I’ve been doing some decluttering lately and while going through the folders labelled “personal growth and learning,” I found a letter that I wrote seven years ago, almost to the date. I had never put it in the mail. I had forgotten all about it, and finding this little handwritten piece today made me smile. Those words remind me of the true romantic I am and have always been. I wrote my first love letters in primary school, always head in the clouds, dreaming of what might be.

I decided to send the letter that I found. Granted, seven years have gone by, and Fred has passed by now. Yet, the letter’s content is still relevant to me. It mirrors my core beliefs, expectations, and hopes. Those last seven years have brought me much heartbreak, but also my husband and our children. If there is anything that resonates with you on a core level, then run with it and don’t let anyone deter you, even if that means that you are being labelled overtly and hopelessly romantic or childish or idealistic. Stick to your ideals. Like Steve Job’s said in his commencement speech: Don’t settle – if you haven’t found what you are looking for, don’t settle just yet. Keep looking. Stay hungry. Stay foolish.

I decided to send the letter as a part of my gratitude project. Right now, I am grateful for people like Fred who share their stories and inspire hope. I am thankful for sticking to my guns even at times when I felt like giving up. I am grateful for Green Shoe Studio – for people who see the magic in the ordinary and grasp opportunities without knowing where they will lead.

Dear Fred,

I’ve been listening to your song in an endless loop for the past few days. I love your song. It’s so full of love and hope, and each time I watch your video on YouTube, it makes me cry so hard – and I thank you for that. I thank you for helping me release and rediscover all those emotions that have been hidden inside of me for so long. On New Year’s Day 2013, I broke up with my boyfriend of five years. I knew right from the start that it wasn’t meant to last, but I needed a safe haven back then when we met. We spent a good time while it lasted and it is safe to say that we learned a lot from each other and grew a lot as people. But our relationship had to come to an end, because I believe in a love like yours, like the one you portray in the video. The one that I see shining in your eyes.

I am 30 now, and everyone told me not to break up, because I am a dreamer and that “the one” doesn’t exist, and maybe you think that too, because you belong to a different generation, and possibly your life was good because you were dedicated to one single person and didn’t question your choices as much. I am wondering and asking myself those questions, because now after eight months on my own I’ve seriously started to doubt, but your video has helped me to reconnect to my inner truth that real, heartwarming love is out there – for all of us. So I keep believing that he is out there too – the one – my one – the one that makes me say at the end of my life that spending time with him was like living the dream, but that it was actually real. And I genuinely want my husband to say that having me as his wife was so worthwhile. That’s my heart’s desire.

I don’t know you, but I love you and your wife for making me happy by sharing your story and allowing other people to take part in it – allowing us to listen to your story and song and allowing us to contemplate the true meaning of love – whatever that means to each individual.

Thank you so much for being there and showing up in my life right now – at a time when I needed a little sign of hope. 


Thank you so much once more, love, Linda.


Bless your family and the people in the recording studio.



Yesterday, at 5 a.m. I woke up with excruciating stomach cramps, and I couldn’t get out of bed without fainting. We called an ambulance, and I was brought to the hospital. The paramedics arrived wearing face masks, and I had to wear one too. I had taken a pregnancy test the previous day. Positive. Elation was followed by fear. What a stark contrast.

I was wondering for a long time, whether I should write this post or not because we are in the very early stages of my pregnancy, but then I changed my mind in the blink of an eye. Of course was I going to write this post. All of me just has to, and here’s why:
When I was pregnant with our first daughter, Catherine, I had kept the pregnancy a secret until the end of the fifth month. I had done everything according to the “unofficial rule book.” I had been hiding my morning sickness at work, and I hadn’t talked to anyone about our growing joy. So it took me until the beginning of the sixth month before I posted a picture on social media saying “it’s a girl” revealing our secret and finally being able to openly share our fantastic news. We were elated.

