My daughter often says how wonderful it is that I’ve been on this earth for so long. Sixty years. And I agree—though it hasn’t always felt that way. It took time—decades, really—to experience the fullness of living. To arrive, not in perfection, but in a quiet sense of wholeness.

There was a time when I lived with an undercurrent of striving. It hummed beneath the surface—subtle, but ever-present. I was searching for something better, truer, more complete. A version of life—of myself—that measured up. I compared. I competed. My mind was quick, my standards high. I held myself tightly, as if ease were a sign of laziness. Beneath it all was a weariness I didn’t know how to name. And joy... joy often slipped just out of reach. Life felt more like a task than a gift.

That changed—though not all at once. Bit by bit, the years softened me. My body helped. Alchemy helped. I began to see learning not as performance, but as transformation. I started listening to life as teacher—through mistakes, through the eyes of others, through tears that surfaced in unexpected moments. Especially in places where I had learned to hide them.

I’ve learned to live in love. Not the conditional kind. Not the if-you-do-I-will-too love. But the kind I can rest in, sink into, be nourished by. The kind that asks nothing in return. It didn’t need much—just a space of stillness. When I started seeing more clearly, beauty was suddenly everywhere. Freedom became something I could feel whenever I gave myself room to breathe. Truth revealed itself in quiet moments, especially when I stopped questioning the good in me. And wisdom—it wasn’t something to figure out. It was already there. Steady. Honest. Waiting to be recognised.

The more I live this way, the more I notice—people, nature, even the smallest things. Passing encounters that leave a trace.

Does that mean I’m always happy? Of course not.

There’s so much to grieve. The way we treat one another. The persistence of war, injustice, poverty. The illusion that war is needed to create peace—and how easily that belief continues to shape our world. The most vulnerable always pay the highest price. Children go unsheltered, unheard. Conversations collapse into sides, rather than shared seeking.
I see the widening gap between those who accumulate power and those who bear its weight.
And the growing disconnection from what is real.

I see, too, how easily we forget that we humans are nature. We’re made of the same elements as trees and tides, stars and stone—carbon, oxygen, water, and a flicker of electricity moving through cells. Our brains are not so different from other animals. What sets us apart is our ability to notice ourselves. The question is: do we use that awareness to care for what sustains us? To protect what we depend on?

The climate is not just external—it mirrors our inner ecology. When we treat life as separate or disposable, we do the same to the soil, the air, the water, the trees, the animals—and each other. The crisis is not only environmental. It’s relational. Spiritual. Human.

And still, this is a season of harvest for me. After years of building, raising, striving—I allow myself to gather what has grown. Not just achievements, but insight. Not just knowledge, but wisdom. There is more calm in me now. More space between the breaths. I’m not quite ready to sit behind the geraniums—as the Dutch would say, stepping back to watch the world from a window. But something has shifted. I want to use what I’ve gathered to support what matters—not just a career, but the essential work of restoring what’s human, what’s alive, what connects.

With what I’ve learned at Microsoft, at WBA, and from life itself, I now help Life Projects deepen its roots and stretch its branches. A forest may grow from it one day—a place where others, too, can live in alignment with the natural order of life.
But that can only take root through integrity in being and doing. So I continue to listen. To move. To act with intention, not urgency.

Instead of being driven by pressure, we’re learning to shape from essence—anchoring what we build in what truly matters. Applying the 8 Core Principles—not as tools, but as living truths. Next year, we’ll offer an international Alchemy of Life training and begin bringing key programmes like Inner Alchemy 1 (in Dutch) to the Netherlands. We’ll also offer an Alchemical Lab for and with leaders—supporting those who want to grow something lasting: organisations that are wise, human, and able to meet the complexity of our times.

And I’m still writing a book. Slowly. As it should be. It’s a form of autofiction—a conversation between ‘I’ and my observer. A weaving of memory, reflection, and themes that have travelled with me. We talked about a party for my sixtieth. I’ve decided to wait. I’ll celebrate when the book is done. That will be its own kind of harvest.

I haven’t walked this path alone. Of course not.

So many people have shaped me—each in their own way. Parents, family, my brother, my grandmother (and -father). Teachers in classrooms and ballet studios. Friends who stood by me, and friends who disappeared but left something behind.

Colleagues, co-founders, board- and team members, mentors, clients, customers, funders… We shared ideas, purpose, and sometimes just a moment of laughter or a glance that said, “you’ve got this,” when I wasn’t sure I did.

And the people I allowed to lead me—yes, often with some resistance. You showed me that real leadership isn’t about control, but about clarity, humility, and the courage to hold space for others to grow.

I’ve learned from those who made me feel seen—and from those who didn’t.
The ones I’ve privately called my universal jerks—who angered me, who made me cry in office bathrooms, especially when ‘being professional’ meant hiding my feelings. Even they gave me something. A mirror, perhaps. Or the quiet strength to keep showing up as myself.

There were strangers who became teachers. I already knew I carried unconscious beliefs, but not to the extent they helped me see these. Colleagues from completely different backgrounds who introduced me to the meaning of Ubuntu and Sawubona—not as concepts, but as lived experience. They showed me what it means to belong to a community—and that collaboration isn’t a transaction, but a way of relating that begins not with the self, but with the other. Through that, I began to feel the truth behind ‘I am because you are.’ And all of these encounters didn’t just shift my thinking—they changed how I live.

My daughters have been among my greatest teachers. They’ve shown me what love without condition looks like. They’ve challenged me to grow—not just as a woman or a mother, but by learning what it means to embody the feminine.

And when my health collapsed, I learned to let care in. I was raised to be strong. To carry on. I wasn’t made of sugar. But illness taught me that some things cannot be pushed through. That true strength can be steady—especially when received. The man who stands beside me now—the most important man in my life—never asked me to be strong. Nor was he afraid of my strength. In his presence, I found a gentler way of being.

There have been sacred teachers too—each offering something essential. They helped me experience that wisdom lives in the body, and that friendship and depth can go hand in hand. One of them introduced me to alchemy, but all of them still walk with me. I'm grateful for each of them.

So much of what brought me here came quietly—an incidental conversation on the street, a sentence in a hallway. A hand on my shoulder. A look that said, “I see you.” Without claiming credit. Without making noise.

And so I wonder—not just what I’ve done, but what I’ve been given. In a world like ours, where many are denied the basics of safety and voice, I know how fortunate I am to sit here, writing. To reflect. To breathe. To be supported by the ground beneath me. And to be aware of it.

We don’t need a birthday to be grateful. Just a breath. A bird singing. The rough touch of bark. The warmth of late sun across your lap.
We just need to remember.

If you find yourself pausing—ask yourself:
What are you grateful for—truly?
Not the polished things.
But the moments. The people.
The places where something in you softened.

You might be surprised what rises when you ask.

And if you feel like raising a glass—whatever season you’re in—please do.
Mine, for now, is called sixty.
I’m glad to be here. Truly.
I raise my glass to you—out of gratitude, and because I am because you are.