The Netherlands: Dreaming of Grand Adventures
I am not one for writing happy stories. I have tried, but writing is therapy for me. What I can do, though, is write travel stories, and they are happy stories because I get to share beautiful places.
I am not one for writing happy stories. I have tried, but writing is therapy for me. What I can do, though, is write travel stories, and they are happy stories because I get to share beautiful places and beautiful people, along with new ideas and lessons from different cultures. There is no greater privilege than having a passport that allows you to travel the world. So, besides all the politics and the angry poetry, I would like to share my journeys with you, just to show you that it isn’t always raining where I am. It’s quite the opposite, actually. I’ll start at the beginning. Once upon a time…
I was born into a family of five, and my childhood was spent amidst the dense forest behind our tiny wooden house. Our existence was one of poverty, as far as one can be poor in a country like the Netherlands, but I was surrounded by the natural beauty of the woods. This was where I first dreamt of grand adventures, wandering through the trees and imagining myself in distant lands, embarking on exciting escapades.
Growing up, I spent hours exploring the lush greenery, imagining all the far-off lands I would one day visit. I was drawn to the mystery of the unknown, the thrill of the journey, and the promise of new experiences. I promised myself that I would one day travel the world and see all the wonders it had to offer. Each step I took in those woods felt like a step towards my future, a future filled with the thrill of discovery and the joy of new beginnings.
I was always a very sensitive child. Growing up with parents scarred by generational trauma meant I spent a lot of time at my neighbours’ farm. The farmer and his wife let us look after their horses, and I remember spending all my free time in the stables. There, among the hay and the gentle creatures, I found a sense of peace that was often missing at home. The farm became my sanctuary, a place where I could escape and let my imagination run wild.
My sisters and I called our neighbours our second parents, but in many ways, they were our first. Spending time with them was our release from a world of trauma and an escape from the judgement of the intense religious cult we were brought up in. They provided the warmth and stability that was often lacking in our own home, and their kindness left a lasting impression on me. The lessons I learned from them about compassion and resilience have stayed with me throughout my life.
I have written all I had to write about my childhood in my poems and no longer feel the need to elaborate. Let’s just say there was a lot of conflict. Even though it was never their intention to harm us, my parents were both riding emotional rollercoasters that took their toll on us as children. These experiences shaped me, giving me both the depth of emotion that fuels my writing and the strength to pursue my dreams despite the challenges.
At nineteen, my blood pressure was so high that it caused a weak spot in my brain to leak. This is how I became a young stroke survivor. Having a stroke was a pivotal point in my life. I remember sitting in the hospital bed one day, listing all the things I wouldn’t have done if I had died from the aneurysm. Travel came up first. Because my parents couldn’t afford to take us on holidays abroad, the only places I had visited so far were Wales, because my aunt lived there, and Luxembourg, because my mother’s friends had a trailer there. This stark realisation made me determined to change my life.
I started making a bucket list that day. I wrote ‘visit Scotland’ on top of that list because I was obsessed with the movie Braveheart at the time. Three months later, I found myself playing cards at Loch Ness with my sister and a friend. That trip was the beginning of a new chapter, one where I vowed to seize every opportunity to see the world and live fully. It was a small step, but it felt monumental to me.
When you are close to death, your life changes forever, but the acuteness disappears after a while and gets replaced by paying the bills and trying to figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life in terms of making the ‘bosses’ money. The routine and responsibilities of daily life can quickly overshadow those moments of clarity and purpose, making it easy to slip back into old patterns.
I spent my days working on the assembly line of a care home kitchen, working 40 hours a week whilst trying to figure my life out. My coworkers were the ones who kept me sane. In a way, they were the first people who really appreciated me. In contrast to most of my former classmates, they seemed to love my quirks and my grand ideas about life. Their support and camaraderie provided me with a sense of belonging and validation that I had long craved.
Besides working on the assembly line, I also spent a great deal of time working at the dishwashing machine. This is where my love for poetry started. Because of the repetitive nature of the work, I had time to keep the menu cards that came back from the meal trays and scribble down small stories at the far end of the machine where the clean dishes came out. The machine stopped more than once because plates got stuck when I had another burst of inspiration. Those moments of creativity amidst the mundane tasks were a lifeline for me, a way to keep my dreams alive.
At 22, I finally decided to go to art school to study photography. Five years later, I walked out with a, for me, useless degree and a lot of frustrations. I ended up back in the care home again, feeling like I had returned to square one. It was a disheartening experience, but it taught me resilience and the importance of finding a way to pursue my passions, no matter the obstacles.
I was raised with the Dutch version of ‘The American Dream.’ My father’s side of the family came from Rotterdam, and my grandfather had worked his way up from being a deckhand to being the second steersman of a luxury cruise ship. I, however, lacked my grandfather’s confidence and couldn’t sell myself or my skills because I never believed in them. I also kept making choices that reaffirmed my disabling beliefs. This constant struggle with self-doubt was a major barrier to my progress.
As I grew older, I realised ‘The American Dream’ was just a myth, something that seemed unattainable, like chasing a mirage in a desert. The capitalist system, designed to benefit the wealthy and powerful, leaves little room for the rest of us to flourish. This realisation was both sobering and liberating, as it allowed me to shift my focus from chasing an illusion to finding my own path.
Reality set in, and I realised the harsh truth that my working-class background would make it hard for me to achieve the life I wanted. Struggling with mental health issues, the weight of this realisation added to the already heavy burden. It felt like an insurmountable obstacle, but it also pushed me to find new ways to pursue my dreams, even if they didn't fit the traditional mould.
Being creative had always been my outlet, the one thing that came naturally to me from a very young age. But without money or resources, I was trapped in a cycle of mediocrity. Failed relationships, haunted by childhood trauma, only added to my inner turmoil. The dreams of travel I once held so dearly slowly faded into the background, overwhelmed by the daily pressures of life. It was a difficult time, but it also helped me understand the importance of resilience and persistence.
I decided to discard a creative career and get a job that paid the bills. It turns out that you can only suppress your true purpose for so long, and at 29, I was so mentally ill that in my black-and-white brain, there were only two options left: committing suicide or blowing up my life in the Netherlands and taking a risk. This was a turning point, where I realised that drastic action was necessary to reclaim my happiness and sense of purpose.
Somewhere deep down, I still had a spark for life, so I decided to pack my bags and leave for London, another childhood dream of mine. The decision was both terrifying and exhilarating, but it felt like the right step towards a new beginning.
I figured paying the rent and bills for an apartment were what kept me from paying off my debts, so I took on the role of a live-in carer, saving every penny I could in hopes of one day fulfilling my travel dreams. This job not only provided financial stability but also gave me the flexibility to pursue my passions on the side.
It is a constant battle to remain hopeful and optimistic in a world that can be cruel and unforgiving. But despite the hardships, I am grateful for the lessons I learned in my youth. It was a time of growth, introspection, and preparation. It strengthened my resolve to continue travelling, see the world, experience its beauty and its pain, and grow as a person. Each challenge I faced added to my resilience and determination.
Despite having a negative outlook, I never stopped trying. I set out again in my late thirties, this time with a greater appreciation for the world around me, a deeper understanding of myself, and an emotionally healthy partner by my side. Together, we explored new places and cultures, finding joy in shared experiences and mutual support.
In many ways, with my forties just having started, my journey has only just begun. I now approach life with a renewed sense of purpose and excitement, ready to embrace whatever adventures lie ahead. My past experiences have shaped me, but they do not define me. The future is full of possibilities, and I am eager to see where the journey takes me next.