Dear traveler,
There are moments when you don’t realize you’re meeting an old friend — not until you’re halfway through the conversation, and your whole body remembers. That happened to me this week. Her name was never said out loud, but I knew her well. She was the part of me who once believed I’d create something extraordinary — something only I could make. And she had hidden herself inside a stack of Orange-spined Suske en Wiske comic books.
These weren’t just stories. They were proof. That someone — Willy Vandersteen — had done it. Made something funny and clever and visual and unique, and shared it with the world. These albums held my breath when life was too much. They gave me rhythm, laughter, and a place to be. And without knowing, the little girl in me collected them like blueprints for her future self. “One day,” she whispered, “I’ll make something like this.”
I forgot about her for a long time.
When I was 22, I bought a house — a huge milestone, yes, but it shifted something. More of my energy went to surviving, earning, keeping up, and proving my worth in someone else’s framework. The creative part of me didn’t die… she just got less and less time behind the wheel. And over time, she stopped growing. She got stuck in that little girl form — still collecting, still dreaming, but never quite stepping into the doing.
Until this week.
I was sorting through the albums — those red spines from childhood. They had to go. There wasn’t space. But as I touched them, something ancient inside me stirred. The creator. The girl who knew. She picked up the stinger again. And when I told the story — to you — I saw her. I saw what she’d carried, and how much she had waited. And I knew it was time to give her the wheel again.
That’s what we teach in the Lantern course, isn’t it? That different parts of our inner self (or “disciples,” as we call them in You-On) take turns steering the car of our life. And when you notice who’s driving, you can shift. You can recognize, acknowledge, and accept — and by doing that, give the wheel to someone new.
So here I am, writing this letter. Letting her — the creator — drive. The one who still believes in building something only I can build. Not because of outcome. Not because it has to be big or successful or change the world. But because it’s me. My hum. My joy.
P.S. About the bike.
This week I handed Daniël the torch to fix Layla’s bike — a small act, but a powerful one. It freed up my time to create, yes, but it also sent a deeper message: “I trust you.” And in trusting him, I also showed the little me that she is trusted. That she is capable. That she doesn’t have to fight to earn her place anymore.
Decisions create reality. What you give attention to, grows. And the girl who creates — she’s getting attention again. Not as a memory, but as a force. A stance. A hum in motion.
Love,
Anke Joanne