The woman behind the words

Who am I?

I live in Antwerp, Belgium, with my 2-year-old son, and partner. Writing has always been my thing, but so has the wish of making the world a better place. I got sidetracked a lot in finding my voice and identity, even before I became a mother. But when I did become a mother, that creative, idealistic part of me seemed to disappear into the fog of exhaustion and all-consuming care for my son.

Everything that used to matter… just didn’t. My self-care sank to the bottom of the barrel. But as the fog began to lift, I started to hear something again. A familiar whisper inside me. The urge to write returned, fiercer than ever. Looking back, I think it was a part of me fighting its way back, a piece I didn’t even realise I had lost.

Never-ending journey

I’m still figuring out who I am. I don’t know if you’re still allowed to say that in your thirties, but here we are. If motherhood has taught me one thing, it’s that identity isn’t static. It shifts, stretches beyond breaking point, and then rebuilds itself in the rubble. And when you emerge from it, you realise you’re a completely different person than you were before. In my case, I try to picture this process as a phoenix rising from the ashes, but honestly, it often feels more like a shellshocked soldier stumbling off the battlefield.

Some things haven’t changed, though. I still live for Italian food, a good meme, movies, and the kind of romance novels you don’t read on public transportation. I’m wildly sensitive (confirmed by my partner), I feel so much and overthink too much. I’m learning to see that as a strength instead of a flaw.

I can complain, yes. Often with memes. Maybe too much. But always with love. My son is the greatest gift of my life. Watching him grow fills me with awe, and with a kind of responsibility that makes me want to be better. I want to raise him in a home where love is all around, mistakes are allowed, and showing up matters most. I know that sounds like something from a cheap motivational poster, but I’m really starting to get what that means. I used to think I had to get everything right. Now I know that being there (tired, messy, unsure) matters more than doing it all perfectly. That’s what’s finally sinking in.

Still, it’s hard. When everything feels like a mess, finding joy in it doesn’t always come easy. But I don’t want to miss the good parts of motherhood just because I haven’t cracked the code on balancing work, the house, a toddler, friendships, fitness, mental health, money, and… okay, stop. You get it.

Why I write

Writing has always been therapeutic for me. But it’s the sharing that makes the healing happen. I don’t write to teach or preach. I write to survive. And in doing so, I still hope it helps someone else feel understood. Even a little more hopeful.

When I started sharing my experiences, I realised I wasn’t the only one. Friends, family, strangers: they all began to share their own stories. Whispered confessions of overwhelm, of not feeling "good enough," of not loving every second of motherhood. I wasn’t alone. None of us is. And we’re not bad moms. We’re just human. Those confessions were like oxygen to me when I was deep in the trenches of self-loathing and self-blame during motherhood.

I may sometimes question if I’m actually as brilliant as my mom says (thanks, mom), and if I should be sharing all of this. But I once heard someone say: If you didn’t have a purpose, you wouldn’t exist. So this is mine: to write things that make other mothers feel less alone. And to remind myself, too, that we don’t have to get it all right to be considered a good person, a good mom.

I want my son to see that. I want him to remember the quiet moments, the small gestures, the imperfect but always-present love. And I want him to know that his mother didn’t disappear into motherhood. She grew through it and from it.

So if you’ve stumbled across my words, thank you. Truly. Just knowing you’re here means more than I can say.

Right now, I share my stories. But I’m also creating tools and resources to help you feel like yourself again, or at least turn the chaos into something manageable. You’ll be the first to know when they’re ready.