” Dan mompelde ze : “Borderline, borderline……” Of ik wreef over mijn 5,5 maand zwangere buik en vroeg haar:  “Wil je dit kleinkind niet zien?” Ze antwoordde direct : “Nee, ik ben er niet nieuwsgierig naar, mijn tijd zit erop.” Daar zit je dan met je zwangerschapshormonen, keihard worden afgewezen, dat voel je dan wel. Veel later dacht ik : “Dit had een antwoord van mezelf kunnen zijn, eerlijk en bot.” Niet voor niets kon ik goed met haar opschieten. Ze was bijzonder, eigenzinnig, geen scrupules. Gewetensbezwaren, twijfels of aarzelingen in dat wat zij vond, was er niet bij. Nee, ik keek in mijn spiegel, dus waarom zou ik deze afwijzing nog meenemen in mijn trauma-kast ? Met dit inzicht was dat dus echt niet nodig. Het beeld hoe ik aan haar bed zat ben ik nooit vergeten. Ze vertelde ook heel beeldend over wat ze allemaal zag en ervaarde. Nu nog lijkt het of het mijn eigen beelden zijn, ook ik zie die fanfare voor me, hoor ik de muziek en zie ik het meisje. Het blijft wonderlijk hoe dingen in je geheugen gegrift zijn. Ik denk altijd: “Als het zo duidelijk bij je blijft, zal het ooit van belang zijn in je leven." Hoe ? Dat weet je pas als je het tegenkomt, dan krijgt het direct betekenis. Het Leven moet wat mij betreft geschreven worden met een hoofdletter, want het is magisch, spiritueel, de mooiste weg die wij mogen bewandelen. 

Vol liefde denk ik terug aan mijn schoonmoeder. Jammer dat mijn 2 jongste kinderen haar nooit hebben leren kennen. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyLjbMBpGDA&ab_channel=xakyxak

30 mei 2025

dag 79

Hilde is mijn maatje, mijn boezemvriendin. Haar bijnaam is Popeye, omdat ze klein van stuk is en altijd in de startblokken staat om iets aan te pakken. Niet lullen maar poetsen. Net als Popeye denkt ze niet na, maar ze doet. Wat voor mij vaak hilarisch wordt. Vanuit liefdevolle intenties probeert ze altijd het leven voor mij makkelijker te maken. Letterlijk probeert ze mij mooier te maken dan dat ik al ben. Hahaha, zij ziet er altijd tip top uit, terwijl ik niet zoveel aandacht besteed aan mijn uiterlijk. Als een echte vriendin stapt ze ook weleens op een pijnplek van mij. We reageren vaak heel verschillend op situaties waardoor we ook veel van elkaar kunnen leren. We hebben geleerd elkaar niet te willen veranderen maar te respecteren en elkaar in onze waarde te laten. Klinkt simpel maar is niet altijd even makkelijk. Ze komt langs en refereert aan wat ik in mijn Blog heb geschreven op 15 mei dag 64. Ze snapt niet waarom ik niet trots op mezelf kan zijn, ook mijn zus appte mij hierover. Hilde zegt : “Vertel eens wat meer over jezelf.” "Vertel over je leven, over Yoga, hoe je omgaat met je handicap, hoe je je ingezet hebt samen met GGD over armoede, hoe je je hebt ingezet voor de Vereniging in Dorst.” “Je hebt voor zoveel mensen zoveel betekend en nog, dat mis ik in je Blog.” Natuurlijk hoor ik wat ze zegt, heel lief, maar…….

Het brengt me van m'n stuk. Na een nachtje erover geslapen te hebben, weet ik weer waarom. Mijn Blog schrijf ik zoals ik schilder….in een flow. Op laten komen wat er is, in principe er niet over nadenken. Zie ik iets ? Hoor ik iets ? Ruik ik iets ? Vliegt er een herinnering door me heen ? Altijd iedere seconde gebeurt er iets, op het moment dat ik ga schrijven haak ik daarop in. Proberen vanuit het moment te schrijven is mijn streven. Herinneringen kunnen in het moment daar zijn, dan kan ik er wat mee………Het is niet per se mijn intentie om een levensverhaal op te schrijven. Eerlijk gezegd zou ik niet weten waar te beginnen. Het wordt dan graven in mijn verleden, dat is niet wat ik tot doel heb. Misschien heb ik gemiddeld wat meer pech gehad dan een ander, het heeft me wel gevormd tot de vrouw die ik nu ben. Natuurlijk ben ik okay ! Het is fijn dat iemand trots is op mij en van mij houdt, op het moment van 15 mei voelde ik dat kennelijk niet zo. Volgens mij doet ieder mens op zijn of haar manier zijn best om zo goed mogelijk te leven. Iedereen vanuit eigen ervaringen, conditioneringen, perspectieven en mogelijkheden. Zo af en toe geef ik mezelf een schouderklopje, dat zijn dan vaak de kleine overwinningen. Doe ik dit, of doe ik dat ? Iets tegen mijn zin in doen, meestal iets sociaals, daar geef ik mezelf schouderklopjes voor. Door intensief Yoga te beoefenen heeft het mij uit een rolstoel gehouden, het heeft mij een beweeglijk leven gegeven, dat wilde ik delen met mensen zodat zij op hun manier ook beweeglijk konden zijn. Workshops/lezingen over armoede als ervaringsdeskundige wilde ik ook dát delen in de hoop dingen te kunnen veranderen. Als ik zelf iets heb overwonnen wil ik dat doorgeven in de hoop dat men er wat aan heeft. Al help je in je leven maar één mens, dan is je missie volbracht. Niet iets om trots op te zijn, maar meer een hoop dat iedereen dit doet. Hoe mooi zou de wereld dan zijn ?

 

 

 

 

May 31, 2025

Day 80

As I’ve shared before, my dreams are important to me. Sometimes I can unravel their meaning, sometimes I can’t. But I write them down anyway—who knows, maybe they’ll resurface one day and finally make sense.

I like trying new things, and this week I did just that.
Last Monday I woke up from a dream. After writing it down, I thought, “Why not see if there are people out there who specialize in dream interpretation?” I was curious what someone else might say about my dream.

So I sent it off, and for a small fee I was promised a response in a few days… Exciting!
And today, the answer arrived.

My dream – Monday, May 26, 2025
That morning I woke up from a dream. Not much happened in it, but it felt like it repeated itself several times. I believe I tried to actively change the dream, as I often do when I’m dreaming. But this time I couldn’t.

There are three people sitting at a kitchen table talking, including myself. In the dream, I see myself from behind. To my right sits a young man—thin, almost skinny, dark hair, white T-shirt. I don’t know who he is. The third person is there, but I can’t really recall them anymore.

At some point, my current husband joins us, sitting to my left. He’s been listening to the conversation, and then suddenly he gives MY pink Disney cuckoo clock to the young man.

I’m shocked. I’m a Disney adult—I’ve spent years collecting original Disney items. It’s from another phase of my life, sure, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less when someone gives it away without asking me first. What shocks me most is that my husband seems completely unaware of what these items mean to me.

I try to change the dream.
Does this boy just need a clock? Then give him the regular kitchen clock—that would help him just as much.
But no matter how I try, my husband keeps coming in with the pink Disney clock.

In the end, I take a picture of the clock—as a kind of memory.
I say nothing. Not to my husband, and not to the boy.

Then I wake up…

---

The dream analyst’s response:

Someone has crossed a major boundary of yours!
You're still recovering from it, your insides are all shaken. How could they?!
You wanted to help—but not like this. Not at your own expense.
No one consulted you; it was just decided. You weren’t asked.
You're indignant, confused.
How could they do this to you? How could they hurt you like that?
And you were willing to help—but not like this.

What this dream is asking you to learn is: speak up sooner.
You tried to fix the situation quietly, in your own way. But it didn’t work.
If you had spoken your truth, the outcome might have been different.
But you felt like you couldn’t, because someone needed help.
And you didn’t want to come across as unhelpful.

But by not speaking, you ended up hurt. And that’s not okay.
Helping others should never come at the cost of yourself.

From your perspective, someone crossed a boundary without considering you—
even though you meant well. But if you don't make your limits clear,
how can others respect them?
People aren’t mind readers.

Inside, your emotions are so vivid that you can’t imagine others not noticing them.
But they don’t.
You need to express what you feel and where your limits are.
If you don’t, people will cross those boundaries—not out of malice, but because they don’t know where they are.

And yes, expressing yourself is scary.
That’s not what you were taught growing up.
You were taught to be kind, agreeable, helpful, accommodating.
But for your own wellbeing, it’s better to be clear and direct.

Most people aren’t trying to hurt you.
They’re just trying to get what they need.
And if you don’t say “no,” they’ll assume it’s a “yes.”
That’s why it’s your responsibility to speak up.
You can still be helpful—but within your limits.
The needs of others should never outweigh your own.

To support this shift, try a meditation for the throat chakra (link provided).
Do it daily for a week, then every other day, and then when you feel you need it.

Also, repeat this affirmation as often as possible:
I AM IMPORTANT.
Say it to yourself—while driving, folding laundry, taking a shower.
It will start to rewire your beliefs, change your behavior, your energy—and what you attract.

---

My thoughts now…

Hmm. It’s definitely familiar… but also layered.

On one hand, I’m often seen as too blunt—someone who says things without much tact or sensitivity.
The word “diplomatic” has never really applied to me.

But on the other hand, I let people cross my boundaries far too easily.

So what’s the difference?
When do I respond immediately—and when do I stay silent?

I NEED TO THINK ABOUT THIS.
I’m going to sleep on it.

---

And again I wake from a dream…

SHINee (a K-pop group) comes to the Netherlands, and I’m hosting them.
They’re staying with me for as long as they’re in the country.

I’ve bought each of them a personal gift.
After 15 years of following them daily, I know them well enough to choose things they’ll truly enjoy.

We’re at my house, and a few Dutch journalists and film crew are present for the welcome.
It’s a warm, cheerful scene.

Then one crew member—wearing a black T-shirt—suddenly brings out the gift meant for Minho.

I look at my bag and realize: he’s opened it. He took the gift.
I’m stunned. Speechless. It hurts.

Minho is delighted and thanks the crew member enthusiastically.

Me?
I say nothing.
I feel empty.

And then I wake up.

---

Wow.
Another dream.
Same structure—different form.

This time, not just a boundary being crossed—
but someone taking credit for something that was mine.
Taking something I’d chosen with care, with love—and then being praised for it.

How do I translate that to my own life?
Or… is it a warning for the future?
I’m not sure yet.

But I do see that context matters in how I react.
In the first dream, it was my husband.
I didn’t want to scold him in front of strangers.
Yes, I was shocked—but also angry.
But I didn’t want to explode.

In the second dream, same thing—
a whole crew, journalists.
Not the time or place to lash out.

If we had been one-on-one,
I know I would have responded immediately.

So what are these dreams telling me—now?
It remains a mystery…

 

 

 

June 2, 2025

Day 82

Mother-daughter relationship.
In the series I’m watching, a mother-daughter relationship takes center stage.
It makes me pause.
How do I relate to that?

I am a daughter, a mother, a stepmother, and a foster mother.
I didn’t do a lot of cuddling with my daughters — I did with my son.
I’ve always said, “He was just so cuddly — the girls didn’t want that.”
But now I wonder: is that really true?

Did I just copy the example I knew?
Was I simply unable to do it differently, because I didn’t know how?
I’ve always felt a kind of block toward my daughters — while at the same time loving them with all my soul.

It feels like a professional swimmer drowning in the kiddie pool.

Why?
Why did I do this to myself — and to my daughters?
Can it still be changed?
Is it important to try — also to cut this red thread that runs through generations?
Is it possible to stop it with me?

My narcissistic mother always put her own needs first.
I have no memories of her ever hugging me — fortunately, my father did.
For the boys, it was a different story altogether. They clearly received more affection — but in the end, her own needs still came first with them too.

I am the only one of the children who also laughed a lot with her.
She could be cheeky, impulsive, and did such outrageous things that I actually enjoyed.

In hindsight, I can see that I taught myself from a young age to focus on the positive experiences — to let those outweigh the painful ones.

And that became my pattern in every negative situation I encountered in life.
A kind of silver lining, I guess you could say.

But how is it possible that I’m only now starting to see certain threads?
My eldest daughter had intense performance anxiety at school.
My husband and I were both surprised — we hadn’t seen it coming.
She has such a strong character, yet in key moments she would freeze up completely.

Only now do I see the link to my own fears of failure as a child.

Of course I never failed — but scoring anything less than an 8 felt like disaster.
I would cry buckets and carry the pain in my heart for weeks.
Why was I so obsessed with being perfect?
To please my mother.

So she could brag about me.
That’s how I got attention.
Only now do I see this clearly.

What I do know is this: the things you don’t resolve within yourself, get passed on to your children.

A psychiatrist once told me this at the 1940-45 Foundation, where my husband was in therapy for second-generation trauma.
This applies to all pain-avoidant conditioning — big or small.

People often say, “Oh, just like her mother,” or “He’s his father’s child.”
It may sound familiar, even funny — but it’s not inevitable.

Fix it in yourself, and you free your child too.

I’m so grateful for this inner search.

I’m writing all of this off the cuff.
Is it nonsense?
Does it actually work this way?

So I went looking — to see how psychology views it.

Conditioning, like unconscious associations and expectations, can be passed from one generation to the next in various ways, including transgenerational transmission and the influence of parenting styles and family behaviors.

Transgenerational Transmission:
Definition: The unconscious passing down of painful life themes and unresolved emotions from one generation to another.
Mechanism: If a parent has experienced trauma, for example, it can affect the emotional development of the child — causing them to repeat those patterns later in life.

Thankfully, it turns out I did understand it correctly.

I am far from a perfect mother.
But I do my best — and I will continue to do my best.
And that, in a way, makes me a little more perfect. (Wink.)

---

June 3, 2025

Day 83

A blessing in disguise?

Yesterday I wrote about my positive focus — how I’ve learned to pull something good even from negative experiences.
It’s a powerful survival mechanism.
And probably something many people could learn.

But the real question for me is: what do I need to learn from it?

Again, I have an “aha” moment.

My husband often tells me that I skip over important parts of the grieving process.
“You always forget to feel the pain first, or to let yourself be shocked — you instantly flip it into a new opportunity or a positive meaning.”
“You jump too quickly to the end of the process.”

I always find that hard to hear.
“Of course I feel it,” I say, “but I also see other perspectives right away.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”

But after what I wrote yesterday, I suddenly realize — this is a conditioned survival mechanism.
It’s so deeply ingrained in me that I don’t even notice it anymore.

Often people have to learn how to find beauty in ugly things.
Those people cry often. They show their struggle — and I never really understood that.

But now I can see — maybe I’m the one who has to learn how to cry.
To feel the pain.
To sit with it.
And then to find the light.

This way, I begin to understand that even a seemingly “good” outcome — like positivity born from survival — may still carry its own consequences.

In my case: the lack of expressed emotions — and the limited understanding of others' emotions — is part of that.

You’re never too old to learn.

How is it that only now so many things are becoming clearer to me?

It’s not like I haven’t tried to figure things out before.
But apparently — only now is it possible.

Why now?

I think I know.

As I’ve written before, my emotions have been uncontrollable since the stroke.
Outbursts at the strangest times — usually directed at my husband, though they had nothing to do with him.

They just… erupted.

Probably long stored up, deeply buried, and now suddenly — bam — out they came.

Catharsis after catharsis, leading to clarity and insight.

No bitterness. No resentment.

More like observation.
A journey of discovery.
And for that — I’m grateful.

 

 

 

 

 

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June 4, 2025

Day 84

Responsibility.
Today, my blog might take an unusual turn. What does this actually have to do with me, personally? Yesterday, the Dutch government collapsed because Mr. Wilders of the PVV pulled the plug. For as long as I can remember, I’ve followed parliamentary debates on TV. To me, it’s a kind of people's theatre, much like football is a form of popular entertainment. Except the rules of the game have changed over the years—almost to the point of disappearing entirely. The only thing that seems to matter now is getting the ball in the goal, no matter how. That metaphor seems to come pretty close to today’s politics.

Once again, I’ve been watching the entire debate today about the fall of the cabinet. What strikes me is how everyone blames each other, with zero self-reflection.

I believe in micro, meso, and macro energies. By that, I mean that the way people behave at the top (macro level) is mirrored on the smaller scales (meso and micro). On the other hand, I also believe that if the individual (micro level)—a single drop in the ocean—starts behaving differently (in this case, by reflecting and taking responsibility), this change can ripple upward, if enough individuals do the same.

Blaming others doesn’t get you anywhere, not on a small scale, and not on a large one either. Whether between people or between government parties, it leads to deadlock. A state of gridlock where no one is willing to shift, and solutions become unreachable because everyone is clinging to their own views. Blame-shifting reveals a deeper pattern: a lack of self-responsibility, an unwillingness to confront one’s own flaws, fears, or insecurities—and maybe even a lack of self-compassion.

Personally, I strongly believe in taking responsibility for my own emotions, reactions, and actions. Of course, I can look back and examine where certain behaviors or conditionings stem from—this blog is full of such reflections. Writing about my upbringing and the situations I found myself in brings me peace and clarity, and opens the door to possible change. But still, I remain responsible for how I view and handle things now.

All the bickering in parliament brings me right back to myself, and how I want to live my life—with the hope that one day, our government might be led by people with the emotional and intellectual intelligence to treat each other with respect and to govern this country from that place.

If those at the top refuse to change, it’s up to the individual. That’s what I believe: that enough people are capable of introspection.
There is always hope...

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June 5, 2025

Day 85

How do I become happier?
Today we went to a live recording of the Volkskrant’s science podcast, Ondertussen in de Kosmos. The editorial team explored the question: How do you become (more) happy? Hosted by science editor Tonie Mudde, a range of experts offered insights on living a happier life—including columnist and professor Ionica Smeets, former Journalist of the Year Maarten Keulemans, universe expert George van Hal, journalist Anna van den Breemer, and internist Dr. Liesbeth van Rossum (Erasmus MC).

It was like a crash course in happiness studies: science-backed relationship advice, insights into what weight-loss medications do to body and mind, lessons in cosmic perspective—and even a special experiment with the audience!