Then only three weeks later, things started to go wrong. We discovered that our beautiful baby daughter, our firstborn, was suffering from a fatal heart disease, very rare, and that she would enter this world stillborn. We hadn’t seen that coming. At some point, I thought, “damn, I wish I hadn’t posted that picture on Facebook, because now I have to tell everyone that we lost our tiny, perfect baby.” Silly me, because it turned out that whenever anyone asked or addressed our loss we managed to openly discuss what we had experienced, and our sharing led to many other people opening up about their past losses and grief – things they hadn’t dared tell anyone before or pain from the past that had been buried deep down in their heart of hearts for decades was finally being partly released. It was the beautiful amidst the ugly that managed to raise its head in that safe space of mutual trust and respect.

baby Catherine – born 24.03.2016

So now, four years dowm the line, my only regret from that time when I was carrying our first child is that we didn’t start celebrating every single moment right from the beginning on and that instead we had been worrying way too much about trivial stuff and thinking about the perfect timing for the big reveal. We had been wondering for so long if everything was going to be alright, until all of a sudden it wasn’t alright anymore.

Why keep a baby a secret when it is more than welcome in your life? Why for three months or even longer? Who gets to make all those arbitrary rules in the first place? Losing a baby is just as bad three weeks into the pregnancy as it is after seven months or three years. Sure, the emotional and physical connection has gone through different stages of development, but what all those losses have in common, no matter at which stage they occur, is the sudden break down of hopes and dreams that had started to emerge on the blank canvas of our imagination. Stories we had started telling ourselves since the first positive test about all the adventures we were going to experience with our babies and indulging in speculations about their hair or eye colour, their looks, or character, all screechingly brought to a halt.

What I learned in the past is that in case of doubt, or uncertainty or if you are in a position of really not being able to know what will come next, then maybe choose to focus on the joyful now and share it with others. Brighten someone’s day with your joy. Radiate it out into the world. Then at least the “now” is joyful, even if the “next” might not be. I choose to tickle our babies until they have a belly ache from laughter – I choose to look at my husband and repeat over and over again with a smile on my face: “we are going to have another baby” – I consciously choose to share our happy news in dire times; not with one or two or three, but with as many people who want to share in on our joy. You are so welcome to be part of our journey.

If I am deeply honest with myself, I do feel a lump of fear in the pit of my stomach – a tiny one – it’s there. It’s undeniable. I do know, and I am fully aware of what is happening all over the world right now, and I don’t intend to trivialize all of that grief. What about the baby – will we be able to get the regular check-ups? Will all of this have calmed down by the time the baby will be born? All of those questions are of course crossing my mind, but at the same time I stubbornly refuse to let the fear creep in and get the better of me before my physical health, or my loved ones’ health has actually been impacted. It’s tricky at times to keep the darkness at bay, but we keep choosing the sunshine, and the tiny new baby, and our children’s laughter, and our peace right now. A tiny ray of hope that is bravely saying hello amidst a world of the unknown.

– thank you klein laetitia. sweetest, most enthusiastic photographer –

When we lost our first baby daughter, one night my grandmother called and she kept saying: “Why do all those tragedies happen to us? To our family?” But I had never ever considered losing our daughter, or losing my mother, or growing up without a dad, or experiencing my grandfather’s death to be some sort of divine punishment. In the midst of all of this – of this current crisis – and of personal past and future crisis – maybe there is no “Why me? Why my family? Why our country?” in the way that we understand it as some sort of punishment for whatever so-called past sins we might have committed. I am adamant that no matter how excruciating the emotional pain might be, there is and will be the aftermath of unexpected support and emotional and psychological evolution and deep insight, healing, and understanding too if we allow this growth to take place.

– serenity –

After our daughter’s passing, I didn’t see all the trauma and the “why did this happen to us?,” but I saw the messages, the phone calls, the cards – our loved ones reaching out to us and we experienced doctors who deeply cared, beyond their medical duties. We found our gynaecologist call us on his day off, just to make sure we were okay. We had our wedding to look forward to, and we had us. How lucky is that?

Losing our daughter didn’t “happen” to us. She brought us joy and lots of experiences. Yesterday, I listened to a podcast, and there was a stage four cancer survivor who explained that from his point of view, there are no positive or negative experiences – there are just experiences full stop. Our soul came here to experience all of what we are going through, and it’s how we handle our gains and our losses that defines our time here on earth.

