⁉️I’ve noticed from all your incredible comments and intros that we have Challengers from different parts of the globe! 1. Share where you are from in the comments below and include the appropriate flag emoji 🙂 2. Give a 👍🏼 if you have visited that place. I’ll start…

Have you ever felt like you were losing yourself, bit by bit, without even realizing it? That’s where I was—trapped, not in a physical cage, but in a web of subtle manipulation. It started so small, like a whisper you barely notice. A comment here, an expectation there. “This won’t touch who I am,” I told myself, adjusting to avoid triggering her trauma. But as David JP Phillips might say, stories have power, and this one was quietly rewriting mine. In my book A Blanket Full of Dreams, I describe life as a tightrope walk, balancing between who you are and who you’re pressured to become. In this relationship, that rope was pulled so tight I could barely breathe. Picture us on the Gele Ruitersplein, a square in Arnhem, sunlight warming the cobblestones, but her eyes darkened when my phone buzzed with a message from a friend. Friendships—some over a decade old, forged in tough times and pure connection—were deemed threats. She demanded access to my phone, my WhatsApp, my entire life. “Delete them,” she insisted, claiming it was to protect her trauma. My body screamed in protest, but I complied. Her pain, she said, couldn’t be disturbed. Can you recall a moment when you gave up something precious to keep the peace? Every three months, she sent me in a new direction. I had to account for every minute of my day—where I was, what I did. If I didn’t, it might “trigger her.” Meanwhile, she claimed her freedom to come and go without explanation, because questioning her would “hurt her trauma.” I was so conditioned that when she was gone, I’d sit frozen on the couch, afraid to act beyond what I’d told her I’d do. If she was gone for an hour and I finished my tasks in fifteen minutes, I’d wait, like a shadow of myself. Even a cherished painting by my grandfather was lost to her final threat: “Anything you leave behind, you’ll never see again.” Have you ever felt paralyzed by someone else’s expectations, waiting for their permission to live? There is no happiness to be found there, is there?

You have two choices: watch other people live the life you want and resent them for it, or take responsibility and go get it yourself. What are you going to choose?

Picture this: a chilly autumn morning in the ‘90s, Van Zwanenbergsingel, Oss. The doorbell screeches, fists pound on the door. My heart skips a beat. What’s happening? I bolt outside, chasing a panicked man. Across the tracks, I spot a BMW station wagon, spun backward, its left front wheel crushed so far into the chassis it’s nearly kissing the cabin. A woman, dazed, blood trickling from her forehead, her head slumped against a cracked windshield. 🚗💥 I kneel beside her. Her voice is faint, but her words cut deep: a mom, married to a realtor, with a little boy and girl. She manages a weak smile talking about them, her eyes desperate for hope. The stench of diesel hangs heavy—“I just filled the tank,” she murmurs repeatedly. My mind flashes to a bus trip in France years before, a burning car with occupants, helpless onlookers waving in despair. That fear fuels me: this woman must be safe. 🚨 Care, care, care. Always for others. I was taught my needs could wait. But where was I in all this? It took three personal crashes—years later—to wake me up to self-care. Seven years ago, I began to learn I, too, could be carried. 💪❤️ Last Sunday, in the clear, cool waters of the river IJssel near Zutphen, I felt it. My love asked, “Are you standing? I want to wrap my legs around you.” A warm, intimate embrace followed, her closeness a gift. We lounged on the shore, ate, drank, then waded back in. “Come here,” she said, “your turn.” I swam to her, arms around her neck, legs around her waist, head nestled in her shoulder. “Now I’m carrying you,” she whispered. It felt strange, not standing on my own. But then my chest softened, my heart opened. “Wow,” she said, “I feel your heart melting. Is that right?” Yes, it was. Being carried is coming home. 🏊‍♂️💖 Care isn’t just for others. Care is for you, too. Care is letting yourself be carried. Let’s hold that close. 🙏 ----ps ---- After reading this. How does it affect you? How would you recommend to classify this in my story index.

Yesterday, my mother would have turned 83. And yesterday, I finished something I never thought I could: my first book. Not just a manuscript. A reckoning. A return. A quiet homecoming: to myself. It’s called: 𝙰 𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝙵𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜, 𝙰 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎. But this post… isn’t about the book. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝘂𝗻𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 Thank you, @David JP Phillips , @Alexander Grabner Jarlung , @Taz Hartley and fellow students. You didn’t just teach me how to speak. You taught me how to see. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗜𝗻𝗱𝗲𝘅 didn’t just organize my thoughts. It unearthed my life. It gave meaning to moments I had buried in silence. It gave language to feelings I had long avoided. And in that clarity, something shifted. Not just as a storyteller. Not just as a writer. But as a man. 𝗡𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘆𝗲𝘁, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗻𝘀𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 No spotlight. No standing ovation. Not yet. But the shift? Irreversible. Undeniable. Alive. This book, finished quietly on her birthday, is the proof. It is a bow to the past. And a bridge to what’s next. 𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗸𝗼𝗼𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘁𝘆 I’ve been quiet.Absent, even. Not because I’ve given up. But because I was deep in it. The work. The rewiring. The rewrite...of me. Now I return. Not to sell. Not to pitch. But to simply say: Thank you. I'm still here. Wiser. Softer. More whole. 𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 Whatever you're facing. Whatever storm you are learning to name. Please don’t stop. Sometimes, the pain becomes purpose. Sometimes, the fog becomes form. And sometimes, you find yourself on a page, in a pause, or in a voice that finally feels like your own. Keep going. You’re not just changing your story: You’re becoming it. Kind regards, Anton