Before the event, we had dinner at the restaurant in the Hotel Americain, a beautiful art deco café with stained glass windows and lamps. Gorgeous! It truly felt like stepping back into the 1920s. In my mind, I saw myself in a loose, straight dress with fringes, sequins and beads, a low waist, a bob haircut, accessorized with a cloche hat, a headband, and a string of pearls—dancing the Charleston. Yes, that’s how far my imagination goes in such a setting.

The food, however, was a bit disappointing. My chicken ragout was watery. The taste wasn’t bad, but I’m very sensitive to texture, so I only had a few bites.
When the waitress kindly asked, “Is everything to your liking?” my honest (and rather blunt) answer was: “No!!!”
Ton was astonished: “You never say things like that! Usually, you just tell me, then brush it off.”

Funny how I’m changing—just a little—without even noticing. Normally, I would have felt bad for the waitress, but now I could express myself firmly yet politely. In the end, we got our dessert for free. That used to embarrass me—but not today. That tells me something is shifting. Through writing and consciously observing my own behavior, I’m changing, however subtly.
It felt good. I wasn’t embarrassed after speaking up—very unusual for me.

At the DeLaMar Theater, various scientists shared what makes people happy. Things like: do you have a roof over your head? Enough to eat? Support in your life? Good health? These seem to be the four key ingredients for happiness.
It made me pause—because I’ve lacked all four at some point in my life.

Another expert talked about happiness in terms of probability. Is that more about hope, belief, or just wishful thinking? Her conclusion was: the more things you try, the more likely you are to find happiness.

The internist, together with someone with lived experience, spoke about obesity—not as the result of overeating, but as a complex disease. Many factors contribute to weight gain. Weight-loss medication should be carefully supervised and only prescribed after identifying the underlying causes. At a recent conference in Málaga, new breakthroughs in this field were discussed. Losing weight doesn’t just boost happiness because of a more socially accepted appearance, but also because it literally changes brain receptors that increase the sensation of joy.

Another scientist spoke about the beauty—but also the dangers—of the universe. Lightning storms in galaxies, black holes… it made me realize: it’s sheer luck that we live on Earth.
Someone else explained the healing power of nature. Apparently, even renaming an ugly apartment building in a crowded area to something like “Green Park Flats” can measurably increase residents’ happiness. Being in nature increases endorphins and makes people feel better.

Then a music teacher got the audience singing “Happy” by Pharrell Williams. Singing—especially in groups—boosts happiness.
Another speaker, a relationship therapist, gave tips on improving relationships—mainly by recognizing and managing irritations, like messiness. The audience laughed in recognition. Arguments are healthy, she said, but only if you make agreements and sometimes simply apologize for your own bad behavior.

And finally—my personal favorite—a scientist spoke about cats. He explained how humans and cats have lived together since ancient times. He showed videos like the ones on Instagram. People feel joy just by watching cats. It literally makes us happier.

I felt a bit more at ease about my weight afterward. What clearly brings me joy is nature. I miss it in Papendrecht, but I try to make up for that by cycling through the Alblasserwaard. My animals—cats and dogs—definitely make me happy. I always call them my heartbeats.

My relationship is good. I complain a lot about Ton being messy. Sometimes I lose my temper, but I almost always apologize quickly. Hahaha—maybe we’re doing just fine. Although… he genuinely doesn’t see the mess. In his mind, he is cleaning! Clearly, that’s a fixed point.

Singing? Maybe I should do that more.
Social contact? Still a work in progress.

My own conclusion: Happiness is a choice. You create the feeling yourself.

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June 6, 2025

Day 86

A bit of a setback today after a long but memorable day yesterday. First, physical rehabilitation, then dinner in Amsterdam, the theater, and a taste of the city’s nightlife. We only got home around 4:30 a.m. this morning.

No surprise that my body’s protesting now—especially my head, due to tension in my neck and shoulders. Since my stroke, that’s been one of the more noticeable changes: I build up tension very quickly in those areas. Sitting or walking for too long, or trying to keep my body upright for extended periods—those things take a toll. Crowds and being surrounded by people are draining too.

Yesterday, I was able to be in the moment. It was a lovely, relaxed day—or at least, that’s how it felt at the time. In hindsight, I can tell that some hidden tension crept in nonetheless.

Does that mean days like this aren’t worth repeating? On the contrary—I think Ton and I should do this more often. With time, I might learn how to stay relaxed and let go of that quiet build-up of stress.

It’s worth it to feel more at home in my body again and to truly enjoy social experiences. I’ll never be a super social animal. That’s okay. But avoiding everything completely? That’s just the other extreme.

Too much of anything is never good. And as yesterday clearly showed, social interaction plays a real role in increasing our sense of happiness.

So today: a bit of rest for the body—and onward, with good spirits.

 

 

 

 

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June 7, 2025

Day 87

On May 31, I wrote about a dream I had sent to someone who partly makes a living out of dream interpretation. After she had responded, I woke up again with another dream—the one about the K-pop band SHINee. I sent that one to her too, and today I received another reply:

Hi Annette,
Sorry, it’s been a busy week, and your messages kind of got snowed under. But I still wanted to respond.
Reading what you wrote, I got the sense that there are situations where you hold yourself back. And you don’t have to. No matter the situation, you’re always allowed to set your boundaries. You’re allowed to say that something hurts you or that you disagree. It’s even possible that certain perceptive people around you know this about you—and take advantage of it. Completely losing your temper may not always be ideal, but you can still make it very clear, in a calm way, that something is not okay. If you’re very angry, you can also pull someone aside. Or come back to it later. The way you do it isn’t the point. What matters is that in certain situations, you don’t speak up. And that is exactly what these dreams are showing you.
I hope that’s becoming clearer for you.
Best wishes, Yvette

And yes, even though I do know how to speak up, I almost never truly express how I feel.
Afraid of confrontation? Of hurting someone? Of being seen as childish? Of doing it wrong? Of not being liked?
Whatever it is—it probably is a mix of all these fears. When someone personally attacks me, I hardly ever respond. And yet, strangely, people outside of my partner, my children, and my best friend have a completely different impression of me. They really believe I say whatever is on my mind! But when it comes to my personal feelings, I absolutely don’t.

That’s something I want to work on: being more direct about how I feel.
The key lies in how I express it.
My dreams are making that point again and again—and so does this woman, Yvette.

Now that I’m more aware of this underdeveloped part of me, I do see signs of slow change.
What’s important to me is that I want to be assertive from now on—not retroactively. I don’t want to go back and confront people about past hurts. That would quickly lead into the territory of blame.

As a psychologist once told me: “Blame creates distance.”
That struck a chord. I’ve used that phrase many times since.
So from now on, setting boundaries must be done kindly, but firmly and transparently. I’ll need to stay alert to the temptation of slipping into blame.

I do wonder whether it will make me feel freer.
Now that this theme is alive in me, I can look more deeply at what it feels like to suppress my emotions.
Honestly? It feels like being sealed off—trapped—completely suffocating. Even as I describe it now, I can physically feel the paralyzing tension in my body. So it clearly affects me more than I previously realized.

It’s fascinating that every day, in complete silence, I write a small piece about something that arises—and I experience it so directly and physically.
By looking this closely at what literally and figuratively moves me, a whole new world is opening up.
A world that has always been there, but has remained untouched… until now.

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June 8, 2025

Day 88

Divide or share?
Today, my sister responded to my blog. Until now, she’s been reading it quietly, without commenting. She says that overall, she recognizes my writing—so much so that it could easily be about her too, for at least three-quarters of it.
I’m truly glad she reached out.

We come from the same family, and we’re both daughters. With a narcissistic mother, that’s no small detail.
Girls in such a family dynamic start out at a 5–0 disadvantage.

As I’ve said before, this kind of dysfunction is often invisible to the outside world.
We siblings love each other, but… there’s a big “but.”
Why is that?

I’ll try to explain as simply as I can.
A narcissistic parent sows division within the family.
That’s how they maintain control.
A child is, by nature, loyal to the parent—and the narcissist uses that loyalty.
Each child’s individual loyalty gives the parent leverage to create unrest and suspicion between siblings.

So yes, among us there’s always been a kind of conditioned caution.
There are fixed roles we’ve each been assigned over the years.
Our mother’s gossiping—talking badly about one child to another—was a daily occurrence.
It did not help our sense of cohesion.

We love each other, but… we don’t really trust each other.
We’ve all played the game for the outside world:
a cheerful family that shows up to birthday parties, that takes four-day trips together every Ascension weekend.

I think the fact that we kept what went on behind closed doors hidden from the world, is a reflection of something deeper. Each of us, in different ways, developed a fear of expressing real feelings—sometimes even in unhealthy ways.
All four of us have survival mechanisms so deeply ingrained that it’s scary to expose them.

Now my sister is also starting to face the ghosts of the past—to give them a place, to move on without fear.
That’s what I’m doing by writing this blog.

It’s bizarre, really, how much there still is to unpack at our age.
Things I thought I had long since processed still have a poisonous tail.
It’s no coincidence, I suppose, that the sting is in the tail...

My sister suggested that we talk about all this face-to-face—when we both feel ready.
The fact that we’re both open to that is huge.

I responded:
“Writing is working wonders for me. I try to respond to what I’m writing in a kind of flow. I aim to be as honest as possible about what’s there. Sometimes I even feel nauseous when I write it down. I’ve given myself a year for this. When I feel ready to talk about it without too much pain, I’ll let you know, okay?”

Probably, a few more layers need to be peeled away before we can really talk openly and freely.

We’re both terrified.
But the door to openness and love is ajar…
How beautiful is that?

 

 

 

June 9, 2025

Day 89

Whit Monday!
We’ve gone on holiday—a cycling trip through the Veluwe. We booked a small hotel in the village of Vierhouten. On the way there, it started to drizzle, and once we left the highway, it turned into a full-blown downpour! But it didn’t dampen our spirits in the slightest. We’re true Dutch hardy types, ready for anything—including rain.

We unloaded our bags, brought them to our room, and stored our bikes in the covered bicycle shed. Despite the rain, the temperature was pleasant—about 18 degrees, I’d guess. And just as we were getting ready for our first little ride, the sun came out—and we didn’t see another drop all day.

Being in the forest, cycling across the open plains of the Veluwe—it reminded me a little of South Africa. My thoughts completely shut off, and I felt totally relaxed. The flowers, the plants, the trees, the sound of raindrops still falling from the leaves—simply magical. If a little fairy had flown by, I wouldn’t even have been surprised. It felt as if I had stepped into a fairytale.

We cycled about 25 kilometers. At home, that would feel like quite a distance, but here I didn’t even notice. In the Alblasserwaard, we know every square centimeter by now—beautiful in all seasons, yes—but this new environment makes it feel like I’m just floating along. I’m so glad we decided to do this.

The hotel owner has created a whole collection of cycling routes and mapped them out for guests to take. We’ve picked out four of them. Tomorrow we’ll do a 52-kilometer route to Ermelo. It’s the first time in my life I’ve planned a cycling holiday.

We cycle a lot at home, so the idea grew naturally. It’s great to be moving and doing something active myself. Walking is very difficult—really a challenge—so that’s not an option for a vacation. Spending an entire holiday in a wheelchair or mobility scooter didn’t appeal either. This is ideal. I hope I can keep up the positivity. We’ll see how it goes.

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June 10, 2025

Day 90

We’re staying in a small, living-room-style hotel. At breakfast, you immediately see all the other guests—a group of 70+ year-olds, all here for the same reason: to cycle through the area.

It’s pouring rain, so at every table you hear people coming up with new plans. In the end, Ton and I were the only ones who actually went out cycling. After all, we didn’t pack rain gear for nothing!

It wasn’t just rain—it was also windy. We left at 11:00 AM and came back around 6:00 PM. For the first few hours, it was just Ton and me, alone in the wild elements. Halfway through the day it dried up for a while, and that’s when we started seeing other people again.

In total, I think we spent about fifteen minutes in what you’d call “civilization.” The rest of the time was pure forest, heathland, and sandy plains. It was pure joy!

In the forest, as far as the eye could see: Digitalis purpurea—foxglove. Deep purple, lilac, pink, and white—an absolute fairytale! Neither Ton nor I had ever seen it like that before.

On the heath and sand plains, it felt like being on a faraway savannah. Only the dramatic Dutch skies and weather reminded us that we were, in fact, still in the Netherlands.

Sure, I’ve been to the Veluwe before—but short walks or drives by car can’t compare to this kind of immersive experience by bike.

When it stopped raining, or only drizzled lightly, you could hear birds singing nocturnes after emerging from shelter. Enormous birds of prey flew like acrobats through the forest. One massive bird of prey was perched on a post in the middle of the sandy plain. Sadly, my phone wasn’t up to the task of capturing it in those conditions.

We braved wind, rain, and even hail—but it wasn’t until we got back to the hotel that I felt the toll it had taken on my body. Sore butt, aching thighs, stiff muscles, pain in my back and neck, and my face glowing with heat.

Despite all that, both Ton and I look back on the day with deep gratitude. It was a gift—an incredibly happy day!

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June 11, 2025

Day 91

After a good night’s sleep, I was up bright and early. Very unusual for me—I rarely get out of bed before 10:00 AM. But at 7:30, I was already in the shower, eager to start the day.

Spending all day in nature and being physically active—that’s my personal formula for happiness. The soreness and aches I’m feeling are a good sign. Proof that I did something. Proof of life. Pain after activity always makes me happy. It might sound strange, but to me it means: I had energy. And that’s something to be grateful for.

At 10:15 AM we were back on the bikes. It was overcast but dry. Today’s plan was to do the loop to Elburg.

I noticed several swallows flying low, which made me suspicious despite the forecast.
“When swallows fly high, the weather will stay dry. When they fly low, expect rain.”
This bit of old weather lore is actually grounded in science: when the weather is fair, insects fly higher; in bad weather, they stay lower. Swallows follow them, adjusting their flight based on air pressure. Thanks to a special organ in their inner ear—essentially a built-in barometer—they sense those pressure changes.

Around noon, when we arrived in Elburg, the sun actually came out. We had fried mussels for lunch in this charming little town, and afterward cycled around a bit more to explore.

A woman was sitting on a bench near our bikes, having lunch. I spontaneously started a conversation with her—part of my new social efforts.

Later, we wanted to visit the church, where I had a brief chat with the sexton. I told him how clear it was that people here take pride in their town. The facades, the flower pots, the general tidiness—it all radiates care and love.

My bike mirror had come loose and kept slipping down, so I had to hold it while riding. It turns out I rely on that mirror more than I thought. In a side street, I saw a carpenter at work and cycled over to ask if he had an Allen key. And yes—this kind man fixed the mirror for me so I could ride on with ease.

Ton was surprised and impressed by how assertively I handled it.

This vacation is priceless. The best kind of rehabilitation I can imagine…

 

 

 

 

June 12, 2025

Day 92

I was awake all night! That’s a different story when you’re in a hotel room. At home, I could just go sit in the living room and maybe watch a film or something. Sitting with my laptop in the hotel bathroom didn’t seem like a good idea either. Nothing helped—deep breathing, counting sheep, quiet meditation techniques...

I didn’t fall asleep until 5:45 a.m., only to be wide awake again at 8:30. Why? I honestly don’t know. The only thing that came to mind was: Maybe it’s a full moon? I’m pretty sensitive to that kind of energy—and now, even more than usual. So I just checked... and yes! It was a full moon.

During a full moon, it stays lighter outside for longer. As a result, your body produces less melatonin. The bright light from the full moon interferes with melatonin production, which means you get less sleepy.

There’s a full moon every month, of course, but the one in June is sometimes extra special. That’s because the moon is lower in the sky and takes on an orange-red hue. It also appears larger from that low position.

This year, the moon is exceptionally low, which makes the color and size stand out even more. The red tone becomes more pronounced due to atmospheric light refraction—just like during a sunset.
In some traditions, the June full moon is called the “Strawberry Moon,” because it coincides with the strawberry harvest. The fact that its color resembles the fruit may just be coincidence.

The moon won’t be this low again in June until the year 2043. In the Netherlands, you could see the colored moon between 10:45 and 11:15 p.m. on Wednesday night.

Still, I felt energetic enough to take on another 50-kilometer ride today.

You might think all forests look the same... but no. Ton and I keep noticing how diverse the forests of the Veluwe are. Each type of woodland has its own unique atmosphere.

I read that the forest near Putten is home to one of the most beautiful tree collections in the Netherlands, including the oldest sequoias (dating back to 1853) on the European continent. The Kleine Pinetum and Grote Pinetum—pinetum meaning conifer collection—originated from old tree nurseries grown for the estate’s forests. Some trees planted in the mid-19th century are now over 40 meters tall—think of a 13-story building!

We also came across tree carvings in stumps where the roots were still deep in the ground. There’s no information anywhere about who made them or why. But it was pure delight.

During lunch at a café terrace in Putten, I got a message from my sister. She wrote:

“What I keep thinking about is that I’ve never heard you use the word ‘happy’ when talking about your own feelings!!”
“I’m impressed.”
“Long live your stroke—it’s been a gift.”

Wow. Is that true? Since the stroke, I do find it easier to talk and write about my feelings.

And yes, ever since I got my cargo trike—and can cycle independently, be outdoors, be active in nature—I have felt happy. I’ve felt this especially since I started riding regularly through the Alblasserwaard. That cargo bike is the best thing I’ve ever bought.

HAPPINESS, for me, is...
independence... freedom... being physically active... being in nature.
Right now, I have all those ingredients in place.

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June 13, 2025

Day 93

Friday the 13th!
Now I get it...

This morning we went for one last little ride near the hotel—one final spin before the predicted heat arrived. But something went wrong in my hips again, causing my legs to buckle. Walking became nearly impossible. Still... we had a beautiful vacation, and that’s in the bag.

Ton packed the car and loaded the bikes onto the trailer. It took forever, and while I was waiting, the temperature began to soar. Normally I’d get involved, try to help, or push things along faster. But this time, I just waited patiently, even with the nerve pain in my hips. I was proud of myself for staying calm and kind to Ton. Yep—emotions and frustrations under control.

For me, the worst kind of weather is heat—I call that “severe weather.”
Storms, rain, lightning—I love those. But heat? No thanks.
We planned to avoid highways and stop somewhere in the woods for lunch. Keep that holiday feeling going just a little longer.

