The dream that shaped my life
My number 32
When I was about 19, I had a dream that stayed with me for years. It wasn’t an ordinary dream. All I could see was the number 32.
Imagine watching a music video where glowing neon 32s take centre stage. One drifted from left to right, another dropped from the sky, while others floated past as if they were dancing. Nothing else. Just 32, over and over again. When I woke up, I was convinced I would never reach my 32nd birthday. The dream returned several nights in a row, and every morning I woke with exactly the same certainty.
That dream shaped my life.
I lived fast and carelessly because I believed I was going to die young. So when my 32nd birthday finally arrived, I felt strangely disappointed. Of course I was happy to be alive – although I was trapped in a terrible relationship with the man who would later become both my ex and my stalker – but I realised I had never made plans for the future.
I had no direction.
No dream.
No destination.
It was time to change that.
The first step was leaving that relationship and finding safety. That turned out to be much harder than I imagined, and it took several years before I was truly free.
The second step was travel. Long journeys. Distant countries. I worked hard, saved my money, took long breaks and travelled wherever curiosity led me. From the outside, those years may have looked adventurous, even glamorous. But the truth is different. The things I truly wanted to do, I didn’t dare do.
I lived in my own shadow.
Stepping out of the shadows
For a while, photography became my safe place. Behind a camera I could observe without being seen. I occasionally posted a photo on Facebook, but most of my pictures have never been seen by anyone except me.
Writing was no different. I was deeply ashamed of wanting to write. For years I filled notebooks with short stories, only to throw them away before anyone could read them.
There was something else too. In my professional life I often found myself leading meetings and managing projects, yet I never recognised myself in the managers around me. They led in ways that didn’t feel like me. “I can’t do that,” I kept telling myself. So I never explored my own way of leading.
And then there was another part of me. I’ve always loved stones, shells, stars, maps, trees, plants, herbs, animals, song lyrics, numbers, dates, licence plates – countless little things that many people would dismiss as coincidence but that somehow help me make sense of life. I rarely talked about that side of myself. I even have a name for it. I call it my stone shame.
Then a cancer tumour entered my life. I named it Knobbel, the Dutch word for a little lump. Knobbel shook me awake.
Almost instantly I knew I had work to do. Old wounds needed healing. New dreams needed creating. I no longer wanted to live as a smaller version of myself.
The answer came immediately: I had to tell stories.
So I started blogging. Not only here, where I write about what solo travel through Australia has taught me, but also on my Dutch website, where I share deeply personal stories in my own language.
That’s when I realised something. Writing isn’t just something I enjoy. It’s my calling. I finally let go of the shame, and it changed everything. Writing has become the best therapy I’ve ever found.
A few nights ago, a heavy thunderstorm rolled across the sky. I couldn’t sleep. Thunder has frightened me for as long as I can remember. So I opened my laptop and I started talking to you – my reader – and simply kept writing while the storm raged outside. Without noticing, my fear quietly faded into the background. Writing had become stronger than the thunder.
My new number
These days I have a new goal. I want to grow old. Not just old. Healthy old. 92 years old.
There. I’ve said it out loud.
For years I believed my mother would live to 92 just like her favourite aunt but she died two months before her 90th birthday.
When Knobbel entered my live, I thought a lot of my mum. I was heartbroken that I had to face cancer without her. What if I die young? Those thoughts pulled me into a dark place and I knew I had to change my perspective if I wantend to make this chapter of my life bearable. One night I dreamed about mum. When I woke up, my first thought was “maybe 92 is meant for me!”
I loved that thought, so I chose the date on which I’ll leave this world after my 92nd birthday. Since then I quietly repeat that date to myself every night before I fall asleep.
Then, during that same sleepless night with thunder outside, sweat on my forehead and my laptop balancing on my knees, I suddenly realized something else. That date is exactly 32 years away.
The very number that once filled me with fear has become my buoy. Instead of warning me about the end, it now reminds me that I still have plenty of time. At the moment, I’m still floating in the lake that Knobbel left behind, healing from surgery and everything that came with it. But I can already see the shore. And when I do, I intend to use every part of who I am.
I have all the time in the world.