This spring, everything is bursting out of me—blog ideas, images, ideas for my website. I’m creating, learning, shaping, almost faster than I can keep up with myself. Sometimes I have to pause, breathe, and remind myself: everything is fine. This is what growing looks like. One moment at a time.
Learning Korean brings me so much joy. It’s not just fun—it’s a way to keep restoring and strengthening my brain, step by step.
AI supports my creativity, helps me stay organized, and is even a quiet partner in our family life—helping our son carve out his own place in the world. Along the way, it has also become something I reflect on and share about in my writing.

This summer, I married the love of my life. We exchanged vows in the Van Goghkerkje in Nuenen—a little church once surrounded by whispering fields, now resting in a quiet area that invites reflection and calm. Even with the world gently humming around it, that day felt like time stood still. There was laughter, tears, sunlight streaming through old windows… and a sense that something bigger than us was smiling too.
Now, we’re stepping into what feels like the most love-filled, expansive chapter of my life. Marriage isn’t a finish line—it’s a beginning. A choice we get to make every day. And I’m here for all of it: the joy, the learning, the cozy rituals, the shared dreams, and even the messy bits that shape us into something stronger.
There’s so much love. Every day, we choose each other—and that feels like magic. The heart knows when it’s home.

After my fall in France, life slowed down in ways I couldn’t have imagined—or planned for. Recovery hasn’t been linear, but thankfully, I’m finding more and more ways to heal, adapt, and rebuild. This period has been all about laying a solid foundation—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and energetically. The kind of groundwork that doesn’t always show on the outside, but changes everything on the inside.
Even before this chapter, I had a growing interest in biohacking and brain health. My earlier autism diagnosis had already opened my eyes to how deeply the brain—and nervous system—shapes our everyday experience. That awareness became even more personal in these years. So I started diving deeper: simple, consistent lifestyle shifts. Gentle, targeted supplements. Sleep—real sleep. Movement that supports, not depletes. And a support system of people who get it—who don’t need everything to be “fine” all the time.
I also gave myself permission to explore less conventional paths. Modalities like the Harmonic Egg, frequency-based therapies, somatic work, and other tools that don’t always fit neatly into a scientific spreadsheet, but have a quiet kind of magic to them. There’s been a lot of slowness. Stillness. Frustration, too. But also clarity. And space. And the slow return of a sense of agency over my own healing.
I wouldn’t wish a fall like mine on anyone. But I also wouldn’t undo this chapter. It’s given me something real—a deeper connection to my body, my brain, and the quiet intelligence they hold when I finally listen.

I just released my Dutch music album. It feels surreal—like holding a piece of my soul in my hands. I should be celebrating, riding the wave, maybe even dreaming up the next song. But instead, I’m flat on my back. Literally. A vicious fall down a staircase in Brittany cut my summer short—and everything else along with it. The creative flow, the plans, the normal rhythms of life… all stopped.
It’s strange how life can turn on a single step. One moment, you’re in the high of completion; the next, you’re staring at the ceiling, wondering what just happened. I don’t know how long it will take to get back on my feet. But I do know this isn’t the end of my story.