Then Ton tells me that his son is performing in Almere this afternoon.
Internally, something flares up.
But I breathe in, breathe out, and ask calmly:
“What time?”
“Do you want to go see him?” I ask.

He checks his watch, and I immediately feel like the vacation is over. With his usual innocent eyes (I know that look), he says, “No, not necessarily.”

Again, I let it go. I’m able to release the irritation fairly quickly and dive back into my romantic holiday mood.

Driving through the woods, I spot a cozy restaurant at the forest’s edge. I suggest we stop there for lunch. But Ton hits the gas, and off we go—leaving the woods behind, heading home via the Betuwe region.

On these back roads, we pass some cheap gas stations. I ask Ton,
“Shouldn’t we fill up soon?”
Mr. Mijs says no, and keeps driving.

We don’t come across any nice cafes or bistros. My stomach starts growling. Then we see a brown sign with a fork and knife. We follow it into a village called De Klomp.

After several kilometers, it turns out to be a sign for a campsite canteen.

For weeks, I’ve been avoiding fried food and carbs—and my stomach has been much happier. But now we’re down to a plate of fries and a croquette. It’ll have to do.

End result: hunger gone, but now stomach pain and gurgling intestines.

Still avoiding the highways, we now drive along the Diefdijk—a long, narrow road full of unpleasant bumps and curves.

Ton’s driving style… let’s just say, I’m not a fan. I’m terrified.
Yes, I know—that’s my issue, I admit that.
But normally I’d drive myself. Unfortunately, my car doesn’t have a towbar, so we’re using my daughter’s car—and I can’t drive it.

As we bump along the dike, my stress levels keep rising.
I’m quietly panicking, trying not to start a fight. That already takes a lot of energy.

Ton picks up on the tension and says,
“Shall we take the highway for the last stretch?”
“Please. I just want to go home.”

We merge onto the busy A15 entrance...
Drip. Blub. Blub. Tank empty.

Stress through the roof—but I try to stay calm. No yelling, no blaming... until—
Ton wants to get out of the car so that people “see movement.”
Cars are flying by at 100 km/h, just inches away!

Okay. At that moment, I wasn’t exactly feeling warm and fuzzy toward Mr. own-MIJS. But “getting rid of him” wasn’t the plan either.

We called roadside assistance.
Breathe. In. Out. Ignore the heart palpitations. It’ll be okay.
Light-headed. The heat is unbearable. Am I going to faint?

Ton can’t sit still—he fidgets with his phone (which is dead), reaches for stuff in the back seat, then back again.
All I want is air. Peace. Stillness around me.

Then the ANWB tow truck arrives!
I can’t walk anymore, and I’m overheating with serious heart palpitations.
The driver says,
“Ma’am, you’d better stay in the car. I can’t get you up into the cabin.”

Ton wants to wave at me like, “See you in a bit!”
NOPE.
“I’m not staying alone in this car while it’s being towed!”

Thankfully—for the first time today—Mr. own-MIJS listens to his wife.
So up we go, both of us, car and all, on top of the tow truck.

Later, Ton said he never meant to leave me alone.
It just felt that way, in the heat of my high-stress moment.

In hindsight: another wild adventure.
And honestly—I’m proud of myself for managing to keep so many emotions in check.

Once home: straight upstairs, clothes off, into a cold shower...
Then: REST.

Friday the 13th.

 

 

 

June 14, 2025

Day 94

A cousin texted me today asking whether I really said “jerk” to Ton in the video yesterday.
Yes, I did—though I followed it up with a forgiving smile.
It was one of those Murphy's Law kind of days: when one thing goes wrong, and then everything else follows. I think everyone knows what that’s like.

My cousin reads my blog every day.
Me: “It means a lot to me that people I know want to read it.”
Cousin: “I imagine it must feel quite vulnerable when it’s people close to you.”
Me: “Yes, but I’ve reached the point where I want to talk about my feelings—my experience.”
“I honestly don’t care anymore what people think of it.”
“A lifetime of showing the world what they wanted to see is over.”
“I don’t want to adapt myself anymore—though I do want to change difficult patterns.”
“How can a feeling be dishonest?”
“Or how can a feeling come from a bad intention?”
“If you really think about it, that’s absurd.”
“Still, I always pushed my real feelings aside, assuming the listener couldn’t handle it. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

Cousin: “Yes, it really is. And yet—I still do it. It’s hard not to.”
Me: “You’re still young. Can you imagine how long I’ve done this?”
“Why do people feel attacked when someone shares a feeling?”
“Wouldn’t it be beautiful if we could just listen, accept it as real, and then take it into account—regardless of how we ourselves feel?”
“So that both people can see how differently the same situation can be felt or experienced.”
“And... most importantly: that it’s all true!”

Cousin: “Yes, absolutely.”

Me: “I’m using this conversation in tonight’s blog.”
“I’m lying in bed because I can’t walk—so I don’t have much else to write about today. Ton went to Veldhoven to pick up the dogs.”

Cousin: “Are you in much pain?”
Me: “Yes, short and simple answer.”
“I’m not sick, just nauseous when I try to walk, so I’m staying in bed until it passes.”

Cousin: “Yeah… I kind of know what that’s like.”
“Sometimes I can do nothing but stare at the ceiling.”

Me: “Yes, it’s inconvenient, maybe annoying—but it doesn’t really affect my mood.”

Cousin: “That’s a relief.”

Me: “I’ve had a lifetime of training in pain and doing nothing.”
“I go through it, and that’s all.”
“Just thinking about our vacation makes me happy again.”

Cousin: “It really looked like a wonderful trip.”

Me: “It was. We’ve booked another week in August—when the heath is in full bloom.”

---

First of all, I feel honored that a cousin takes the time to read my blog and respond now and then.
That, too, is a gift that brings me joy.

When it comes to respecting other people’s emotions, I’m actually pretty good at that. But the closer they are to me, the harder it gets.
Ha! Maybe I should apply that more consistently to my husband.

He simply is different from me—and that’s okay. I’m not perfect. I’m clearly a control freak.
One person is easygoing and loose, which can spiral out of control. The other is rigid, which limits spontaneity and adventure.

And well… why am I stressing?
No one died.
Things just turned out differently than I’d imagined.

---

June 15, 2025

Day 95

What do you write about on a day when it feels like not much happens—let alone something worthy of reflection?
I’ve been sitting here for a couple of hours trying to think of what I could share about myself today.

Then I remembered a Taoist quote:
“Some answers only come when you stop asking.”
It just sounds better in English.

And because of that quote, I gave myself permission to stop thinking and just enjoy a British detective series.

True to Taoist philosophy, while watching the show, something surfaced that usually stays buried deep—but is very much present:
a not-so-nice, possibly selfish side of me.

Because of physical overload, I’m struggling to walk right now.
Every movement hurts.

So there I am, sitting on my bed with cool massage oil on my back, my dogs keeping me company, watching a series.
My husband takes care of me—brings me drinks regularly, and otherwise leaves me alone.
Perfect!!

But then… it’s Father’s Day, and Ton’s sons text that they’re coming over.
Sweet, of course.
But this inner gremlin in me groans: There goes my peaceful day.

Then my friend Hilde asks if she can drop by.
Damn it, I think. There goes my TV day again.

Truly! That was my first thought.

But it shifted quickly, and I felt grateful that Ton’s sons, the grandchildren, and Hilde were coming over.
Of course it’s lovely when they’re here.

Still, I had to go through an internal process to get there.

Especially with Hilde, I’m usually happy right away when she comes.
But with my own children, it’s different.
They confront me.

Why?
I don’t fully know.
Scary, isn’t it—that I’m writing this out loud?

But it’s the truth.

Once, my house was an open home—everyone was welcome.
For years, we had extra guests at dinner almost every night.
People without shelter stayed with us.
Everything was possible. Everything was allowed.

After Michel passed away, the kids eventually left home too.
Once I was alone again, I could—literally and figuratively—reclaim my space.

I think that’s when the other side of the coin kicked in:
An aversion to drop-ins. No more big parties. As few unplanned things as possible.
Not quite a hermit… but close.

Living a solitary life means you don’t have to reflect as much.
There’s less friction, less mirroring.

Maybe I needed that—after all those turbulent years.

Now I want to be more socially engaged again.
And I am, in fact.

But today, I admit there was still a flicker of reluctance.

Let’s call it a start, at least, that I’m willing to acknowledge it.

Maybe it also has to do with my physical condition.
When I feel well, I can handle much more.
When I feel like I do now—unwell—I probably prefer to be alone.

People say shared sorrow is half the sorrow—
That’s something I still need to learn.
To share my sorrow.

Pffff… that’s going to be a long road.

Let me close this day with another Taoist quote:
“Life never stops teaching. Why would you stop learning?”

 

 

 

 

June 16, 2025

Day 96

Finding Balance.
The intensity with which I do everything is limitless.
Take yesterday’s example: everyone always welcome versus shutting out the world.

As a child, it didn’t look like I was going to grow old.
Doctors once told me I probably wouldn’t live past twenty.
That news sent me on a mission: to experience as much as I could, as quickly as possible.
It also made me a bit reckless.

During my teenage and early adult years, I really went all out—there’s no other way to say it.
Shyness wasn’t in my vocabulary, and neither was fear.

Much later, I began to feel a sense of responsibility—for myself and the people around me. That only came during my second marriage.

Do I regret that earlier time?
No!!!
Because it gave me an early taste of letting go, of feeling truly free.

That’s something people usually have to learn in life—if they’re lucky. Sometimes they never do.
In my case, everything unfolded a bit out of order.
The worries, fears, and trauma didn’t hit with full force until after I turned thirty.

What has stayed with me from that time is my tendency to do everything with deep seriousness and intensity.
Which, of course, has two sides.
If the “positive” side of the coin is +10, then my “negative” side is -10.
In my case, the + is 1000—and so the - is also 1000.

I can be incredibly patient… or have the shortest fuse.
I’m either super social… or full-on hermit mode.
I eat everything… or nothing at all.
And so on.

Today, my childhood friend Carina called.
After two months touring around in her camper van, she’s back in the country.
We lived through our teenage years together—intensely.
We’ve both led turbulent lives.

Our friendship has seen deep valleys and incredible peaks—because of who we are.
After fifty years, it’s safe to say: this is a friendship that will last until death, and maybe even beyond.
That’s how it feels to me: like she has always been there, and always will be.

That’s the beauty of soul connections.
They just are.
And you can’t lose them.

We talked about how we both know what life is about—but that awareness isn’t enough. You have to practice.
Like learning to play an instrument: every day, again and again.

Reflect daily:
What did I do?
Why?
How?

Be honest with yourself—and with others—every day. Without fear.
Be grateful—every day.

She does it in her own way. I do it by writing.
Two middle-aged women, growing side by side, with the same realization:
We are learning—every day.

Every day we look in the mirror.
Every day we practice letting go.
And every day, we are grateful.

What a gift it is to grow older.

---

June 17, 2025

Day 97

About six years ago, after a nasty fall, I ended up at a doctor specialized in musculoskeletal medicine.
My sacrum had twisted, causing unbearable pain in my hips, legs, and back.

This doctor essentially realigned my entire skeleton.
It took several treatments to get everything to stay in place.

After each session, I always feel very unsure.
My whole body feels bruised.
The next day usually feels worse—and by the third day, it can feel excruciating.
I always think: “Now it’s really messed up!”
But then… by day four, all the pain is gone.

By now, after six years, I know this pattern well.

I had a session again this morning.
So the coming days will be about resting through the discomfort.

I see this doctor as a gift from the universe.
On her website, I read a description that really resonated with how I see life myself.
And after meeting her, I found her to be exactly as she had described.

Because I can’t walk normally—and because of that fall—my bones and vertebrae shift easily.
That puts pressure on nerves and causes increased pain.
She straightens me out—and I can move forward again.

How beautiful is that?

I can tell she has a holistic approach.
To her, I’m not just a skeleton made up of bones, muscles, and tendons.
I’m a human being—with a history.

To me, she’s a gem in a sea of cold, empty-headed specialists.
(I know that’s not kind to say—but over the past year, I haven’t had many great experiences with medical professionals.)

I do still hope to find new specialists who listen—and are willing to think with me.

Here’s part of her philosophy, which really made me think:

“For me, movement is the opposite of stagnation.
Physical movement is always linked to mental movement—and vice versa.
The key to movement is balance.
That means aligning muscle groups with each other, and matching effort to capacity.
Mentally, it’s about regulating stimulation and sensitivity.
Without balance, complaints arise.
My mission is to identify that imbalance and help people restore it.
Depending on the cause of the imbalance, I search for the best way in.”

So—how does that translate to me?

For me, cycling is essential—because it literally keeps me from standing still.
She says: “Body and mind are one.”
“Physical movement is mental movement.”

Yes—that’s how I see it too.

But… I’ve also taught myself to mentally disconnect from the physical.
Because if I didn’t, I fear I’d become deeply depressed.

Being physically limited has taught me to be grateful for the small things:
the sight of nature, a smile, a purring cat next to me—you name it.

Movement = balance. That seems obvious.

Unfortunately, physically I have very little balance.

Put me in a pitch-dark room and I can’t take a single step.
I literally fall over.
No joke!

All my movement is visual.
No light = no motion.

“Without balance, complaints arise,” she says.
Well—that becomes more and more obvious as I age.

My life will always be a search for some form of balance.

Maybe…
Maybe it’s the internal split between the physical and the mental that makes me so extreme in everything I do—whether in the plus or the minus.

Funny…
Could this be the answer to what I was writing about yesterday?

 

 

 

 

---

June 18, 2025

Day 98

I woke up from a very strange dream.
In the dream, I have a swimming pool in my house. A large pool—light blue, crystal clear, in a bright, airy room. Apparently, even in my dream I’m occupied with my physical pain. Being in the water relaxes my body.

Well—“swimming” might be too much—I’m really just playing in the water, letting myself float, sometimes sink down to the bottom. All in a relaxed, thoughtless atmosphere.

Suddenly, I notice a tear about ten centimeters long in the pool floor. Something like a piece of sheet fabric is sticking out. I tug on it, but it’s wedged into the concrete. I swim to the surface and have it examined.
By whom? That’s unclear—there are no other people in the dream.

But the result:
Underneath the pool, a mass grave is discovered. Twenty-three people.

It doesn’t scare me.
Instead, I feel curious—fascinated, even.
I know this because at the end of the dream, I see myself walking around in a walk-in closet, looking for something to wear while thinking about the mystery.

The closet is tidy and well-organized.

Then I wake up—completely at ease.

It’s striking that this dream didn’t frighten or disturb me.
A mass grave under my beautiful pool…
Water, concrete, light blue… a sunny space.
And it ends in a closet.

Haha—so the skeletons didn’t come out of the closet.
But… what did?

Naturally, I looked up what this dream might mean.
Here’s what I found:

A dream about a hidden mass grave can symbolize suppressed emotions, fears, or unresolved past experiences. It can also indicate a sense of uncertainty, loss of control, or a hidden part of yourself that is seeking to emerge.

Possible interpretations:

• Repressed emotions: The grave may represent buried feelings, memories, or trauma.

• Fear and uncertainty: The dream could point to a fear of facing the past—or anxiety about the future.

• Loss of control: A mass grave might reflect a feeling of helplessness.

• Suppression: You may have repressed aspects of yourself or your past, and the dream signals they are ready to surface.

• New beginning: It can also be a sign of renewal—of letting go of the old and making space for the new.

Further reflection:

• Was the dream dark and scary, or calm? Were others present?

• What emotions did you feel in the dream?

• How does the dream relate to your current life situation?

Take time to process your dream and consider what it might mean for you. Talking about it or seeking professional dream interpretation may help.

Hmm… I can work with this.

I actually told all of this to my doctor yesterday.
After the stroke, I felt like I lost control over my emotions—as if the “lid” came off.
Memories started flooding back.
Fears returned—familiar ones from long ago.

I made a conscious decision to do something constructive with this confusion: to write about it daily.
I laughed and told her:
“In a way, I feel like I’m reinventing myself.”
“A discovery—Who is Annette?”
“Maybe it sounds silly, but I’m grateful for the stroke. It’s taking me deeper into my development.”

She smiled and said:
“Yes, Annette, that’s a beautiful way to approach it.”
“And it’s true—many people struggle with emotional regulation after a stroke.”

Ton had a few questions too.
The doctor—who specializes in rehabilitation and neurological conditions (like MS, spinal cord injury, Parkinson’s, neuropathy, chronic pain)—said:
“I think Annette knows her body very well and knows what she can and can’t do.”

That felt good to hear.

People often think I push myself too far.
Ton thinks that too—he wants to protect me from pain.
I get that.

But yes—I make my own choices.
I seek my limits, and that’s only possible if you’re willing to cross them sometimes.

I see this dream as a translation of the conversation I had with my doctor yesterday.
It reflects what I’m working through.

The only things left to interpret are the pool and the number 23.

Water in dreams usually represents emotion. A pool—being a contained, structured body of water—can symbolize emotional control or a sense of safety. The clarity and calmness of the water reveal your emotional state.

The number 23 is linked to creativity, collaboration, and spiritual growth. In a biblical sense, it’s associated with divine inspiration. It may be a call to share your unique voice.

Now I understand why this dream felt so peaceful!
It was beautiful.
All the ingredients of my life woven into one image.

What a joy this journey of self-discovery is!

---

June 19, 2025

Day 99

Friendships.

I’m grateful to have friends who truly love me.
They want what’s best for me, they offer support, and they respect who I am.
They care deeply, and from that place they try to help.

Friend A told me she attends NA (Narcotics Anonymous).
She reads my blog and said it reminds her a lot of the 12-step program that NA and AA use—
things like acknowledging your behavior, self-evaluation, admitting mistakes, and being willing to change.

That meant a lot.
It made me feel like maybe I’m not doing so badly after all.

We’ve known each other for 50 years.
She told me that, in her eyes, I’ve never changed.

There was a time when she hated the way I “was.”
And now, through my blog, she sees more of the real Annette—the one I’ve always been.

She still has letters I wrote her 40 years ago—in the same style I use now.
I’ve always acted from a place of inner wisdom.
Life has tested me many times, and I’ve drifted from that wisdom too—but I always found my way back.
Back to the light at the end of the dark tunnel.