Before my first pregnancy, I didn’t know what to make of doctors really. I had this vague stereotypical idea of what a doctor was like, but experiencing our daughter’s heart condition brought us lots of new insights and understanding. We asked lots of questions and discovered that experts are all too willing to answer our questions if we ask. We learned that we were the odd ones out because usually, people weren’t asking that many questions. At least apparently not in our country. But asking questions is imperative. The gynaecologist who delivered our stillborn baby told me: “I’m always wondering why my patients are like sheep in a herd. They never ask any questions. They just sit there, numb, quiet, motionless, like deer caught in headlights.” I guess people being hesitant to ask questions boils down to a combination of several things: fear of the unknown, fear of getting answers that we don’t want to hear, but would rather avoid if we could, fear of coming across as stupid or uneducated, or fear that after asking, we are being left with even more unanswered questions.

If anything, I learned from what we had to go through that we should collaborate with our doctors and medical staff and ask – ask plenty of questions to help them help us. I was confirmed in my belief when I was in the hospital two nights ago: When I was lying in emergency care, waiting to be wheeled up to the maternity ward for further check-ups, the doctor opened a dose of paracetamol and wanted to administer it to me. She went through her motions without any explanations. I stopped her in her tracks, asked what she was about to do and declined the treatment. At first, she was perplexed and went on to say that she couldn’t leave me in pain while I had to wait for further treatment. At first, I was annoyed that she had not even attempted to let me in on her medical plans for me, but then I realized amidst the chaos and hushed voices in the hospital that this doctor too was acting out of fear: I realized it was standard protocol and she didn’t want to be blamed in case anything had gone wrong in the end. All of us want to feel safe and do the right thing at the right time. Especially if it comes to other people’s lives and happiness. In hindsight, I should have emphasized that I’ll take on full responsibility for my medical choices and that she will always be safe. Sticking to our own decisions is so empowering for us and relieving for people who usually need to be fully in charge.

By the time I was wheeled into the maternity ward in the hospital. I had tears in my eyes. The stress in the hospital was palpable, and I felt so sorry that I had unintentionally added to their stress. But then and there, one of the nurses looked at me, I mean, she really looked at me and said: “That’s why we are here. For personal stories and personal emergencies like yours. That’s what nurses, and doctors, and hospitals are for. The world is not all virus right now, although it might feel like it. The world is still also new beginnings and new life and very personal worries.” I loved her for that comment. She had said exactly what I needed to hear. In times of crisis, it’s wonderful nurses, and beautifully calm people, that make all the difference. I felt so lucky. Thank you so much for your kind words, Diane. Thank you to all the doctors and nurses. Due to the circumstances two nights ago, I could experience first hand the pent-up stress and fear regarding the uncertain future events. However, at the same time, I felt confident that there is a capable team in charge that we can rely on in times of crisis and that there are people that go out of their way to brush their own feelings of fear and uncertainty aside to help fellow human beings in distress. Those miraculous people have outgrown their former selves. I am so very grateful to have experienced this comforting side of humanity too. I admire your bravery! Thank you!

– Thank you. Your presence matters so much. You are valued and appreciated. –

So why am I writing all of this? Currently, I am watching a free video series released by Hay House (thank you Hay House  , the videos are amazing!). The series deals with the phenomenon of “radical remission,” which is when people beat the odds and fully recover from a usually terminal disease. There are ten practices that radical survivors seem to all have commonly applied after their diagnosis. One of those practices is doing shadow work and walking once more through all those moments that have caused us pain in the past. But this time around consciously – really looking at what had happened and processing the feelings, hurt, and emotions. I have been writing blog posts for a few months now, and only after the launch of the series did I discover that what I was and am doing has a name: shadow work – processing past, traumatizing experiences, and turning them into positive life lessons, using every tiny inkling of hope there had been in those episodes and turning them into life lessons, providing future personal guidance, values, and standards. I hope for all of us that we manage to use the boulders that were put in our way and that we laboriously had to work through to pave our future roads with resilience and memories of growth and goals and expansion – for us and for future generations to come, like for our tiny baby.

