The Road Less Traveled…and I Took a Detour

A very personal story

The Long Detour

Life can change in the blink of an eye, and for me, that moment came unexpectedly one night in 1994. I was visiting the Netherlands, catching a movie, when everything suddenly unraveled. As I settled into my seat, ready to enjoy the film, anxiety crashed into me like an unexpected storm. The darkness of the theater seemed to close in, and I felt a crushing, inexplicable terror. My heart raced as if trying to outrun an invisible threat.

Without thinking, I bolted upright, desperate for escape, weaving through the rows of seats. By the time I reached the restroom, I was hyperventilating, gripping the walls as if they were the last vestiges of sanity. I spent the rest of the movie trapped in my own personal horror show, unable to return to my seat.

That moment marked the beginning of a profound shift in my life. My world, once expansive and full of possibilities, started to shrink—slowly but relentlessly—until everything that had once been easy now felt impossible.

When Your World Collapses

Growing up, the world often felt like a cosmic joke I didn’t get. My only solace came from my cat, my sole companion during a lonely childhood. She provided a sense of comfort and connection that people couldn’t. She was there offering me safety as I navigated bullying and loneliness, and I offered her the same as she navigated the abuse of my stepfather, from which I couldn’t protect her. Together, we built a world where we felt safe.

But that night at the cinema in 1994 became the start of a long, difficult journey. At 25, I had been living in Italy, enjoying life and thriving socially. After that evening, things changed. Anxiety slowly took hold, and over the next four years, my once lively existence narrowed, my vibrant social life began to retreat into the background. The world that had once been wide open started to close in on me. Everyday tasks felt overwhelming. Eventually, I moved back to the Netherlands, hoping that familiar surroundings might bring me some relief.

I sought help through the conventional mental health system, but all they offered was medication. I took it, and while it provided some relief, it didn’t change the core of what I was going through. Life carried on, but I was merely existing, trying to make it through each day. I adopted two cats, hoping their presence would offer me some comfort, and I did my best to build a life that resembled normalcy. But the panic always lurked around the corner, never truly gone.

The Comfort of Seclusion

In 2005, I moved to Amsterdam, thinking a fresh start would be just what I needed. But life had other plans. I lost both of my beloved cats—companions for seven years—within just four months. One died in my arms shortly after the move, and the other disappeared into the streets of Amsterdam, never to be found again. I searched for him for two years, but he was gone. Grief colored everything. Despite my attempts to keep going, there was a heavy weight over my life.

But a year and a half later, two new kittens came into my life. From the moment I saw them, I knew they were meant to be mine. Our bond was a symphony, a dance of care and connection. They gave my life meaning in a world that felt increasingly chaotic. We formed a tight-knit trio, perfectly in sync. One cat was nurturing, always by my side, and the other offered that unmistakable unconditional love that only animals can give.

As agoraphobia tightened its grip on me, I turned my home into a fortress. Stepping outside felt like scaling Everest. Even a simple trip to the grocery store became a full-on military operation, requiring meticulous planning and strategy. My days were spent immersed in creative projects—painting, reading, learning anything I could get my hands on. The world outside became a distant memory. If you had peeked into my life at that time, you’d have found a woman who had mastered the art of staying home, perfectly content in a sanctuary of her own making, with two cats as her closest companions.

From Cats to Chats

By 2017, things started to shift. I had embarked on a rigorous gut detox, which made me feel noticeably better. I slowly weaned myself off the medication, and as my body healed, I felt an urge to reconnect with the world. Tentatively, I began interacting with people online. It felt safe behind a screen, where I could remain anonymous and dip my toes into conversations without too much pressure.

In January 2020, I took a leap of faith and launched a YouTube channel. It was my way of pushing myself back into the world, even if it was just through a screen. The channel grew quickly, and before long, I had over 8,000 followers. It was exciting, but overwhelming. This sudden influx of engagement turned my quiet home life around, even the cats made their appearance in my livestreams. And while it wasn’t the same as face-to-face connection, it was a significant step forward for me.

But the more time I spent online, the more I felt myself drifting away from the creative projects that had once brought me peace. Hours in the virtual world chipped away at the time I used to spend painting, reading, or simply being present with my cats. It became a distraction, a way to avoid the discomfort of my own healing process.

Then, in June 2021, the unthinkable happened.

After 15 years together, both of my beloved cats passed away just seven days apart. One had been sick for a while, and I had prepared for his passing, caring for him until his last breath. But the other followed so quickly that it took me by complete surprise. Just hours before her death, I asked her, “Do you need to go too?” And I heard the clearest answer in my mind: “Yes, Mom, because you have to do this by yourself now.”