Friend B has been my bestie for over 25 years.
She wants to protect me—figuratively and literally shield me from harm.
She’s always consciously working on awareness—through books, courses, and conversations.

Whenever I’m in a low place, physically or mentally, she tries to lift me up.
She’ll recommend books, videos, or workshops.
Her arguments are often strong—she really wants to move me into action.

But somehow… I always go quiet.
I feel resistance—not to her, but to the idea of having to read or listen to something.

After a while, she’ll laugh and say:
“Oh well, what am I talking for—you never do what I suggest anyway.”

And it’s true.
But I do hear her.

I’ve had a strong inner compass since I was young.
I’ve often referred to it as “my angels.”

It doesn’t matter whether it’s “real” or not, whether it comes from outside or from within.
Who can say?

What matters is that this force has always guided me—especially in my darkest moments.
It’s a strength I can trust.

I remember the shock I felt when I discovered that books had been written with the same wisdom I thought was uniquely mine.
I wasn’t the only one?! That shook me.

The first book I ever read like that was when I was a teenager staying with my sister:
“You Can Heal Your Life” by Louise Hay.

The second I read in my early twenties, a gift from a student:
“Initiation” by Elisabeth Haich.

I devoured both in one sitting—tears streaming down my face.
The recognition was overwhelming—almost as if they had been written by me.
It was eerie.

Only later did I realize that others, too, live from this inner wisdom.
And yes—here I go again, talking about inner wisdom.
So what about my “angels”?

Well…
In my experience, I receive answers through my body, through my senses.
That’s how they reach me.
It feels honest, authentic, and real.

All my life, I’ve felt, seen, heard, smelled and sensed things that weren’t there.

I haven’t always listened to them blindly—and I still don’t.
As a child, they were my only guide.
As a young adult, I fought against them.
It felt like an invasion of privacy.

Later, through yoga, that connection opened up again.
My master—a real Sikh—once warned me:

“If you drown in it, it will lead you off your path.”
(He made a gesture, as if brushing something aside.)

He said many Westerners get lost in it.

In a one-on-one conversation, I learned this:
First and foremost, you are human.
And that means finding balance in all things—even spiritual ones.

So here’s where I land:
I’m a human being.
With all my ups and downs.

But when things get really tough—on any level—
I always find my way back through myself—through those inner insights.

That’s when I don’t need a book or a course.
Because what’s meant for me always comes from within.

What I call “inner” is, in my view, part of something larger.
I know some people may find this woo-woo.
But this is how it really works for me.

My husband Ton thinks it’s nonsense.
He laughs when I talk about “angels.”

That’s okay.
It works for me.
It makes me feel good.

There’s no resistance in me anymore.
I accept this part of myself.
And I know for sure that I’ll keep following this path—
regardless of advice, regardless of opinion.

I remain deeply joyful and grateful for this part of me.

---

June 20, 2025

Day 100

Secrets and honesty.
The things a person can be occupied with…

I’ve spent the whole day in the coolest room in our house, lying in bed.
Hopefully this is the last day of pain from the treatment earlier this week.
I can already move a bit more easily.

A lazy day, really.
Ton is out, so it’s just me and the dogs—who seem just as lazy as I am.

On my laptop, I scroll through series, websites, Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp…
I see a lot of photos—holiday snapshots, people clearly enjoying themselves.

And still, I think:
“OMG, how can anyone find this enjoyable?!”
Or:
“How can people think this is beautiful?”

These thoughts run through my head.
And yet, despite them, I send a polite thumbs-up, a heart emoji, or even a cheerful message.

Am I a hypocrite?
A Pharisee?

And here comes the dilemma:
Is this honest?

What is honesty?
When should we be honest?
And how?

Are our thoughts even ours to share?

Must we always reveal what we truly think or feel?
Is that even desirable?

If you don’t express your true thoughts, is that a secret?
Are unspoken thoughts a form of privacy?

What is a secret, anyway?

According to the dictionary:

Secret (noun): something that is hidden; something not meant to be shared.

So yes, if your thoughts remain hidden, they are—in a way—a secret.

To me, this remains a slippery slope.

Thoughts arise consciously and unconsciously.
Conscious thoughts are what you actively think about.
Unconscious ones just sneak in.

Why?
Because of your experiences, conditioning, emotions, desires, past, present, future—you name it.
They shape who you are in any given moment.

Whether you like it or not, humans are constantly thinking.
Through meditation, you might create more peace—but even then, the little voices return.

Those thoughts say something about me, just as every emotion says something about me.

Emotions—I can reflect on them.
And if they were directed at someone, I can apologize.

But thoughts?
They live inside me.
Unspoken.
No one gets hurt by them.

If I look at them honestly, I can learn from them—become gentler, grow.

Or I can simply observe them and say:
That’s me. So what?
That’s them. Fine!

No, I don’t think it’s always honest—or helpful—to speak my thoughts aloud.
Especially if they might hurt someone.

So yes—thoughts can remain private.
And yes—secrets can be honest.
And honesty can be unfair.

Each of us probably draws that line—between expressing and withholding—in different places.

I think we’re all just trying to be “good” people.
We all carry our secrets.
We all try to be as honest as we can.

I’m just a real human being—
searching how to be good to myself,
and to others.

 

 

 

June 21, 2025

 

June 22, 2025

Day 102

Dreams about a transgender person, who turns out to be intersex—she didn’t know that herself. She wants to be a man and eventually discovers she already has a penis. In the dream, I witness the discrimination and bullying she experiences. It’s not a sexual dream; I’m more of an observer of her struggle. It’s a struggle I don’t know personally—I don’t feel pity, but I do feel compassion. In a split second, this person briefly changes into one of my children, then reverts to being a stranger. The dream isn’t a story with a clear narrative but rather short, repeating scenes with small differences.

Then suddenly I see the Rolling Stones as 80-year-old men, and I hear a voice say: “Now we’re truly talking about the end of an era.” And I immediately understand. That’s when I wake up.

Not much actually happens in the dream, but it lingers for hours after I wake. Normally, I think: “I should write this down later,” but no matter how hard I try, I can never remember. Sure, I could keep a notebook next to my bed, but I’ve chosen to only analyze dreams that stay with me. I trust that if they stick, they’re important for me at this time. Never say never—maybe someday I’ll place that notebook there. Just not now.

So, what does this dream mean?

Dreams about a transgender person can reflect themes of identity, uncertainty, fear, or even the acceptance of diversity and transformation.
Some possible interpretations:

• Identity and self-acceptance: This dream may mirror my own search for identity—why I do the things I do. That’s the essence of this blog.

• Fear and insecurity: I’ve always felt insecure in my body—it responds unpredictably. I even questioned my sexuality as a young woman, explored the idea of being lesbian, but that didn’t quite suit me. Through my children, I later encountered many other expressions of sexuality. I think I relate most to the label of pansexual. Am I afraid of that? No. Even while I’m in a traditional, happy relationship.

• Change and acceptance: A lot is changing right now. I like to think I’m accepting of diversity, though maybe that’s worth exploring more deeply.

• Social awareness: I’m aware of the prejudice and challenges transgender people face. It fascinates me—the choices, the surgeries, the name changes. Through my kids and their friends, I’ve seen so much. Was it always like this? Or is this a new phase in human evolution? I find it fascinating, not offensive.

• Symbolism: The transgender person might symbolize an aspect of myself—inner masculinity or femininity, or a desire to feel more whole. I’m not sure I long for that, but I’ll keep the question open.

Some context for reflection:

• In the dream, I felt calm and observant.

• The transgender person was unknown, but briefly looked like one of my children.

• My relationship to transgender identity is mostly through my children and friends. When someone finds their “true” self through such a journey, they become happier. That’s beautiful. Who could be against that?

• This dream likely reflects my recent emotional developments—growing awareness, my changing relationship with my children, my inner transformation.

So yes, I believe this dream is a mirror of my inner process—conscious and unconscious. I’m grateful for that, because I believe there are no fixed answers. But there is a path. A personal path, guided by an inner compass. I follow it by listening to my heart.

Writing, for me, happens in flow—without thinking. Afterwards, I read my own text as if I’m an outsider. As I’ve said before, I have Annette 1, 2, and 3 inside me. Annette 3—the observer—reads and says, “Ohhh… so that’s how it is!”
Isn’t it amazing how this works for me?

 

 

 

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June 23, 2025

Day 103

Choices.
The intention behind this blog has been clear from the start: I gave myself a year to write daily. What surprises me most is that I’ve actually managed to write every single day, and even more—I've found a natural flow each time, letting a daily theme emerge on its own.

My father raised me with firm values: always keep your promises, and finish what you start. He was full of those types of moral slogans. Out of respect and love, I tried to live up to the image he had of me. The result? I constantly put pressure on myself. Sometimes I crumble under that pressure, then guilt and shame come flooding in. Why do I always set the bar so high?

If I say, “I’ll go cycling every day,” then I will do it—even if I’m covered in blisters. How ridiculous is that?
With my neurological condition, I never know how I’ll feel tomorrow—or even an hour from now. But canceling plans? That’s unthinkable. Shame, fear, and guilt keep me from doing it. So I push through. I keep the appointment, smile, and then spend days (or weeks) recovering in bed.
Only my husband sees that. No one else knows. But hey, at least I kept my word… right?

Yes, I see how some of my behavior works against me. Totally absurd.
But how did I get on this topic?

Ah yes—today at rehab, I’m cycling next to a woman I haven’t seen before. She says, “Humid today, huh?”
I mumble, “It’s not so bad.”
It was bad, but I judged her as a complainer and hoped the conversation would stop there. Silence—good.

Then she says, “I’ve been on vacation for four weeks.”
I say, “Oh.”
And I think, Just keep pedaling, Annette.
Then silence again.

She continues: “It must be the outdoor air from camping that did me good.”
I close my eyes. Eight minutes to go. Maybe she’ll take the hint.

But as I cycle in my bubble, it dawns on me: this wasn’t the attitude I wanted to cultivate.
This isn’t just unsocial—it’s borderline antisocial.
But why do I have to be social all the time?
Don’t I have a choice?

Why do I always bring up the father in me, the disciplinarian?
Am I afraid to call on the mother in me?
Can’t I just call on Annette—the one who’s allowed to say “I can’t right now”?
The Annette who’s allowed to think: “I just don’t want to today.”
The Annette who’s allowed to be free, to let anything be possible?

So if one day I can’t write, then I simply don’t.
When will I finally let go of all these dogmas?
Come on, Annette—you can do it.

It’s okay that I didn’t want to talk to a stranger today.
It’s okay—without guilt, without shame.

When I told Ton, he said:
“Maybe you can think of a gentle way to end a conversation like that.”
“Of course you have a choice. Think about it.”

So yes, I made a choice.
But maybe I could’ve handled it more kindly.
Closing my eyes—literally and figuratively—was a bit extreme.

Sigh. My brain locks up again.

How do I tell someone, face-to-face, that I don’t feel like talking?

Verbally? Non-verbally?
I have no idea.

Maybe one of my readers has a suggestion?
Let me know.

 

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June 24, 2025

Day 104

Dominance.
My friend Hilde and I are both widows. We both had husbands who kept a youthful, hippie-like spirit their whole lives. For 25 years, we were used to men who went along with whatever we suggested.

Today we talked about how easy it was that our husbands just followed our lead. People often describe us as dominant women. But… are we really?
What is dominance in a relationship, anyway?
Dominance can mean being bossy, ignoring the other’s feelings, being self-centered… not very compatible with mutual respect.

Bossy? Maybe.
But disregarding feelings? That’s not us. We’re both soft at heart. We cry when we see someone in pain.
I’d say we’re more like initiators who happen to be a bit persuasive.

But now we’re both in new relationships—with men who have their own opinions. And guess what?
It turns out we’re not always as “loving and patient” as we thought.
We still want things to go our way.
We’re not used to hearing:
“No, I don’t want that.”
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”
“Can we talk about it first?”

It’s a whole new ballgame.
We can laugh about it, but yes… we might have to admit we’ve got a bit of dominance in us.
It’s time to let go of always needing things to go our way—and focus on the beauty of what is mutually possible with our new partners.

While we’re on the subject of dominance:
Why are people who speak their minds and take initiative always labeled dominant?
My husband used to disappear into his book and ignore the world. I found that to be a kind of silent dominance—or avoidance of responsibility.
Those who seem passive—burying themselves in books or hobbies—can be dominant too, in their own quiet way.

At least I see it now. I recognize my own habits of always pushing my way through. But now I also see there’s another will in the room—his.
And that awareness softens the label of dominance a bit.
It’s exciting to test this still-untouched side of myself in a new relationship.
You’re never too old to learn.

 

 

 

 

June 25, 2025

Day 105

Through the Pain

Twice a week I go to rehab: fitness and exercises. If possible, I try to cycle every day. Unfortunately, each time I suffer an injury, it sets me back for a week—or often several—confined to bed. That’s been my reality for the past two years, resulting in a weight gain of 20 kilos and a slow descent into a downward spiral.

Lately, I stop whenever I feel additional pain—by that I mean pain different from the chronic discomfort I’m already used to. Back when I was actively teaching yoga and living that philosophy, I handled pain in a very different way.

This morning I woke up from a jumble of dreams. I can’t recall the details, but during my morning rituals, a voice surfaced in my mind: “Do you remember the enormous pain you had during your first yoga trainings?”
“Yes, I absolutely do!” I replied to myself.

“Then why do your shoulders and upper arms hurt now?”
“Because of the exercises you did yesterday.”
“So what are you going to do? Quit again? Or push through the pain like you used to?”

“Annette, are you willing to go for it? What do you have to lose? Do you really want to spiral down even further?”

No—I need to pick up the gauntlet again. Train actively. Every day.
THROUGH THE PAIN!

No sooner said than done—or better: no sooner thought than done. I unrolled my yoga mat and got moving. After a few exercises, a lot of sweat, and yes—pain—I felt proud and satisfied. Strange how I rediscovered how much I enjoy pushing my limits. It’s always been that way.

I know this will likely come with sore muscles in the beginning. But that’s okay. This time I’ll keep it simple: 15 to 30 minutes of intensive training a day. No more quitting when it hurts. Just carry on. It helped me enormously 40 years ago—why wouldn’t it again?

For me, things work differently. When people say “listen to your body,” I almost have to do the opposite. My body naturally asks for rest. The less I do, the less pain I feel. But in the end, that only weighs me down—literally and emotionally. Moving helps me feel better mentally. It gives me energy and motivation. My body always responds with pain. It’s a dilemma.

Do I want to live with as little pain as possible, but heavy and sluggish?
Or... do I want to live full of energy, light in spirit and body—but in pain?

I’ve lived the first option in recent years. I used to live the second, from age 20 to 40. And now I’m going to return to that second path—but more balanced this time. A little bit each day. Not all day like before.

I’ll start my mornings with rituals, ending with exercise. Yes, it’s another commitment—but this time, not out of discipline, but out of love for myself.

I know I need to start moving to create change. Lately, I feel like a frail old woman. I’ve long been able to separate that feeling mentally and physically. But if I keep going like this, I’ll become old in mind too. And that’s not how I want to see myself.

Transformation will take a lot—mentally and physically. It’s not my goal, but it will be my path.
And I’m giving it my all.

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June 26, 2025

Day 106

Fake it Till You Make It

It’s a saying that means pretending to be confident and competent—even if you’re not yet—until eventually, you truly become it. You act your way into belief. It’s a strategy where you influence your own mindset and how others perceive you by adjusting your behavior.

With my bold mouth I often say: “I can do anything.” A bit of an exaggeration, sure. But when I set my mind to something, it often does work. Mentally and creatively, there’s very little I can’t handle.
But… the big but… I also have a body.

Even physically, I’ve often done the impossible, despite my condition. But right now, I struggle with the simplest of exercises. Like stepping over a 15 cm line without toppling, or walking in a straight line with even steps—it seems impossible!

These almost infantile exercises are real obstacles for me. Inside, the dialogue starts again:
“‘Can’t’ doesn’t exist in my vocabulary.”
“If I think I can’t, I don’t even begin.”
“So why am I doing this then?”
“People only see what I can do—at least as much as possible.”
“Haha, am I fooling myself now?”
“Even the blind could see something’s off.”
“People have seen it my whole life.”
“Annetje, you’re capable—but also incapable of many things.”
“This isn’t about ability—it’s rehab.”
“Don’t get frustrated—just keep practicing.”

That’s the loop in my head.

I told my therapist I’m in a new mode now. A choice between being a depressed elephant or a vibrant older woman in pain. And I absolutely choose the latter.

So now, it’s daily training: 75 minutes of physio twice a week, 30 minutes at home five times a week. Cycling doesn’t count—that’s just movement.

This plan feels realistic and sustainable. It’s as if I’m seeking a physical catharsis. That word is often used for emotional cleansing. Catharsis means experiencing deep emotions like grief or rage, then finding relief. Writing gives me some of that emotional catharsis.

Now it’s time for my body to go through its own. Through pain and insecurity, toward strength and lightness.
It’s possible—I’m certain of it!

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June 27, 2025

Day 107

Love Is...

Love for my partner.
Love for my children.
Love for my friends.
Love for my animals.
Love for humankind.
Love for the things I love doing.

The word is used so often. But is love the same for everyone? Is it unconditional? Does love have layers? Or dimensions?

What are we really talking about?
Passion? Devotion? Affection? Attachment? Tenderness? Infatuation?

I find it hard to define.

Love for a partner always fluctuates for me. It’s tied to my emotional state—my emotional allergies. Still, I see a partner as a mirror, a sparring partner through whom I can learn about myself.
From experience, I know that when love starts strong, it’s up to me to help it flourish. But it’s not always easy.

Love for my friends is mainly about loyalty. There are specific aspects I connect with—and that’s what we share. The rest, I leave untouched. That’s probably why friendships often last forever. With friends, you get to pick the beautiful parts. It’s less confronting than a partner.

Love for my animals—that’s something special. I call them “my little hearts.” I’m always amazed how clearly they love me. Ton feeds them and walks them, yet they’re more attached to me. They give me comfort, warmth, and endless cuddles.
I don’t even like physical touch from people—yet with animals, I can cuddle all day. With them, I feel truly safe.