“all creativity requires some stillness.” dr. wayne dyer

We might not know the “why,” but we can apply the “what.” What am I going to do with this newly added experience now and in the future to make my time here on earth more joyful – to turn my loss into gain? Well, we, my husband and I, for one, transformed losing our first daughter into celebrating every single pregnancy that came after that right from the start on. No shame, no regret. No “what if anything might go wrong down the line? It’s still so early…” So what? What if it might go wrong? At least we laughed and rejoiced and got all caught up in positive momentum and revelled in the happiness of the moment for a minute, or a week, or for as long as it might last and hopefully all throughout the pregnancy, and way beyond. For what people forget is that even if you make it through the pregnancy, then there will be your child’s entire life that lies ahead of you and him or her and at any given moment an unexpected tragedy might strike, like the one we are in the midst of. And in times of darkness, we will be so grateful for the amounts of decisive moments and joyful memories we have been able to bag in the past, for it’s our sunny moments that are the bridges we can choose to walk on to get to the other side of this. So do you postpone celebrating life’s joys for fear of anything negative interrupting your happiness down the line? Let’s hope that the answer to that question is a fervent “no.” Let’s hope that we will all find within us the courage to celebrate a new life, or newly found love, or a new friendship or a new hobby, even if there might be a potential disappointment or heartbreak, or full blown crisis like the current one lurking down the line.

To courage. To joy. To tiny babies. To laughter. To medical professionals. And to all that is still good in this world, because there is.

Love, Linda.

catching up with some reading. started this yesterday. thank you wonderful Fabienne for recommending this to me. several times. I finally picked it up.


I distinctly remember the day my mum died. Nothing prepares you for that. Especially not if you are four years old. And especially not if it is a sudden death that doesn’t allow for any goodbyes. – My mum left and never came back, because someone else decided to take her life. – Just like that. – Take her life. – Take part of mine. – Part of my ancestors’ lives and part of my then still unborn children’s lives.

I remember being with my great-grandmother that day – THE day. She was sick and bedridden, but because I used to spend most of my time with her, combing her long silvery grey hair when she was still fitter, I kept doing what we always used to do when she was in bed, silently suffering. I adore thinking back to those endless days when summers seemed to last a whole year and school holidays would just last forever. I used to braid her hair for what seemed like an eternity in the summer heat, rolling it up into a bun and fixing it at the nape of her neck with a honey-coloured comb. I thought she was so pretty and wise – to me, the prettiest and wisest person I knew back then, and on some level, she still is and always will be.

I was with my great-grandmother – and the moment my granddad opened the bedroom door, I knew. I just knew. There is an innate knowing within all of us. These days, everyone calls it intuition, but to me, intuition has always been that instant knowing that hit me back then in that very bedroom. My granddad was about to tell us that my mum had been found – dead, but I just knew – no words needed. I remember him standing in the doorframe, the sunlight pouring in from the hallway behind him, turning his figure into a mere shadow of himself – an image that must have been eerily mirroring his feelings at the time. He didn’t go on to say much. He didn’t have to. What do you say when there are no words left? When nothing can express the grief that keeps you in deadlock.

“I kept my hope just like I’d hoped to…”

I didn’t cry. My great-grandmother was crying. Those silent, heavy sobs – the kind of sobbing that leaves the room eerily quiet although it’s filled with deafening grief and the aftermath of shattered hopes and dreams. – I went and held my great-grandmother. I held her face in my tiny hands, with her silvery grey hair draped over my fingers. –

I held her and told her everything was going to be okay. And the weird thing is I believed it. I just knew. It took a long time and many more tear-filled times for the heavy veil to lift that had set upon our family that day and muffled our unbridled light-heartedness, like a freshly fallen layer of snow – but not the light, crisp kind of snow that glitters in the light of the street-lamps, but the kind of heavy, soggy snow that leaves you feeling damp and chilled to the bone.

But even though it took me more than thirty years, nothing manages to break your heart forever; at least not if you decide to choose – again and again – if you decide to choose love, over and over again, even though at times it feels so hard that you’d rather not get out of bed in the morning. But you just continue to grow, and expand, and learn, and love – one day at a time – even if at times it feels as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the air, leaving none for you and when people are so outright mean that you can only stand and stare in disbelief, at a loss for words. – For there is evil in this world; the worst is the petty, everyday kind of evil, too profane to be lethal, but yet too hurtful to be trivial. Evil has many ugly faces, ranging from the evil that left my mum lifeless to the ignorant schoolyard bully evil – but the thing is: don’t give up. – Not just yet. Maybe never really. At least that’s what I did: I chose to believe my four-year-old self, and kept believing her ever since with unbridled optimism and faith. There is love and kindness in this world, even in the face of downright evil. Choose love instead. It’s hard. I know. Fxxx hard. But when you are feeling blue, maybe think of silvery grey hair and a little girl who decided to believe hope when she whispered in her ear that day.