Suddenly, my home, once filled with their warmth and companionship, became a hollow, empty space. The silence was unbearable. Their absence forced me to confront how deeply intertwined my life had become with theirs. I hadn’t realized just how much I had relied on my cats—not just for companionship, but to avoid doing the hard work of healing myself. Without them, I was left to face an emptiness I hadn’t anticipated.

Searching for Clarity in Mexico

During this time of intense grief, the online community I had built through YouTube became my lifeline. Some of the people I met through the platform became close friends, guiding me through the fog and encouraging me to take new steps. After a year of mourning, I decided to take action. Encouraged by those around me, I made a bold decision. In July 2022, I set off for Mexico, hoping that a new adventure might heal the wounds that had been festering for too long, and that a change of scenery might offer clarity and peace.

It was a bold decision, especially after years of seclusion. But I was determined to challenge the agoraphobia that had ruled my life for 28 long years.

Mexico turned out to be less of a healing retreat and more of an emotional storm. A bureaucratic error with my government left me stranded without insurance. Health issues arose, and before long, I found myself in a hospital being treated worse than a stray dog. I was in a foreign country, fighting for my life, and I wondered if this would be the end of me. I survived that horrible experience, but not without consequences.

Once out of the hospital, while holding toilet paper against the open wound I had been operated on, I remember looking up to the sky and asking God, “Is this really my path?”

Amidst this chaos, I had rescued two kittens who, like me, seemed lost in the world. They became my companions as I tried to navigate this foreign land. I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it, but I miraculously did and went back home to The Netherlands, due to my deteriorating health, financial stress, and nervous system overload. This whole endeavour seemed like a big failure, but was it though?

Embracing the Chaos

Returning home, I was met with new challenges. My health was fragile, my possessions had been stolen from my apartment, and I was faced with the heartbreaking decision to find a sanctuary for the two rescue cats I had brought back from Mexico. They needed more care than I could provide, and for the first time, I had to admit that my lifelong pattern of relying on cats as a crutch had to end.

My bond with cats over all these years had deep roots in those early years—when my childhood cat, my only friend during years of bullying and loneliness, had been taken from me abruptly, euthanised without a chance to say goodbye. The trauma of that loss had shaped me, and for years, I had subconsciously vowed to never fail another cat again.

I remembered the message I had heard before my last cat passed away: “Yes, Mom, cause you have to do it by yourself now.” And suddenly, it all made sense.

Letting them go was a profound and painful decision, but it was also the moment I began to reclaim my life. Finding the perfect sanctuary for them brought a sense of relief. Though I struggled with a deep sense of guilt, I kept reminding myself that they were safe, well cared for, and that animals live in the present. They move forward as long as their needs are met. So, I began the process of moving forward myself.

Letting Go and Surrender

I turned to daily meditation, which became my lifeline. It wasn’t about escaping the pain—it was about sitting with it, feeling it fully. I learned to observe my emotions without judgment, to feel them without letting them consume me. Some days, the grief felt unbearable. There were moments of anger, despair, anxiety, and deep sadness. But slowly, as I continued to practice meditation, those emotions began to loosen their grip. I realized that healing wasn’t about avoiding the pain, but about facing it head-on, letting it flow through me, and eventually, letting it go.

Three months passed, and although I still missed my rescue cats, I visited them at their sanctuary and saw them thriving. That brought me comfort. I could now focus more deeply on my own healing, free from the weight of guilt.

A New Chapter

Now, after 55 years of navigating life’s ups and downs, I find myself at the beginning of a new chapter—or maybe a whole new book. Life may still be chaotic, but I’m learning to embrace its unpredictability. I’m discovering beauty in my imperfections and in the world around me. It’s a slow process, but one that feels like it’s moving in the right direction.

So, if you ever find yourself feeling lost in life’s challenges—caught in what seems like an endless maze—remember this: even the most tangled and messy journeys can lead to unexpectedly rewarding places. Life may be chaotic, and at times our attempts to navigate it might feel like a series of misadventures. But it’s in these very moments that we discover the most profound parts of ourselves. Healing and suffering aren’t just obstacles; they are the very pathways that shape who we become. Life’s chaos will always be present, but it’s how we navigate through it that leads us to a deeper understanding of ourselves. Maybe, just maybe, our happy endings aren’t the end of the journey at all, but the growth and wisdom we collect along the way.

Here’s to embracing the chaos, finding solace in the absurd, and dancing with life’s imperfections.

“The Road Less Traveled” is a series about the profound challenges and extraordinary, otherworldly experiences that have shaped my life. Through these trials, I’ve found healing and guidance in unexpected places, and in recent years, this guidance has become clearer than ever. If you’re ready to join me on this journey of healing and discovery, stay tuned for the next chapter in this unfolding story.

In Memoriam Ukkie and Pebbles, 2006-2021