My passions lie in creativity and nature. Loving people? That’s trickier. I respect and accept them, and I’ll help if asked. But I don’t reach out to strangers easily. I usually observe before I engage.

And then the hardest part… my children.

I enjoyed all of my pregnancies. Those were beautiful periods. Holding my babies close, breastfeeding, being with them 24/7—it was deeply fulfilling. For my two youngest, I even worked at their school to stay close.

My husband and I believed that gave them a safe, strong start.
But something went wrong in the bond somewhere. Things don’t flow as smoothly as I’d hoped.

Did it start when my husband died ten years ago? Or earlier?

I always hoped the feeling of connection and unconditional love would always be there. But their unpredictable behavior unsettles me.

Is my love for my children truly unconditional?
Is their love for me?

Can love change?
Will love prevail?

Why is this so hard?
Why does it scare me?

My children are my greatest blessing.
I love them—and I’m incredibly proud.
But they are also my most vulnerable spot.

They can hurt me more than anyone. They can also make me happiest. Because I’m not detached from them—not emotionally.

Physically, yes. They live elsewhere. But there’s an invisible umbilical cord that will never go away. It still feels like part of my physical being.

That’s why I’ll always be vulnerable when it comes to them.
Maybe I, too, just need to go through the pain here.

 

 

 

 

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June 28, 2025

Day 108

Where You Come From, Where You're Going

“Who you are is not only defined by where you come from, but also by where you're going.”
My friend Hilde sent me this quote after seeing it at an exhibition at the Fenix Museum in Rotterdam. It struck me deeply.

If people truly knew who my biological parents are and how they’ve behaved in their lives, I’d feel ashamed to be their offspring. Not just shame—but a deep fear of resembling them. Physically, sure—that’s obvious. But internally…! I don’t even want to imagine it.

If I think about it seriously, it’s the kind of thing that could keep me awake at night.

I’ve mostly tried to live by the strict and dogmatic rules of the man who raised me. His standards were extreme too, but at least they made some sense. Of course, I broke the rules from time to time—like any good rebellious youth.

But those rules still shape me to this day. They’ve made me uncompromising, rigid, even harsh at times. People who know me also know I have an extremely free-spirited side.
There’s rarely a middle ground with me. Balance is often nowhere to be found—it’s either black or white.

Suddenly it hits me: living with someone like me must not be easy.

From now on, I no longer want to feel ashamed of being a child of Heidi and Peter. No—I’m grateful they made my life possible.
Well… to put it more accurately: I’m grateful that I’m here.

Now it’s time to meet the one and only Annette 4—and to really get to know her. Because Annette 1, 2, and 3 (the thinker, the emotional one, and the observer) are on their way to becoming her.

Annette 4 is the one I’m moving toward. A version of myself that is more balanced, less fragmented, more unified.

All the aspects that make me “Annette,” finally integrated into a beautiful whole—balanced, free, and joyful.

That is my path. That is my mission.

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June 29, 2025

Day 109

Present, But Not There

Sailing with the whole family on the Linge River in a BBQ donut boat—it was a unique experience. Ton and I celebrate our birthdays together every year in June or July, with all our children, their partners, and grandchildren. This year we were 20 people strong.

I’m always the one to organize it and I’m glad when as many as possible can attend. This time, it was supposed to be everyone—but one person cancelled.
You’d think: “How lovely! So gezellig!” (cosy, fun!)
And it was… for everyone. Except me.

Here’s the strange part: I felt absolutely nothing.

This happens to me a lot. After a party I’ve organized, people tell me how much they enjoyed it—even years later. But me? Nothing. No feeling. No emotional response. It’s like I wasn’t really there.

Over time, I’ve learned to answer affirmatively when people say, “Wasn’t it great?” I nod, not to ruin their good vibe. But inside—nothing moves.

I feel like someone who observes everything but isn’t part of it.

Today, again, I found myself asking others if they enjoyed it. Because I can’t tell on my own. Normally in larger groups I’m hyper-aware—sensitive to atmosphere and tension. I react instantly to emotional cues.

But at family gatherings? I’m physically present—but mentally spaced out.

When I get home, it all becomes clear: I was emotionally absent.

Why is that?
Is there some deep stigma attached to family for me?

My own children and grandchildren feel safer to me than my extended family.
Or is it the responsibility of organizing it that detaches me emotionally?
Should I seriously examine this pattern—or just stop organizing these events?

From a maternal standpoint, I think it’s good for the kids’ connection.
It’s healthy to facilitate those moments. But what does it mean for me?

Is there a way I could enjoy it too?
Why do I feel so empty, indifferent, numb during these gatherings?

I’m honestly wondering.
Especially because I’ve noticed this in myself for years.

Family weekends with my siblings, nieces, and nephews from my side of the family trigger heavy PTSD. I’ve decided never to go again—only to birthdays, and even then with an escape plan.

Weirdly enough, family events with my dad’s side—cousins and all—feel like a warm bath.

Such different responses in different contexts.
I have no idea why I let nothing in on days like today.
No highs, no lows. Just... blank.

I’m not necessarily looking for an answer.
But I am curious.

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June 30, 2025

Day 110

Heat and Emotional Blockades

Heat is the worst for me. My body can't release warmth properly. I retain fluid suddenly, like a balloon swelling up, causing pain.
My internal thermostat is broken, you could say.

Even as a young girl, heatwaves rendered me useless.
And as I grow older, it only gets worse. Now I truly understand how elderly people can die from heat.

So I stay inside with the air conditioner on.
No other choice.

This morning I also got caught in an emotional rollercoaster due to some miscommunication.
It hit me so deeply I can’t even write about it in detail.
All I can say is I felt nauseous, teary, and completely shut down.
Blocked—because talking about the issue wasn’t possible.

What is an emotional blockade?

It’s an internal wall that stops you from fully experiencing or expressing your emotions. A kind of self-protective mechanism—avoiding pain or discomfort by suppressing feelings.

But those blockades create other issues: isolation, stress, problems in relationships.
You might feel nothing at all, suppress everything, or get caught between contradictory emotions.

Wow… maybe that’s also what happened yesterday.

So, what can I do?
Let go of what I cannot change.
Focus on myself. My recovery plan is going well—my training schedule feels strong.

Respect my limits—physically and mentally.
Start truly respecting myself.

This life is mine.
And I can enjoy everything that is going well.

After a day full of emotional pain, I find myself back at this same conclusion:
Worrying about things beyond my control is useless.
For anyone.

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July 1, 2025

Day 111

The Flow of Life

My oldest child has her birthday today!
Ton and I sang to her at 00:01.

Over the weekend, my daughter told everyone that Ton—back when he was her doctor—once gave her a heel prick as a baby. There are even photos of him holding her, 38 years ago.

How unpredictable life can be.
How your path unfolds is truly a mystery.

Could I have known, back then, that I’d marry that same doctor 30 years later?

I remember how I used to picture my future—vivid images, full of conviction.
Even the first time I got married, I was certain it would match the dreams I had.
I believed my visions would manifest.

Not realizing… they were just illusions.

After the first disappointment, I picked myself up and continued, trying to control life again and again.

Looking back, I always thought I was moving spiritually with “the flow of life.”
Yes—I wanted to go with the flow.
But what I really did was fluff up the pillows each time and think: “Okay, this is it. This will stay.”

But it never did.

Life keeps moving. There’s always something unexpected.
Yes, I’ve learned to adjust—eventually. But now I realize something deeper:

Going with the flow of life doesn’t mean adapting afterwards.
It means being flexible in the moment.

You can only feel joy or happiness NOW.
Afterwards, you may feel satisfied—or disappointed—but it’s never now again.

Making plans or imagining the future is madness.
Before you know it, you’re trying to control it again.

No—I need to stop focusing on things outside this time and space.
Stay alert to what’s unfolding right now.

Life is a vast ocean you can play in—
As long as you let go of judgment, preference, and your grip on long-term plans.

Be open to what comes, as it comes.

And if I stumble?
I’ll get up. Brush off the dust.
Laugh out loud—
And carry on.

I might be wrong,
But I think I’ve finally reached a point where I can really live this way.

 

 

 

 

July 2, 2025

Day 112

Creativity.

According to my husband, it’s always a good sign when I start painting again. I feel the same way. My thinking stops—it's as if I enter a meditative state. It’s a way of connecting with my inner world of experience. There’s no plan, just expression, driven by intuition and emotion, without concern for the end result.

As long as I can remember, I’ve done this. In the past, I would make a painting and then spend days looking at the result. I called this “mopping the floor.” That’s how I got to know myself, gained insights—a form of exploration to discover my true self. I usually paint in a flow, triggered by something—a moment in nature, a comment from someone. It doesn’t matter what it is—TV, a book, anything can put me in a painting flow. And once I’m in that flow, I keep going day and night until it’s finished—a kind of passionate obsession.

I’ve been trying to change this pattern for a while now. To let go, to allow myself to sleep. It’s really hard, because once I’m in it, sleep becomes nearly impossible. Still, I want to learn how to take moments of rest during a flow.

Some things I noticed today:

• There wasn’t really a trigger—just an undeniable inner urge to create.

• My use of color was different than I’m used to.

• The base was a face.

• Hours of painting left my body tired—my stamina isn’t what it used to be.

• After taking a break, I fell into a deep sleep.

• When I woke up, I could immediately continue painting in the same flow.

• I was still able to write my blog—and I know I couldn’t have done that in the past.

• The painting isn’t finished yet, but I already feel so much positivity from it.

Once it’s done, I’m very curious what it will tell me—just like with my dreams. In any case, I’m really happy to be immersed in a painting again.

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July 3, 2025

Day 113

Second opinion.

Went to see another cardiologist in Rotterdam today. I doubt anyone really enjoys going to a hospital for treatment. For me, it’s a mini-PTSD experience—something I’ve undergone multiple EMDR sessions for in the past.

EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It’s a form of therapy used to reduce the emotional impact of traumatic memories. By using stimulation such as eye movements or tapping, the brain is guided in reprocessing painful memories, easing their emotional charge.

As a young teenager, I was used as a test subject—with my parents’ permission. Therapy has dulled the sharpest edges of that experience, but the sheer number of hospital visits I’ve had this past year means I still have to actively suppress my aversion and nausea every time.

That said, I felt relatively calm heading in today. How do I know? Well, usually before a medical appointment I get snappy with Ton. This time, I was kind—even though, okay, I did bark at him for trying to turn down the wrong street. But aside from that, it was easy peasy.

It turned out to be a good consultation: a kind cardiologist who explained things clearly. On the drive home, we decided to go for a bike ride in the afternoon—sounded like a good idea, especially since the recent heatwave had kept us inactive.

But once we got home, I felt how exhausted I was. My blood pressure had been great in the hospital—a sign of inner calm—but at home, the toll became more obvious. Yes, I can keep my emotions under control these days, but these visits still impact me deeply.

Where did the days go when I barely ever saw a doctor? When I didn’t take a single pill? Sometimes I still can’t believe I’ve ended up in this medical circus again. I need to shift my point of view—from resistance against the medical world to gratitude that it exists and that the medications are keeping me healthy.

Today went well: calm in the moment, tired beyond it. Let’s call it a step in the right direction.

 

 

 

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July 4, 2025

Day 114

The painting is not a mask — it symbolizes my face.
The way I experience life at this moment.
As I look at it, the pupils really stand out. They look sharply into the world.
In the past, people sometimes commented on how I look at things. One woman — a stranger to me — once said I had a "piercing gaze." I remember being shocked when she said that. I don’t see my own eyes, of course. But I do know that I often want to truly understand what I’m looking at.

My children sometimes find my gaze unsettling. They don’t react to what I say, but to how I look at them. Apparently, my eyes reflect the stirrings of my soul — at least, to the viewer, I seem to be an open book.
People often respond to me before I’ve even said a word.
And I wonder:
“Do they see what’s going on inside me?”
Or
“Am I a mirror for the person looking at me?”
It depends on how you look at it.

What else stands out to me in the painting?
The colors are notably bright and feel sunny.
I usually paint with deeper tones.
This painting makes me feel happy.

The black pupils are present, but they don’t feel like a dissonance.
The most prominent colors are light blue, orange, and pink.
I also see blue, yellow, gold, white, and soft green.

Here’s what these colors mean to me:

Light Blue – calming, peaceful, linked to clarity, loyalty, truth, wisdom, and spiritual willpower.
Blue – symbolizes depth and expansiveness; represents harmony, honesty, and creativity, but can feel distant.
Yellow – the color of the sun, warmth, joy, curiosity, spontaneity. Cheerful and uplifting.
Orange – spiritual awakening, creativity, energy, originality, vitality. Warm, adventurous, and optimistic.
Pink – love, compassion, inner peace. Helps with self-acceptance and emotional connection.
Gold – divine energy, purity, power, healing, transformation. A source of light and spiritual abundance.
Light Green – renewal, growth, vitality, harmony with nature, and fresh beginnings.
White – purity, truth, peace, completeness. Symbolic of the divine and of new beginnings.

These are beautiful meanings to assign to my color choices.
It’s clear to me that I’ve gone through a period of growth.
Some things have been processed more deeply, and I feel more balanced than before.

The flowers in the painting represent my desire to be in nature — to nourish myself from it. For me, this is an encouraging painting.

I used real plants: lamsoor (sea lavender) and gerbera.
Spiritually, lamsoor is associated with resilience and endurance, growing in tough conditions. It also symbolizes affection and friendship in some traditions.
Gerberas represent joy, vitality, and positivity. They’re linked to innocence and happiness.

I’ve titled this painting “Inner Face.”
The “inner face” is often a metaphor for our inner state — our emotional and spiritual self — and how that subtly shows in our appearance.
Or how a face can reflect the essence of someone’s personality.

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July 5, 2025

Day 115

Today it’s been 10 years since Michel passed away.
To me, he’s still here — every single day.
What I miss most are the conversations we used to have. We lifted each other up. We grew together, inspired each other, sharpened each other. No one has ever done that for me the way he did.

I believe that when something or someone falls away, life brings new challenges.
Living with Michel required a certain intensity — a level I haven’t encountered since.
Ten years older now, I’m literally and figuratively in a different phase of life. Not comparable.

Still, I talk to him in my thoughts — as if he’s an angel, a guide, still whispering things to me.
His “lay down” mentality — that calming presence — is something I still need now and then, to let go of my worries.

By now, I’m certain: he will always be a part of me.
Because of that, I feel free to take on new challenges.
His path ended in this life.
Mine still continues.

I have a new partner now — Ton. We’ve been married for two years.
There are very few similarities between Michel and Ton. Actually, there’s just one: they’re both men.
Hahaha — that’s about where the resemblance ends.

It’s not that I compare them.
How can I explain?
Michel is now a part of me — integrated — he has shaped who I’ve become.
Ton is with the Annette as she is now, complete with that inner Michel-part.
Together, we form an entirely new relationship, with different ingredients.

We are not each other’s solution to the past —
There is simply love now.

That means we don’t try to fix each other’s old wounds or past relationships.
We focus on the love we share today, and the future we want to create together — without dragging the past along.
We’re two individuals with our own histories, and we’re not responsible for each other’s past.
We love each other as we are now, shaped by everything we’ve lived through.
We don’t try to change or “repair” one another.

No — we enjoy a life in which we can both experience new things.

Losing your partner is deeply painful.
But on the other side of it, I’ve come to see something else: a gift.
Now, I get to discover new aspects of myself — because Ton holds up a very different mirror.

It’s become clear to me:
Life takes, and life gives.
It took Michel —
And gave me Ton.
It took away my health through a stroke —
And gave me renewed insight in return…

 

 

 

 

July 6, 2025

Day 116

 

Following yesterday’s entry, my sister sent me a quote she had just read in the newspaper:

“It is a great mystery of human life that suffering slowly transforms into quiet, intimate joy, that our bitter tears eventually become tears of emotion and purification of the heart.”
– Fyodor Dostoevsky

He also wrote:

“The mystery of human existence is not only in staying alive, but in finding something to live for.”

Dostoevsky lived from 1821 to 1881. Two hundred years ago! It goes to show: humanity never really changes. Technology evolves, appearances shift, the natural world transforms through human interference — but the inner human being does not.

The spirit of the times may determine how thoughts are expressed — I’ve even seen that in my own relatively short life. What’s considered acceptable to say has changed significantly.
For example, we used to sing lyrics in school like: “Little Moor, black as soot.” And all those traditional Sinterklaas songs, full of now outdated and unacceptable references. Understandably so.

But that’s not really my point. What I find striking is this:
Humans have always been preoccupied with inner awareness — and that hasn’t changed, regardless of the form or flavor of the time.

Toon Hermans once said:

“To live is a privilege; to know how, is an art.”

No one has a manual for how to live. Every person is a unique building block — part of a vast whole.
And you need many other blocks to see who or what you truly are.

That’s exactly why we need other people in order to grow.
And if I extend the metaphor further, I think about the diversity of bricks needed to build something beautiful: a supporting brick, a cornerstone, a connecting brick, a rebellious one, a colorful one, a shaping one, and so on.

All of it is necessary to make humanity whole.
Everything is allowed to be here.

This realization brings me more and more peace — and acceptance of who I am.

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July 7, 2025

Day 117

Five and a half months since the stroke, and I can say with pride: I’m doing much better.
Every day I either cycle or walk. Walking in particular has improved significantly. Still heavy at times, but I now walk 3 to 5 kilometers — instead of just 100 meters. That’s real progress!

My balance is visibly improving, too.
Bit by bit, I’m becoming physically and mentally healthier.

My neurological condition, CMT, might look like a troublesome illness to an outsider. And even though it’s progressive, I experience it as part of me. I literally don’t know any different — I was born with it.

So everything else I feel — that is what I interpret as illness or deep discomfort.
In other words, I’m absolutely over the moon with this progress.

Today consisted of training, relaxing, and painting.
Few thoughts. No worries. Just contentment.

Nothing much to report — boring for the reader, perhaps —
But this lady is feeling at peace today.

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July 8, 2025

Day 118

Nostalgia.
A nostalgic mood is a feeling that evokes connection, comfort, and positive memories.
Revisiting the past can deepen one’s sense of meaning and well-being, and help to process negative emotions.

Nostalgia often centers around cherished memories.