Please believe hope too when she whispers of kind hearts, of random smiles, of holy encounters between people, of hands being held, and future dreams to be shared, of everyday heroes, and small acts of grace. – Choose to notice those fleeting, but yet potent moments of golden peace on a daily basis, and ignore the ignorant. – Choose to choose love. – Even when it’s hard. – Especially when it’s hard.

still choosing – Every.Single.Day.

by Lily Moses.


’Are you finally happy now?”

In response to my post about finding my dad, after I had been looking for him for over 30 years, someone asked me “so, are you finally happy now?”

At first, I was taken a bit aback – are you finally happy now? – it sounded almost like a reproach, although I know it wasn’t meant to be.

After my initial response, I chose to allow the answer to that question to find me – am I fully happy now? Yes and no. And that is the truth – my truth right now.

Yes, hell yes – I am happy to get to know my father, to pick his brain and to discover and uncover who he really is and what he has gone through and experienced all those years – with me, when I was little, and without me, all those years leading up to now.

So yes, that part of our story does make me incredibly happy.

But, there is a “but” – there is a reason why my dad hadn’t been part of my life for such a long time and there are a lot of facts and realities I need to come to terms with right now. Truths that hurt.

For one, I want to point out that there will never be that one magical event that will make a person instantly happy – you might glow from within for longer periods of time during the day, or weeks, or years, because a vital spark within has been rekindled by that sudden turn of events, but a person’s overall wellbeing and happiness comes down to so much more – we have families, friends, jobs, and so many more factors that make up our identity – so a sense of genuine calm and serenity in all those areas is what contributes to an individual’s overall happiness. It’s not “the one life-changing incident” that turns you into a glittering happiness mirror ball over night. People would rather think you have gone mental if it did ☺️🙃

So, “am I finally happy now?” – spending time with my father and being able to gather the missing pieces of the puzzle has certainly contributed to me finding my place in this world and consequently allowed me to access and retrieve a significant amount of childlike happiness and wonder that had been hidden away for so long – but –

– but having to face the circumstances and events related to our story has also been unsettling on so many levels and in so many ways. That’s where the “there is still room for happiness improvement” comes in – That’s why my – our – journey doesn’t end here ☺️ I believe a new chapter has only just begun 🥰

– allowing and accepting the glorious and the painful and dealing with the pieces of the puzzle one bit at a time ❣️☺️

“choosing to remember the love instead.” ❣️

(kyle gray).

Understand that as you sit here right now, no one has ever thought what you are thinking. No one has ever occupied the space you occupy. Really try to comprehend what philosophers call “the existential aloneness”—that you are alone in the universe, and you must experience that aloneness in such a way that you never allow yourself to feel down or depressed by it. Nobody can ever get behind your eyeballs and feel what you feel and experience what you experience, except for you. You can be in a room full of people and still be alone. You could be making love to the person you adore more than anything in the world, and you’re still alone. You are always experiencing things in your own unique and special way. In all of time, no one can ever get to an understanding of themselves, of the universe, of what it means to be a no-limit person, unless they get to this point called inner peace—and that is something you can never obtain but can only feel inside. Learning to tune in to your own specialness and consult your inner signals will help point the way to lasting and genuine success.

Dyer, Wayne W.. Happiness Is the Way (pp. 81-82). Hay House. Kindle Edition.



Hi there – it’s me here.

It’s your birthday – so I thought I’d say “hey”.

“Hey, how are you?” – “What are you up to?”

I wish I could hear all that you have to say – but you weren’t allowed to stay.

Eleven years ago you left – and we stayed bereft.

You walked out the door – and life has never been the same than before.

Sometimes, I thought I need to tell you on the phone – but then I remembered that you were all gone.

I would have loved to let you know – that our family was about to grow.

To let you know about the kids – since with you they would have been hits.

But you had to leave – and let us grieve.

On our own – all alone.

You had to be somewhere new – to guide us through;

To guide us from beyond – and watch over our earthly bond.

I wish you could have been at my wedding – and help me trim those hedges in spring,

Like we used to do, when I was small – you really taught me how to do it all.

You would have helped me with the fish in the pond – and answered my questions way beyond.

But you had to go – I know.

Happy birthday dearest granddad – I hope that some day we can chat.

That some day, I can hold you close once more – and reconnect beyond that heavenly door.

That some fine day, I can insist – that you are still dearly missed.

Love you loads. Happy birthday.