In my younger years, the spark was ignited. I was fascinated by other countries. When I didn’t finish my plate and my parents said, “Think of the poor children in Africa,” I actually did. With the innocence of a child, I wondered: how do they live? What games do they play in dusty villages with only sand—and maybe a goat? I meant it when I said, “Then let’s send them my food!” Not to rebel, but to share. Ideally, I would have carried the plate to them myself.
In my teens, I once overheard my mum speaking with a relative who had worked on a social project in Rwanda, teaching women how to sew. I was fascinated—just as I was by my grandmother’s stories. A German woman, she had met my Dutch grandfather during the war. What a brave soul she was, moving to a new country where she was considered “the enemy” and still managing to build a life. She was an example of strength and resilience. Perhaps that’s why I chose to study tourism: to prepare myself for discovering the world.
In my twenties I did my practical year abroad. Completely on my own for the very first time. In a safe place though: my beloved mountains, where we had spent our family holidays. And slowly, it became home. I spent long, lonely evenings over cups of tea, writing my diary. I made friends, gained respect, and eventually became “one of the locals.” I even married there, rooting myself even more deeply.
In my early thirties it hit me. My world felt way too small, I needed to explore, so off I went. I divorced, I travelled, I wrote, I wandered. And just as I was taking a break to find a job again, I met a handsome, fascinating man from Spain. A new country, a different language, another culture—all waiting for me. I packed my backpack and set off once again on a new adventure.
In my forties I felt kind of stuck. Could this really be it? I had travelled less than I dreamed of, but I had lived in three countries, absorbed their cultures, learned their languages, and made friends for life. I was happy, but not fulfilled. So, I started over again—this time returning to the place where I had once learned how to be on my own. But now it felt different. This time I had my most faithful companion, my admirable dog, at my side, and old friends welcoming me back again made coming “home” a completely different experience.
Now, in my early fifties, the pull is strong again. It’s hard to explain, but the feeling inside me is so strong: I need to go. Don’t worry—I won’t be gone from your world. Quite the opposite.
I am finally stepping fully into the world…again!