While painting a new piece today, two songs started playing in my head:
“Burning Down the House” by Talking Heads, and “Bridges Are Burning” by Wally Tax.

I used to be a huge fan of Talking Heads.
Byrne’s absurd stage presence, the simplicity yet intrigue of their concert film — it captivated me.
It brings me back to a time when I felt happy.

In an interview, David Byrne explained the metaphor behind Burning Down the House:

“It wasn’t about arson. When I wrote the lyrics in 1982, the title line was a metaphor for destroying something safe that was keeping you trapped… I saw it as an expression of liberation, breaking free from whatever was holding you back.”

Wally Tax’s song is very different.
At the time, I was simply fascinated by it — mesmerized by the track.
Tax himself always struck me as a strange man. But I sensed he wrote this as a confession: to show the world he was destroying his own life.

I interpreted it as a metaphor too:
Burning things down to start anew. Rebuilding bridges.

Just like with my dreams, I tend to assign meaning to whatever suddenly lands in my awareness.
Even old songs I haven’t listened to in years.

So why these two?

The painting I’m working on now is unusual.
The way I’m creating it, the form it’s taking — it’s really different from my usual work.
It looks simple, but it’s intriguing.

I realize I’m slowly letting go of my past, especially the trauma.
I’m literally leaving it behind.

Yes — I think I understand now why those songs came to me while creating.
I’m in a good place right now.

A top day.

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July 9, 2025

Day 119

Vitality — that’s what I strive for.
How do I do it?
By training, eating healthy, and neutralizing the ghosts of my past — through writing.

What does “vitality” actually mean?
Vitality refers to life force, life energy. It includes both physical and mental resilience, the ability to sustain energy to meet daily challenges. A vital person feels energetic, fit, motivated, and has a positive mindset.

My husband often admires my mental strength and zest for life.
That’s lovely, of course — but sometimes, I have to fake it just to keep going.

I’ve had a few good days.
For me, that almost always means I’m doing better physically.
Mentally, I’ve always been strong — thankfully.
But how much easier would it be if my body were just a little more stable?

Unfortunately, today I found training incredibly exhausting again.
Instead of two half-hour sessions, I only managed one — and felt drained the rest of the day.

To avoid being dragged down by my faltering body, I chose to stay mentally vital.
So I finished the painting I mentioned yesterday.

I called it “Regain Vitality.”

It’s full of color — symbolizing a vibrant life, lived by a dynamic person.
The movement is shown through circular forms.

The triangles are rigid, but softly colored —
In other words: conquerable.

You see winter fun (for someone born in January, winter is closer to the heart than summer), skaters, cyclists, and a hiker.
Athletic joy in nature — that’s how I portray myself.

Small in the image, maybe far off still,
But certainly reachable
If I continue, steadily, on the path I’m walking now…

 

 

 

 

July 10, 2025

Day 120

Old and new

Ton and I visited Veere today, where my friend Carina recently moved with her husband and dog. We've been friends for 50 years now. Besties since our first year of secondary school. So different in character, often confronting one another, but never any real fights that I can remember—just a pattern of drawing close and then drifting apart again. Intense contact followed by long periods of silence. And yet, we’ve always remained part of each other’s lives.

We’ve both been through a lot—family, relationships, our children. When we meet, it’s familiar. Instantly, we become those schoolgirls again, and at the same time, the women we are now: grown, evolved, softer, and more accepting—so much so that the differences between us seem to have disappeared. Her husband even remarked that we are very much alike now, emotionally and in the life stage we find ourselves in.

Carina and I are both now married to men who are 14 years older than we are. The men joked that this makes them the wiser ones. Carina and I, being truly wise, just let them have that one. What we both clearly see is how, through the love of these men, we have finally been able to feel content with ourselves. We both feel unconditionally supported by our current partners—a true gift, especially later in life.

We now mostly see the similarities in our life paths, although they may have always been there. When you’re young, you’re more focused on differences. You want to be unique, to stand out from the crowd. But the older you get, the more you realize that, through life experience, you simply become more human. A unique individual, yes—but also very similar to all other people. After all, nothing truly human is foreign to us.

We can be everything, we’re allowed to be everything, and we get to choose.
And when you look at aging this way, it becomes something truly beautiful.
There’s something profoundly special about literally growing up and growing old with someone—reflecting together, mirroring one another, staying young in the heart even as the body tells a different story.
I’m grateful to have such a friendship.

 

July 11, 2025

Day 121

Besties

In my life, I’ve had three besties. Fifteen long-time friends, more than 30 years of friendship, and among them, these three besties: Carina, Birgit, and Hilde.

Because I spent the day yesterday with Carina, I suddenly started thinking about what all my besties have in common—and what I have in common with them. Birgit sadly passed away last year, but that’s not what my thoughts are about now. What strikes me is how I myself "do" best-friendship.

For me, a bestie is someone I spend a very intense period of time with—often daily. These kinds of bonds intertwine deeply with personal life, and vice versa. Since Carina has been my bestie since school, something became clear to me.

This pattern also applies to Birgit and Hilde, and really to all my other friends. Carina and I were in the same class, besties, but we each had separate circles of friends. We went out with different people.

Carina, Birgit, and Hilde have always had broader social circles—many people they called friends.
I never had that.
I only bonded with my besties, and stayed at a distance from others. I wouldn’t even call them “friends.”

I never hung out with my besties’ other friends.
All my friendships are one-on-one.
Cross-connections, group friendships—those just aren’t for me.

Strange, right?
And yet, I never noticed this so clearly until today.
Why is that?
That question lingered with me all morning.

It is unusual, isn’t it?

And then, as I sat down with my crossword puzzle at lunchtime, a word came to me. I scribbled it in the margin of my puzzle book:
Lone Wolf.

Ton and I went for a bike ride around three and didn’t return until eight in the evening.
The words echoed in my mind the entire time: “Lone Wolf, Lone Wolf…”

Where did that come from? Why does it haunt me?
Back home, I realized—it’s the answer to the question I’d thrown into the ether this morning.
Why are all my friendships so strictly one-on-one?

It’s obvious. I’m a Lone Wolf.

But what exactly is that? That deserves some exploration…

---

What kind of personality is a Lone Wolf?
This personality type belongs to people who enjoy being alone and who tend to avoid large crowds or social gatherings. They’re not interested in popularity; they value quality over quantity—especially when it comes to human connection.

Lone Wolves can be classified as introverts or even shy, but that’s just part of their story. Often, becoming a Lone Wolf is a conscious choice—shaped by behavior or by life experience.

Funny enough, as a child, a psychiatrist in Leiden once described me as introverted. People around me often see me as extroverted—probably because I speak quite directly, and that sometimes feels abrupt or even “harsh” to others. But internally, I feel far more introverted. I share very little of what I truly feel or perceive, even if it appears otherwise on the outside.

Lone Wolves don’t need superficial relationships. Some may struggle with self-worth or social anxiety. Others simply prefer a solitary path, not because they’re unhappy, but because it’s how they thrive.

Stereotypes aside, they’re often highly introspective, emotionally intelligent, and extremely independent. Many creatives retreat into their own world to focus, finding small talk draining.

Just like any other personality, being a Lone Wolf comes with strengths and challenges:

1. They’re extremely self-aware.
   Lone Wolves often analyze themselves deeply and know exactly who they are—including their flaws and virtues. They rarely make promises they can’t keep and have a solid understanding of their own emotions.
   If that means I’m extremely self-aware—then yes, I guess I am. I’ve just never thought of it that way before.

2. They’re highly self-motivated.
   They don’t rely on others for momentum. They push themselves forward, even through hard times. That couldn’t describe me more perfectly. This is exactly how I function.

3. They love to create.
   Often, they’re artists or makers. They think outside the box, resist peer pressure, and pursue their vision even when fear creeps in.
   This hits me to the core—this is me to a T.

4. They keep a small social circle.
   They enjoy being alone, but that doesn’t mean they’re lonely. They choose their people carefully and step away when a situation no longer serves them.
   Absolutely accurate. This is exactly how I handle relationships.

5. They crave meaningful conversations.
   Small talk makes them uneasy. They’d rather be silent than engage in idle chatter. They long for depth, spiritual connection.
   Sometimes I even feel physically uncomfortable when the conversation is superficial.

6. They know what they want.
   They understand themselves, their boundaries, and what they’re willing to give or receive in relationships. They fight for their space when needed—even if it’s not always appreciated.
   This hits close to home.

7. They value solitude.
   Time alone helps them recharge. Nature is often a key part of this.
   Yes, 100%. Nature and solitude are my healing ground.

8. They can seem mysterious.
   Because they only speak when they have something meaningful to say, others may see them as distant or hard to read.
   Ton sometimes struggles with this—when I don’t want to share what’s going on inside.
   Only he and my besties get to peek behind the curtain.

9. They’re excellent listeners.
   They absorb more than they reveal. People often feel truly heard by them.
   Ton always says I hear and see everything.
   I take in a lot, and when someone needs it, I respond in depth.
   But I sometimes wonder—do I listen just to avoid speaking? Is that easier for me?

10. They’re sharp observers.
    They notice non-verbal cues, read between the lines, and understand people’s motives instinctively.
    I’ve written about this before. Observation is second nature to me.
    There’s a big difference between looking and seeing.
    Seeing brings insight.

---

It amazes me that I asked a question in the morning—and received an answer by nightfall.
The words “Lone Wolf” came to me out of nowhere.
How beautiful is that?

I’ve never used that phrase before.
In Dutch, it would translate to “eenzame wolf,” but that misses the nuance. It’s not about being lonely—it’s about being someone who walks alone.

Translation doesn’t always capture the depth.
But it’s becoming clear.

I’ve never really reflected on this part of my personality before.
Now that I do, I feel more accepting of who I am.
Maybe I don’t need to be more social.
Maybe I don’t have to change.

Who knows…

But I’m grateful for these insights.
Feeling strong again today.

 

 

 

 

July 12, 2025

Day 122

Logic

Logic is a fundamental part of philosophy and is used to analyze philosophical arguments. It's crucial in mathematics as well, helping to construct and evaluate mathematical proofs. In short, logic is a powerful tool for clear thinking, analyzing reasoning, and constructing valid arguments. But what is logical thinking? Logical thinking—or logical reasoning—means focusing on a particular task by following a step-by-step thought process. Simply put: you analyze a situation and arrive at a reasonable, sensible conclusion. Logic is based on rational thought, while spirituality often emphasizes subjective experiences and intuition.

And that’s where I find myself—on both sides. On one hand, I’m a fairly down-to-earth person who logically examines cause and effect. On the other hand, I’m also guided by impulses, intuition, and sudden, inexplicable experiences. How do I put this? I try to use logic to recognize connections and gain insight, which in turn deepens my spiritual awareness. Or... does that already sound too woolly?

It’s an awareness of a deeper connection between myself and the world around me—and maybe even beyond that. I always refer to “the universe,” because I feel part of it. “God” is a difficult concept for me—too abstract. I can’t picture anything concrete. The only thing I can think is that it must be something that lives within me, and within everything and everyone around me. So either everything is divine—or nothing is. A binary thought, perhaps, but in my logic, it’s all just + and – or 1 and 0.

Apparently I’m in a philosophical mood today. But who really knows how things work? I don’t think anyone does. Everyone follows their own beliefs, the ones that feel right to them. Sometimes I feel like a figure in an Escher painting, where everything is connected and yet makes no logical sense. Maybe that’s the point—that there’s coherence in life, in the events that happen, but not always logic. Maybe it’s impossible to let go as long as we’re searching for logic. Maybe trusting in the coherence is enough. Maybe we don’t need to know the meaning behind it. Maybe that is what true letting go means…

---

July 13, 2025

Day 123

Loving...

Another tricky concept. What is loving someone? Can you actually feel love? I can feel pain. I can feel shame. I can feel guilt. I can feel infatuation. But love...? I’m not so sure. It doesn’t feel like an active emotion. I say: “I love my children, my husband, my friends.” But why do I say that? Because I feel something? Not really. Is it attachment? Maybe, but that’s not a word I strongly relate to. If someone is close by, or even gone from my life, I can cope either way.

I enjoy someone’s presence—maybe that’s it? Yes, that seems to fit. I accept someone as they are—yes, I try to, as much as possible. And when I struggle with that, I try to look within myself to understand why. I trust that person. Yes, that’s important. I don’t trust many people—but I do trust my husband, my children, and my friends.

I try to support those I believe I love in their interests—as long as it doesn’t mean I have to adopt those interests myself. I’m generally kind, though maybe my gestures are small, even invisible. As far as I know, my intentions are always good.

My husband is the nurturing type. You’d think that’s nice—and to a point, it is. But for me, it can also feel suffocating. Especially now, when things are physically harder for me, he tries so hard to ease my burden. “If you do this, then that,” or “if you feel this way, then try that.” It drives me nuts! To the point where I start fantasizing about leaving—though I don’t know how or where I’d go—I just want to escape the suffocation. Time and again I’ve told him not to baby me, and time and again he doesn’t listen.

Today it got too much. I told him I’d just about reached my limit. He eventually responded: “I understand,” and walked off like a wounded puppy. Half an hour later, he came back and told me he’d been listening to Leonard Cohen. Tears in his eyes, he said: “His lyrics are so beautiful.”
“There is a crack in everything—that’s how the light gets in.”

That’s when he gets me. All that mental chaos about what love even is melted away. Yes, we need some brokenness to see beauty. We need to experience struggle and resistance to be able to recognize light. If that’s possible—then maybe that’s what love really is.

---

July 14, 2025

Day 124

Chaos

The chaos in my head is not the enemy. It’s a signal—an invitation to pause, turn inward, and listen. Not to fix myself, but to find myself again. Honesty, self-reflection, and the courage to let go of assumptions—that’s what leads to peace. Not by giant leaps, but with one small, honest question: How am I really doing?
I allow myself to answer that truthfully:
“I’m mostly just tired.”

For months now, I’ve been working hard—both physically and mentally—to change what needs changing, to preserve what’s worth keeping, and ultimately to find more acceptance and inner peace. It’s been a rollercoaster. Today I couldn’t get going at all. Thoughts started swirling again:
Why am I so tired again?
Am I lazy?
Do I need to push harder?
Be tougher on myself?
Or is it okay to just listen to this fatigue?
Can I decide not to judge myself for it?

Yes. I choose to pause. And that gives me space to feel. It makes it clearer that I’ve been pushing so hard to “get better”—but again, without building in true rest. Just pushing ahead, full force, in classic Annette style.
So today, out of self-respect, I hit the brakes. I rested. I took little naps. I trusted that this would bring me back to my strength.

I’m definitely someone of extremes—learning, still, to find balance. Maybe I’ve always been striving for perfection. Maybe that’s why I take everything so seriously and intensely. This journey is a serious one, yes—but perfection is not the goal. Growth through chaos, through honesty and self-reflection—that is the path I’ve been consciously walking for over half a year now.

And I see more and more clearly that the chaos in my head is allowed to be there. I don’t need to act on it. I can just observe—and ask myself a question when needed.

Yesterday was a complete mindfuck. My husband was the victim—in my thoughts. Everything he said or did annoyed me. I rarely think so harshly about someone, especially not someone close. Some people lash out when angry—I don’t. But holding all those negative thoughts inside for a whole day totally drains me. Exhausting.

I already sensed it last night while writing my blog. Today I pulled the emergency brake. I gave myself the gift of REST.
And it feels good—so good—to see my own patterns, to witness my own thoughts, and to just be honest about them.
It really doesn’t matter.
Because all of it comes from a good heart.

 

 

 

 

July 15, 2025

Day 125

My boys were with us today.

It turned into a difficult conversation about the past. I got very emotional, and afterward, I regretted that deeply. When I react like that, I don’t leave space to truly listen and hear what lives inside the other. Damn it!!!

It’s clear that as long as I still carry unresolved things within myself, I will continue to respond emotionally. And yet I know how to hold space in a conversation. I know how to create a safe environment. But no — I go straight into panic mode. As a mother, that makes me feel completely worthless.

There are many things I’ve buried so deeply I don’t even consciously remember them anymore. My memory is like Swiss cheese — dark holes where anything too painful to process simply disappeared. Talking about it makes me feel desperate. So much helplessness, and worse: feeling the pain without having the memories.

Within our family, so much pain lies buried. Michel is gone, and back then I felt like a ship that had taken heavy damage in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, drifting aimlessly, completely alone in the world.

By now, I’ve realized that my survival mechanism is so strong that my children ran up against it too. Their mother is a fortified concrete wall when it comes to emotions. Except, of course, when something triggers me — and then I explode like a hysterical piglet. Also completely out of proportion.

I think there’s still a long way to go between me and my children.
Can I open those armored concrete doors of my soul?
Or is it wiser to keep them shut?

Some psychiatrists have backed away from the idea that every locked door of the soul must be forced open. They wonder: perhaps the protection is there for survival. If a severe trauma is buried deep, and someone is otherwise functioning well, why dig it up?

I don’t know. Maybe one day I’ll be ready to talk about it — assuming the memories come back. The pain is already there. I believe it will surface when the time is right. Forcing it makes no sense. That also goes for the children. We can only move forward when all of us are ready...

Heavy evening. Eyes full of pain.
But still — I’m glad the boys came for dinner.
One day, as a family, we will make it through this.

 

 

 

 

---

July 16, 2025

Day 126

Numbness

After my sons left yesterday, I had a terrible headache, sore eyes, and aching jaws. I haven’t been able to sleep well this entire week — just short naps throughout the day. But last night I slept for nine hours and fifteen minutes straight.

When I woke up, I felt numb. And that numbness stayed with me all day. I was clearly cut off from all emotion and unable to hold a conversation with anyone. It’s evening now, and the numbness is slowly starting to fade.

In line with the mission I had when I started this blog, I decided to look into the meaning behind this emotional numbness.

Emotional numbness: when feeling becomes too much.
It’s a heavy-sounding term — and sometimes, it really is.
It’s that familiar flat feeling. You don’t feel joy, but you’re not exactly sad either. You’re not angry, but you’re not relaxed. You float somewhere in between, living on autopilot. It often happens when you’ve been under long-term stress. It’s a clear sign that something is off.

So what is emotional numbness?
It’s the inability to fully feel or express emotions. Even expressing emotions becomes difficult. It’s like being switched off. You’re here, but not really present. Life happens around you, and you watch it like a movie — from a distance, not really involved.

Derealization can be part of this. A form of dissociation in which the world around you doesn’t feel real. This is deeply familiar to me — honestly, it’s been there all my life. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt this numbness so clearly.

It’s obvious now that this is one of my coping mechanisms. A way to deal with stressful situations or overwhelming emotions. Strategies I use to survive difficult experiences.

So why does this happen?
Emotional numbness is the brain’s way of protecting itself.
Stress, overload, sensory overwhelm or trauma — it can get to a point where the system shuts down part of your experience in order to protect you. Like a shock absorber. The brain disconnects you from emotional pain to avoid further harm.

You’re in survival mode — shielding yourself from situations that demand too much.

What does emotional numbness feel like?
Often the signals are subtle.
You stop enjoying the things that used to bring joy.
Good news gets a flat reaction.
When something ends, you don’t feel sadness — but not relief either.
The dominant feelings are fatigue and emptiness.

This is so familiar.
I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it in this blog before, but I’ve noticed for years that my emotions have become very flat.
To the point where I can’t even relate to the sadness or joy of others anymore.

I’ve known this about myself for a while now. But today, I can see it more clearly for what it is: emotional numbness.

My son touched on a trauma yesterday, and I think I need to seek help to bring this “little monster” inside me into the light.
To confront it.
To process it in a healthy way so I can finally leave it behind.

Tomorrow I have my rehab session, so I’ll make an appointment with my GP for Friday.

 

 

 

 

 

July 17, 2025
Day 127
Lies

I’ve been lied to my whole life.
As a child, a teenager, and an adult, I’ve confronted my parents multiple times, asking them to admit the lies they had told me.

When it became clear my father didn’t have long to live, I begged him to tell the truth.
My mother was made of lies — I sensed that already when I was three — and I never had the feeling it would change.

My father was different.
As far as I could tell, he was a righteous man, so I hoped he would open up near the end of his life. But no.
He looked at me with his blue eyes, helpless.
I’ll never forget those eyes, suddenly deep wells of sorrow. It’s the last vivid image I have of him — sitting in his chair, one leg folded under the other.

My mother heard my question and came rushing out of the kitchen, screaming that I had always been a spiteful brat and how dare I still ask questions now.
She told me to get out of the house before she’d throw me out herself.
I was no longer welcome.

A few months later, on the day he died — Christmas Day — I was allowed to come.
Everyone took turns sitting with him.
Not me.
I sat there in a kind of trance, observing everything from a distance.

After he passed, the family doctor — who was also my doctor — came to the house.
When he stood by my father’s side, I walked over for the first time.
It was just the two of us — the doctor and me — and my father’s body.
The doctor put an arm around my shoulder.
I sobbed: “What do I do now? My mother took away my contact with him. I was never allowed to speak to him again.”

The doctor said, “Do you respect your father?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Well,” he replied, “if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that he respected you, too.”
Those words gave me peace.

That spring, Michel and I were at our little holiday cottage with the kids.
My youngest brother called to say he wanted to stop by with our mother.
“She has something to tell us,” he said.

“Yes, come,” I replied. “But I already know what she wants to say.”
He had called on a Tuesday, but he said she couldn’t come until Friday — she had bridge club and some other nonsense.
That hit me the wrong way.
So I said, “I get that you don’t want to say it, but if it’s what I think it is, then you come NOW. She’s spent forty years condemning me for this, and now she needs to finish her card game first?”

He agreed and brought her that day.

She walked in laughing and gave me a hug — something she had never done before, and never did again.
She said, “Yes, you know, don’t you?”
“You were right all along. So shall we just forgive and forget?”

Seriously — that was the whole conversation.
She laughed through it, like forty years of lies were some kind of joke.

After they left and Michel came home with the kids, something happened to my brain.
Everything went numb and started buzzing.
In bed, my head grew hot — burning hot — like thousands of worms writhing through my skull.
In the middle of the night, I stood under the shower hoping it would ease.

Michel said, “I don’t get it. You finally hear what you’ve always said was true. Shouldn’t it be over now?”

No. That strange feeling in my head didn’t go away.
I had literally short-circuited.

My sister and I both went to our doctor, and he gave us a referral to a psychologist.
(That doctor, by the way, is now my husband — but that’s another story.)

The psychologist explained that I had physically sensed a shift.
Imagine all the information you gather over the years as a kind of library.
For forty years, you’ve been told lies. You’ve been denied and dismissed — sometimes violently.
So that information gets shelved somewhere deep — fourth shelf, right corner.

Then suddenly you find out you were right all along.
Now that information belongs on the first shelf, front and center.
But your brain can’t reorganize that instantly — it short-circuits.
That’s what I felt.
It was a massive experience.

This week, after my sons left on Tuesday, it happened again.
The numbness. The buzzing.
Today, I only managed ten minutes of rehab — I literally fell off my bike because my brain was behaving so strangely.

Something’s really off mentally right now.
I managed to book an appointment with a psychologist for August 11 — pretty quick, considering the waitlists.
I just hope my brain calms down a bit in the meantime.
It’s a little unsettling.

But I’m going to trust it’ll be okay.
That’s all I can do for now.

---

July 18, 2025

Day 128

It’s now clear that I’m dealing with shock from stress.

The numbness. The buzzing in my head. Even a loss of strength on the right side of my body — it hasn’t gone away.

I’m relieved I’ve got an appointment with a psychologist, but it’s confronting to feel this way.

Ton and I went cycling today — just to move, to be outside. It was a welcome distraction.
But the foggy feeling in my head and the loud buzzing is still so intense that I can barely concentrate. Writing is hard.

Ton noticed my right arm and leg are weak again.
And then I wonder — did I have another TIA?
Was the short-circuit in my brain really that intense?
Or is this a kind of setback after an intense stress response?

It feels like a good decision to work on this with a professional.
I’m completely in the dark myself — no clue why my reaction is so extreme.

So what does happen after a shock from stress?
It often refers to the emotional and physical response to a stressful event — where someone feels shocked or like they’ve lost control.

It can manifest as acute stress disorder, with symptoms that usually fade within a month,
or as post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) if it lingers longer.

Yes, that’s exactly what it felt like — loss of control.

Let’s just hope this buzzing and all these strange sensations ease within a month.
Pffft. That’s what I’m aiming for!

Can I just say — out loud, even — that this year has dealt me a really rough hand?
Seriously, it’s not easy sometimes.

But… I keep telling myself:
Chin up, Netje. Keep going, show us what you’ve got !

 

 

 

 

July 19, 2025
Day 129

On Hilde’s advice, we got up early this morning to go for a bike ride. It was going to be a hot day, and riding in the heat is never pleasant. So we planned to go to bed on time — which in our case still turned out to be 1:30 a.m. Unfortunately, I couldn’t fall asleep because of the pain in my body and the persistent noise in my head. Around 5:30 a.m., after taking two paracetamols, I finally drifted off.

Ton and I had agreed to be on our bikes by 10:00 a.m. The alarm went off at 8:30. Dizzy and completely exhausted, I decided to stick to our plan anyway.
Haha — it’s always a challenge for Ton to be somewhere on time. He tends to do everything at the last minute or arrives just a bit late. I’m the opposite: I prefer to be half an hour early.
Unbelievably, this time we were on our bikes at exactly 9:53! The temperature was perfect — not too hot, not too cold, just pleasantly mild.

Hilde had told us about a nice spot she often visits. Ton and I have been together for seven and a half years now, and for the first time this week we had real tension between us. Thankfully, that’s behind us again. Normally, we’re not quite on the same wavelength. I’ll think we should go right, and he’ll think we should go left. No problem — sometimes I adjust, other times he does.
But today something different happened. I came up with a route we’d never done before — and Ton had thought of the exact same one. That happened a few times today. Wow — so we can be in tune.
Maybe my emotional earthquake earlier this week had something to do with it? Or maybe we're both adjusting. That distance between us really wasn’t nice. Hopefully we both learned something from it.

On the way I said, “Hey, what if Hilde and her boyfriend show up too? Could happen.”
And sure enough, after our first cup of coffee, they walked in. I was glad to see her.
I’ve always had friends I see from time to time, but Hilde is the only one I used to see at least once a week. We also went on holidays together, while our partners stayed home watching TV. Since she started a new relationship, I hardly see her anymore.
She’s enjoying a different kind of life now — and that’s beautiful for her. But for me, it’s different. I miss our time together, the depth of our conversations.
We’ve built a unique language and rhythm over the years — one glance is enough to understand each other. Being with her feeds my soul.
Lately, though, my soul has been starving.
I know life changes. I accept that. And when one door closes, another opens. I can’t see it yet, but I trust that something new will come — something that will nourish me again.

---

July 20, 2025

Day 130

Understanding.

Today was okay. I slept last night — I’d rate it a 7 minus. So, definitely room for improvement. Lately I wake up every morning with intense pain in my upper arms. It takes half an hour before I can move them without too much pain, and hours before it stops bothering me. It never fully goes away. But… like I said, it was still a good day.

What about my head? Still foggy, dull, and buzzing.

Ton and I went on a mission today to find mason jars in North Brabant. Above the rivers, shops like Boerenbond are closed on Sundays. But here in the Catholic south, things work differently — they have their own pact with God. As long as you can confess, anything goes.
It suddenly occurred to me that I might’ve had fewer issues with my darker sides if I’d grown up Catholic. Who knows?

Back to reality. I do feel calmer than I did last week.
Tomorrow I have an appointment with a Craniosacral therapist, and August 11th I’ll see a psychologist.
I’m finally taking the bull by the horns.

I noticed I really want to explain to Ton how emotions work for me — and how that’s connected to my condition. I thought, “This is the moment. I feel grounded.”
But while I was talking, he started to interrupt me, with a disapproving look on his face.
Instantly, the noise in my head grew louder. Rage surged through me.
Thankfully, Ton pulled back. No shouting match like earlier this week.
Still, his face looked wounded, and he chose to go do his own thing. Probably wise. It gave me space to let the blood simmer down.

Now, as I write, my head feels just as numb as earlier this week — the buzzing is back full force.

What happened just now?
I think I know.

It’s so hard to explain what I feel. Not just the emotions, but how my body works.
I’ve faced this all my life. I look “normal.”
You can now see that I limp — but it kind of fits with my age and my stylish walking stick.
I’m cheerful about 95% of the time. That’s my default.

Hilde said to me yesterday, “I used to get angry at how people treated you — but you always laughed it off.”
Yep. In public, I’d rather laugh than cry.

It’s hard for people to know how I’m really doing.

I remember my little boy once said, “Mama, sorry, but I forget you have a disability.”
If your own child doesn’t see it, what can you expect from others?

Specialists may know all the symptoms, but they don’t understand the impact — the complexity — of living with my neurological condition.
I once told Prof. A.R. Wintzen, a renowned neuromuscular specialist, that while he may know everything scientifically, I know how this disease feels.
He completely agreed.
We had a long, heartfelt talk. I still remember it.
It brought me peace — because I felt understood.

That’s what I long for: understanding.
Maybe even more than love.

Being misunderstood is torture.
But — I don’t know how to relate to healthy people.
There’s no recognition.
We’re all human, sure — but that’s where it ends.

I’ve spent a lifetime trying to be “normal.”
But I’m not.
I’m a different species — shaped by a malfunctioning body and everything that’s come with it.

Recognition often comes through shared experience.
So how can anyone understand my body?
How could I possibly understand theirs?

Understanding is tied to recognition.
And I’m checkmated before I even begin to explain.
So why do I keep trying?

Am I a masochist?

Why do I keep asking for understanding?

I feel lonely.
Not when I’m alone — but when I’m with people.
My husband, my children, my friends, my family.
People make me lonely.

 

 

 

 

 

21 juli 2025

dag 131

Supertramp. Vanmorgen ben ik op tijd opgestaan omdat ik een afspraak had met een CranioSacraal therapeut. In eerste instantie een gesprek. Het voelde direct helemaal goed. Voor mij is deze man een gesprekspartner in optima forma, dat zeg ik niet snel, dus kan het alleen maar goed zijn. Heb ik iets opgevangen dat heel acuut en direct bij mij binnenkwam ? Nee, wel heb ik kunnen ervaren dat hij mij begrijpt. Zoals ik gisteren aangaf is dit heel belangrijk voor mij. Ik kreeg het gevoel dat hij mijn brein kan prikkelen, waardoor hij iets zou kunnen gaan opmerken wat mij meteen pakt, waarmee ik dan direct aan de slag kan gaan. Enige sturing in mijn gedrag heb ik wel gekregen. Niet dat het iets is wat ik nog niet wist, maar meer een herinnering en daarmee weer een schop in de goede richting. Rust is eigenlijk het woord dat in mij opkomt. Dit gesprek heeft me een zekere vorm van rust gegeven. Zelfs voel ik wat minder pijn in mijn lichaam. Het is voor mij meteen duidelijk dat stress letterlijk tot meer pijn bijdraagt. Mocht ik enig idee hebben waar het gesprek over zou gaan, dan heb ik me daarin vergist, het kreeg een hele andere wending. Natuurlijk een eye-opener. Het ging niet over relatie met familie of kinderen, maar met mijn partners. Grappig, want dat zijn de mensen waar je in wezen de meeste tijd mee doorbrengt. In ieder geval de meest intensieve band mee hebt. Hoe je ze ervaart en wat je erbij voelt zegt heel veel over mijzelf. Ja, ik mag wel zeggen dat het weer meer inzicht heeft gegeven op mijzelf en hoe ik in de wereld sta. Sowieso geven inzichten mij rust, het gevoel weer iets verder te komen, iets geleerd te hebben. Groei in bewustwording naar bewustzijn. Ja, nu ik er nog eens over reflecteer was het een heel fijn gesprek en een goed begin van m'n dag.

Thuisgekomen, zong ik steeds in gedachten ‘Goodbye Stranger' van Supertramp. Keer op keer begon ik het weer te zingen. Wat zegt mij dit ? Dromen of ‘out of the blue’ ingevingen , daar let ik altijd op. Wat vertellen ze mij ? 

"Goodbye Stranger" van Supertramp gaat over het loslaten van een relatie en het omarmen van de toekomst. Het is een nummer over het accepteren van verandering en het vooruitkijken, ondanks het verdriet en de onzekerheid die daarmee gepaard gaan. Het lied beschrijft een gevoel van afstandelijkheid en het besef dat een relatie voorbij is. De tekst suggereert dat de "stranger" (vreemdeling) een symbool is van een nieuwe fase in het leven, een toekomst die nog onbekend is. Daar kan ik wel wat mee. Blij met deze therapeut/gesprekspartner, het was hierdoor een buitengewoon lichte dag.

 

 

 

 

---

July 22, 2025
Day 132
Flabbergasted.
True to his word, the therapist I saw yesterday sent me some reading material on consciousness and co-dependency from a professional journal. I was stunned by what I read.
Not just the content, but also the evolution of psychiatry — how it's increasingly approached through a holistic lens. How psychoanalysis is being reframed, and how insights are expanding to include the human being within the context of their social networks, family dynamics, partnerships, and more.

How will this be described in DSM III? What treatment approaches will follow? We’re talking here about theories from the 1970s, 80s, and 90s — exactly the period in which I was diagnosed, and eventually walked away from the medical world altogether.

You can clearly see that, especially back then, there were many different approaches and even progressive insights. From experience, I know that Dutch medical science — including psychiatry, psychology, and neurology — is deeply conservative and painfully slow when it comes to implementing new perspectives.
My disappointment in that system led me to shut the book completely.

But because of that one conversation yesterday, and the articles about co-dependency and consciousness, I’ve opened that book again.
And suddenly I remembered — my psychologist eight years ago had hinted at the exact same thing my therapist suggested yesterday.
At the time it sounded plausible, but it clearly didn’t land with the same impact as it did now.

So what is co-dependency, really?
Co-dependency is a behavioral pattern where someone’s feelings and needs are overly tied to those of another — often a partner, family member, or friend.
It’s a dynamic where someone erases themselves, putting their own well-being below that of the other — often believing they are helping, but at great cost.

A few key traits of co-dependency:

• Hyper-focus on the well-being of others, while neglecting one's own needs.

• Self-worth tied to the approval and reactions of others, rather than coming from within.

• Difficulty setting healthy boundaries, often overextending oneself for others.

• Attempts to control or fix the other, hoping to “save” them.

• A deep fear of abandonment or rejection.

• Suppressed personal identity and stalled emotional development.

• Fatigue, stress, emptiness, and often toxic relationships that lack healthy balance.

• Low self-esteem and an overreliance on external validation.

• Frequently rooted in childhood — environments that lacked emotional care, or were abusive or neglectful.

This summary is for myself — and for anyone reading this blog — a basic outline of what co-dependency entails.

The full articles I received went much deeper, with examples that moved me deeply.
I couldn’t stop reading — tears streaming down my face.
The recognition hit me hard.
A bullseye.

---

July 23, 2025

Day 133

Open Book.

Now that the book has been opened again, I figured I might as well look into what’s currently known in the Netherlands about my condition — CMT type 1.

There’s a Charcot-Marie-Tooth expertise center, linked to the AMC, LUMC, Erasmus, and Radboud.
I was diagnosed in Leiden 50 years ago.
Time to see if there are any breakthroughs, because if there are, I might consider reconnecting with the system.

I read everything on their website.
Honestly? No major breakthroughs that I can see.
Still no certainty about whether muscle training helps.
For some, yes; for others, no. Why? Nobody knows.
Still the same support with orthotic shoes and devices. Psychological support — same as 50 years ago.

Symptoms still vary wildly, even within families with the same gene mutation.
There are new studies, especially at the AMC — with groups of about 50 people.
But no clear conclusions yet.

Apparently there are now 1600 known CMT patients in the Netherlands.
Fifty years ago, there were 13.
That means roughly 1 in every 11,250 people now has this disorder.
In my town alone, there are three of us.

It’s still rare — but we’re moving forward.
The more data there is, the greater the chance for future treatment.

I’m not exactly fired up yet, but I am going to reach out — maybe I can learn something new.
Hopefully, I can enter that conversation on equal footing.
Not as a “patient,” but as someone who might contribute to the science — and learn from it in return.
If it turns into the typical doctor-patient dynamic again, I’ll walk away.

I’ve mentioned my CMT in the hospital multiple times — especially how it might affect recovery post-stroke.
But I’m still treated as if I’m a healthy person who simply had a stroke.

It’s become very clear to me: there’s more going on inside me than they’ve considered.
Now that I’ve reopened the book, I started looking into this too — and yes, Annette was right again.

A person with both Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease and a stroke faces a complex combination of neurological challenges:

• CMT already causes muscle weakness and coordination issues.

• A stroke can exacerbate this — even leading to hemiplegia or further loss of control.

• Cognitive symptoms after a stroke (memory loss, difficulty concentrating) worsen the daily impact of CMT.

• Emotional shifts post-stroke (irritability, apathy, impulsivity) layer more struggle on top.

• Central pain syndrome after stroke can intensify pain already present with CMT.

• Fatigue from either condition complicates rehab.

Treatment must be tailored.
On top of CMT management, there’s the need for intensive rehab:
Physio, occupational therapy, speech therapy, cognitive training.
The goal: to improve mobility, communication, mental clarity, and overall quality of life.

So here’s my question:
If I can look this up, why aren’t the specialists doing the same?
Why don’t they take my medical history seriously?
When someone has diabetes, it’s considered in every treatment plan — why not with CMT?

Why can’t they just say, “We’re not familiar enough with this. Let’s refer you to Erasmus”?
What is it with that system?
Why must I always reinvent the wheel?

I’m already chronically tired by nature.
But this makes me even more exhausted.

Sorry, but letting off a little steam about how the healthcare system works actually feels pretty good.

That amazing therapist from Monday gave me something vital:
The energy to stand up for myself again.

My grandchildren are coming to stay for a few days.
So next week, I’ll follow up on all this — with energy, intention, and clear boundaries.

 

 

 

 

July 24, 2025

Day 134

My Granddaughters.
This morning, my two granddaughters arrived — two sweet girls, aged 8 and 10.
Of course, they're always sweet. But maybe that’s because they only visit grandma a few times a year.

They don’t live nearby, and they lead busy lives.
Both of them come from blended families — two dads, two moms, and five sets of grandparents. Add to that tennis, judo, gymnastics, school, and friends.

Honestly, I had always pictured something very different when I imagined myself as a grandmother.
I thought they’d live nearby, coming and going freely, calling their parents to say, “I’m staying for dinner at grandma’s” or “I’ll sleep over.”
I imagined them dropping by after school, a little art table waiting for them in the corner of my studio — part of my daily life.
A place to rest, unwind. Nothing expected, just being.

But that’s not how it turned out.
Every time I see them, they’ve grown taller.
It’s becoming painfully clear that I’m not a regular part of their world, just an occasional visit.

For the first time, they brought their bikes. That gave me a sense of freedom — movement.
In the summer, I often feel trapped in my apartment when I have guests, especially children. Winter is different.
Normally I have to rely on my car to take them somewhere, but that usually means walking once we get there — which is exhausting for me.
Then I’m surviving more than enjoying.

Today we biked to the woods to walk the dogs.
Well — they walked the dogs while I sat on a bench.
After that, we biked to a thrift store in the Alblasserwaard, then headed into the town center for ice cream, and the girls wanted to do some “shopping.”

It was lovely. I felt free and happy, biking along with those little darlings trailing behind me.

It’s strange, but with my granddaughters I’m able to cuddle.
Not for long — but I do it, and I enjoy it.

I never did that with my own children. I never liked it either.
Ridiculous, isn’t it?
I’m such a complex and quirky woman.

Are my own children too close? And so what if they are?
Do my grandkids have just enough distance?
Or is it simply because I see them less often?

Does it have to do with my own growth?
Am I more open now than I was 30 years ago?

I don’t know. But I do notice the difference.

They’re asleep now.
Tomorrow, I’ll go on spoiling them some more.
Just soaking it in.

---

July 25, 2025

Day 135

Climbing Kids.
We went biking again today, off to the climbing park.
It was so fun watching the girls scramble and zip-line from tree to tree.

Standing among the trees, looking up at them fearlessly navigating the course, I felt a deep joy watching them do something so free, so physical.

I’ve always enjoyed watching the people I love move — really move.
There’s no memory in me of jealousy, no frustration about not being able to do those things myself.
I’ve spent my whole life on the sidelines, physically limited.
It’s all I’ve ever known.

Now that I think more about it, as a child, I did feel anxious whenever we went to the playground.
It was anything but fun for me.
Outings like that were pure torture.
As I grew older, I just avoided them altogether.

Eventually, I accepted my limitations.
Somehow, that never stood in the way of friendships.
Because of my laid-back attitude, I was never a burden.
We still had fun — even if I had to sit things out for a while.

Later, when I had kids of my own, I loved watching them move, full of life and energy.
But I was extremely jumpy and anxious.
If they walked near an edge or balanced on something, I’d panic.

Michel, my husband at the time, helped me unlearn that.
He said I had to trust their healthy sense of balance — that they needed to explore, to climb and tumble, to become physically confident.
He was right.

When they were little, I was scared of everything.
Now, with my grandkids, I feel none of that fear.

I feel pride watching them climb — and invent ways to reach the next step.
Maybe it’s because I’m older and wiser.

I no longer project my own immobility onto others.
That alone is a huge shift.

I now clearly experience the world differently than people who are physically healthy.
But I truly feel joy watching others do what I cannot.

And that’s something, isn’t it?
It feels good to recognize something positive about myself — to shine a little light on it.

Who knows, maybe I’ll discover more of these glimmers over time.

 

 

 

July 26, 2025
Day 136

For the past few weeks, I’ve been taking new medication. It doesn’t really matter which medication—what matters is what it’s doing to me. Yesterday the cardiologist called to ask whether I’d noticed any effects. Very casually, I told him I hadn’t noticed anything. And that was true! At least, I hadn’t noticed any difference regarding the symptom I started taking it for.

But then, a few hours later, I got up from my chair and felt a sharp, stiff pain in my upper thighs. That’s when the lightbulb went off—Willy Wonka-style. Every morning I wake up completely stiff, with stabbing pain in my shoulder blades and upper arms. So bad that I need at least an hour before I can move my arms properly. The stiffness in the rest of my body doesn’t even register next to it—the pain in my arms is too sharp and too dominant.

I’m not someone who immediately takes action when my body shows signs of discomfort. I usually have an explanation ready: bad sleep, too much going on, too much exertion—you name it. Or I tell myself my body is translating some mental pain. Only this time, I haven’t yet identified that pain. So yes, the reasoning can be valid sometimes—but not always.

Yesterday, the dosage of the new medication was increased. My head is spinning and buzzing again, the stiffness and pain have increased significantly, and only now does it occur to me: it’s the medication!

I tell my husband (who happens to be a doctor himself), and it turns into yet another discussion—he says I give off too many different signals. And yes, instead of getting into a heated argument, I took a mental step back. About half an hour later, he came to my room, and I was able to calmly explain what I’ve been feeling, how I see it, and what I want to do: stop taking this medication immediately.

The difference from just an hour earlier isn’t entirely clear to me yet, but suddenly it wasn’t a debate—it became a shared plan. Apparently, I had found the right tone of voice.

I’m curious how quickly I’ll notice a change now that I’ve stopped. I wonder if my intuition was right. It’s kind of crazy that it took over three weeks for me to realise the medication might be causing this discomfort.

Taking medication just isn’t my thing—it feels so unnatural. On the other hand, it’s a good thing medications exist. So here too, Annetje has to find balance and learn how to deal with it. That will work, as long as I stay alert and don’t accept discomfort as just part of the deal.
Maybe it’s time to apply that lesson to other areas of my life too—not accepting discomfort as a given.

 

 

 

 

July 27, 2025
Day 137 *
Shadow Journal

I started this blog as a form of self-coaching—or rather, an inner travel journal—after my stroke. I never could have imagined it would have such a profound impact on me. Consciously observing what moves me, exploring why I fall into certain emotions, examining the memories that resurface, and translating my dreams—it’s a lot, and it’s complex.

I approach my journal with openness and honesty, sharing it as a blog with the world. But there’s a catch to being this committed: sometimes there are even deeper feelings that I don't want—or can’t—express publicly. I don’t want to be mysterious, but I think it’s fair to say that some experiences inside me feel deeper or more painful than what can be seen or heard. After all, everyone carries their own kind of secrets.

Let’s call them secrets, but perhaps they are better described as inner truths that feel fundamentally different from what others around you might understand. Sometimes I feel fear about revealing them, and sometimes I want to protect others from being hurt by them. I think everyone has the right to protect their inner world—to themselves and to their surroundings. I honor that right, both for myself and for others.

This way of writing—as an inner journey—is slowly becoming a form of inner liberation. That’s why I feel it’s necessary to begin, alongside this diary, a Shadow Journal. In a sense, to grant myself a deeper release. To become like a lotus flower rising from the mud, reaching toward the light, purifying the waters around me.

I want to treat this Shadow Journal with respect and reverence. That’s why I’ve given it a name, and written a dedication at the beginning of the book. I’d like to share it with you…

Dear book, I name you Ptah.
To you I entrust my deepest stirrings. They may contain my anger and unresolved emotions, in the hope that one day they may crystallize. They may hold my thoughts that others aren’t ready to hear, or that are too hurtful to share with the outside world. After all, everyone develops their inner life at their own pace. With respect for myself and others, I offer my thoughts to you… my Ptah.

 

 

 

 

July 28, 2025
Day 138

I went to the CranioSacral therapist today. It was a special experience — during the treatment I had all kinds of physical sensations. At one point, when he was working near my heart, I suddenly started crying intensely.

He explained something to me using a metaphor. If you get shot by a bullet, the impact creates a massive wound. But if a needle enters your body and you do nothing about it, it might slowly travel through the tissue over the course of years — and one day come out, say, through your leg. The sharp tip gradually makes its way through the body, slicing through layers at a glacial pace, while the tissue behind it quietly closes again.

It might even pass through organs without doing damage.

In his philosophy, the pericardium — the sac around the heart — functions in a similar way. It protects the heart, but pain and emotion can pass through it. When the pain or trauma is too severe, however, the pericardium can start to harden.

If this keeps happening, like it did with me, it turns into a kind of impenetrable armor. The result? New pain and emotion can’t reach the heart anymore — it becomes numb. And likewise, the love and warmth that live inside you can’t get out either, because the shell is too thick.

I hope I’m capturing his explanation correctly here. I believe this was what he meant by what’s happening around my heart.

Apparently, the treatment will continue working through the coming week. So I’m curious to see what will unfold.

During the conversation before the session, I stumbled over the word “sadness.” He used it as just another emotion. And something in me reacted to that.

What is sadness, really? Isn’t it just a big container people use to throw everything into? “How are you feeling?” “Sad.” That’s too easy. Too vague. I can’t work with that.

I even told him: “If Ton talked to me like this, about emotions in such general terms, we’d probably end up fighting.”

The relationship with a therapist is different, so I tried to channel my resistance a bit.

As we talked, I slowly realized something: the real feeling, the raw emotion — I had tucked that away long ago. No, not just tucked it away. I buried it in my heart, built a wall around it, and sold the sledgehammer.

I always say: “I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t understand it.”

But it’s not my fault. This is a survival mechanism I’ve used since I was very young. I always thought, “It wasn’t that bad.”

But it was that bad.

Little by little, it shut me off from the warm, loving woman I could have been — a woman without fear, without shame.

Let’s just say: I’ve bought back the sledgehammer. And I’ve already taken one solid hit at the wall around my heart.

Still a long way to go.
Work in progress.

 

 

 

 

July 29, 2025

Day 139

Birthday.

I woke up this morning with a splitting headache. The therapy is really stirring things up inside me. Yesterday, I felt the constant swirling in my guts — my solar plexus. It’s a sensation I know well, something that has always been with me, but now I suddenly became fully aware of it. When I’m emotionally triggered by someone or something, this inner spin speeds up. But because it was so clear this time, I could immediately identify what had upset me. The moment I acknowledged, recognized, and named it — the swirling stopped, like a candle flickering out.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve woken up each day with a sharp, buzzing, electric sensation in my belly and solar plexus. If I stay still and breathe slowly, it fades after a few minutes. Strange? Perhaps. It’s not something you hear people talk about — maybe no one ever does. But for me, it’s normal. I deal with so many different types of pain that I treat them casually. I’m not the type to complain about every ache and pain. If someone asks, I’ll tell them honestly. But what are they really asking when they say, “Are you doing okay?”

What if I said, “Well, I had to recover for half an hour from stabbing, pulsing pain in my torso… walking to the bathroom felt like knives in my feet… and at breakfast, my whole skin felt like it had walked through fire…”? That’s not what people want to hear. And sometimes, the little dragon in me wants to say it anyway — just to watch them squirm a little. There, now you know what discomfort feels like too.

This morning, I also noticed my vision was incredibly blurry. Double, even. At first, I thought I’d forgotten to put on my glasses. But no, glasses or not, I couldn’t read a thing. I told Ton casually that my eyesight had dropped by about 70%. “Well, let’s wait and see if it gets better. First, let’s have some coffee.” So, with both Tons (because I saw him twice), I sat down to enjoy our morning chat.

Then suddenly I went quiet… All that fussing about my eyes had distracted me — I hadn’t felt the spinning in my guts!

Why not?

Because this morning, for the first time, it wasn’t there.

The recognition and naming of my emotional trigger yesterday had led to a breakthrough. My body has apparently been in stress mode all my life. That swirling in my solar plexus — which I thought was just me — was actually stress. And when I finally saw it for what it was, it began to dissolve. And this morning, it was gone.

Usually, the whirlpool quiets down at night, but the “on-switch” stays activated. That built-up electric charge releases when I wake up, triggering the pulsing pain. But today it didn’t. My blurry vision and headache seem to be signs of a deeper process — of release, of healing.

My body and mind are working hard to return me to a version of Annette who is stronger, freer, and more grounded. Annette who can be warm. Annette who can embrace emotion.It was the state I was in today as I celebrated Ton’s birthday.
My body still carried its discomforts, but something felt truly different — different in a way I can’t yet put into words.
Let’s just say… I’m still searching.

 

 

 

 

---

 

July 30, 2025
Day 140
Floating Between Worlds (and a Cup of Coffee)

Sometimes you just don’t land.
Or at least — not fully.
Your body feels like it isn’t quite ready to have you back, as if it’s saying: “Take it easy. I’m keeping the gate slightly ajar.”

Today is one of those days.

I’ve been on a journey.
Not a sunny holiday with sandals and cocktails, but an inner voyage through old layers of myself.
A notebook, written back in 2009, found its way back into my hands.
I had more or less forgotten it, but with every sentence I recognized myself.
Not like you do when re-reading old journals — cringing with secondhand embarrassment —
but as if I were meeting myself again.
As if I already knew back then.

Realms of reflection, love, music, emotional depth, wonder — layers filled with insight that I was now allowed to feel again.
And I did feel them.
Burping, yawning, my heart making strange little leaps, my head on the verge of exploding —
until suddenly… space.
My body spoke clearly: this touched something ancient. Something true.

And you know what?
It doesn’t make me feel floaty.
It makes me feel more grounded than ever.
Because in those old words, I recognize the very choices I’ve made since.
That I’ve stayed true to what I feel most deeply, even when others didn’t understand.
That I don’t act out of revenge, or with a pointed finger —
but with care.
And sometimes with courage — even when something first startles me.

Today, I mostly feel grateful.
Grateful that I once wrote a kind of map.
And that now, all these years later, I’m walking it — in real life.

So yes… I’m tired.
Tired, and tingling.
But also clear.
A little lifted, and yet still standing in the mud of real life.
And coffee.
That helps too.

 

 

 

 

 

July 31, 2025
Day 141

Self-realization.
Being your authentic self, allowing your unique qualities to blossom, and following your own path — free from external expectations or limitations.
It’s an inner journey of self-inquiry, awareness, and taking responsibility for your own life.

Well… I feel like I took a side road, like I got lost for a while.
But can you even really lose your way? A road is a road, isn’t it?
Maybe I’m more of an adventurer — someone who willingly strays off track to gain more experience, to learn more.
Maybe I have a truly adventurous spirit, which means I can act like that child: walking step by step out of the darkness of the woods into the light — drawn not by fear, but by a sense of wonder.
Hahaha, maybe that’s a lovely way to frame wandering or forgetting.
I don’t think I ever forgot the essence — in fact, I’m sure of it — but life did become heavy because of all that forgetting.

The box of old journals and notes is still next to me in the living room.
I wrote them all myself, twenty or thirty years ago.
Each notebook carries my handwriting, my questions, my insights, my pain.
It’s like meeting myself in layers.
Not just words on paper — but moments in time, frozen breaths I couldn’t hold on to then, but could write down.

Sometimes I randomly open a page and come face-to-face with a version of myself I had forgotten.
And yet… I recognize her.
She was already looking inward. She was already searching.
She wrote about exactly the same themes that are alive again now: projection, emotion, self-image, truth, the other as mirror.

It feels like I’m walking in a circle — but each time, one layer deeper.
I used to tell my students that we humans think and live on a horizontal timeline, but in truth, I believe it’s a vertical one — always now.
When the film Cloud Atlas came out, I was deeply moved to see that others on this earth look at life this way too.

I’m yawning and stretching, and tears keep streaming down even though I’m not crying.
My body is opening in ways I don’t always understand.
Maybe I don’t need to.
Maybe this is simply how liberation announces itself — quiet, tired, but undeniably real.

All day, I’ve been typing out notes from a workshop I once gave, which I had called Self-Realization.
And I feel a quiet, deep pride.
As if I’m taking myself by the hand, thirty years later, and saying:
“Look — you already knew this.”

I’m sitting in my own class. And I’m listening.
But… am I really listening?

Do I dare to hear everything I once wrote down?
What happened in those thirty years that makes me only now truly receive it?
Am I still the same woman?
Or have I become someone else with the same voice?

Why do I keep walking over these old paths, as if they were new?

Maybe that’s what self-realization truly is.
Not a destination.
Not enlightenment as a goal.
But this:

The willingness to look again.
To listen again.
And to keep saying yes — to who I am.

 

 

 

 

 

MASKS