But along the way, I noticed that something shifted.

Suddenly my art itself was not enough anymore.

It needed numbers, followers, likes, views, shares and engagement rates.

The art itself wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

For artists, writers, musicians, photographers, and creators of any kind, success is increasingly measured by visibility rather than value. It is no longer about what you create, but rather, about how many people you can reach.

Somewhere along the way, art became a second rate focus. Numbers became primary.

And with that shift came an enormous amount of pressure.

I think that I can speak for a lot of artists when I say that we all experienced the same struggle: if we want our work to matter, we need to post every day.

We need to stay relevant. We need to create content about our art, market our art, and constantly remind people that our art exists. Only then, we will we be seen.

The conversation today is often about how much you bring to the table. How many followers, how many subscribers, how many clicks, shares and dopamine hits to offer the public.

It rarely is about what you bring to the table anymore.

The quality, the intention, the authenticity. The soul behind the work we put out there is what all of us crave for others to see, but keeps going invisible.

And I would rather create the art I want to create, whenever I want to create it.

Even if only two people enjoy it.

Even if only I look at it years later and remember exactly who I was when I created it.

That feels more meaningful to me than spending countless hours doing a thousand other things simply to convince people to pay attention to my work.

Because my art does not need good marketing to be seen as good art.

My art does not need thousands of views to be valuable.

My art does not become more authentic because more people consume it.

There is this one lyrical phrase of Pommelien Thijs which I think about a lot, and it goes like this; “is kunst ook nog kunst bij gebrek aan publiek?”, which translates as; “Is art still art in the absence of an audience?”

I think it does. I think art without an audience is still art. The audience does not determine if art is art.

The artist does.

The value of art has never been determined by the size of its audience.

The value of art lies in its ability to express something real.

A while ago I got a message from someone I knew when I was younger. He took the time to read my work and to write me a message saying that he could feel it was written from the heart and that we need more real souls in this world.

I never expected someone to read my work that I hadn’t spoke to in forever.

But it reached him anyways.

So, I wish to believe that my work will eventually find the people who are meant to find it.

I wish to believe that my work will reach the people willing to let my poetry touch something deep inside their soul, because it spoke to something inside them.

Those are the people I was always meant to write for.

I see so many beautiful artists not getting the recognition they deserve because they don’t seem to be able to hop on the commercial train.

And a lot of those who do hop on seem to be producing art that is demanded by the audience, not art that is admired by any of them.

Nowadays art is all about gaining attention rather than showing authenticity.

And authenticity is the one thing art cannot afford to lose.

Because what is art without it’s authenticity?

It’s solely a product. A performance. A strategy.

But not art.

As artists, we are expected to become marketers, content creators, strategists, and personal brands before we are allowed to simply be artists.

We are expected to pull everything out of the closet just to earn a little bit attention to have our work appreciated.

That is not the artist I have always dreamed of becoming.

I am not a content creator, I am an artist.

And I want to continue creating art the way I want to create it. Because it is mine and only mine.

I am not a product of my art, my art is a product of me.

And it is yours to admire.

So, if you are an artist, a creator, or simply someone trying to make a meaningful impact in the world, please remember this: stay true to yourself and your art.

It is not your responsibility as an artist to satisfy everyone else. It is your responsibility to keep on creating art that feels honest to you.

It is to create something that is undeniably yours before it’s anyone else’s.

Because in the end, it is not about how much you bring to the table.

It is about what you bring to the table.

Love,

Eleonora

After a 50 minute walk in the beautiful sunny weather, I made it to my first cultural stop: the botanical garden in Ghent. I really enjoyed smelling, touching and admiring all plants and trees in the garden. It made me realise how much I miss being surrounded by nature and how almost everything in nature is now replaced with buildings, roads and factories.

I can’t help but feeling sad and guilty when I touch the leaves of the beautiful cocoa plant in front of me and when I see the tiny cactuses bundling up next to each other in the greenery.

I’ve started to notice how often these gentle experiences can leave me unsettled for hours, sometimes days. I know that a botanical garden should bring me a sense of calmness (and a part of me does feel that).

I see the beauty of plants, the quiet resilience of these living creatures, and I feel a deep sense of love for them.

But that love doesn’t stay light. It quickly turns heavy. I start thinking about how fragile these ecosystems are outside those walls, how much damage is being done globally, how little control any of it has over its own survival. What begins as appreciation spirals into grief.

I feel beyond guilty for how humans treat these creatures like their life is worth less than ours (and sometimes these kind of things really make me despise human beings).

Regardless of my heavy feelings, I left the botanical garden with a fresh mind, ready for my 30 minute walk to the movie theatre.

Alright, so this is something that I am a little bit ashamed to admit; I have avoided going to the movies, going to theatres, watching art or other cultural happenings for a few years.

I’m not saying that I did not see anything cultural at all during the past few years, but I have not been doing it as much as I used to.

It’s not because I had lost my love for the cultural world (believe me, I still absolutely adore everything about it), but because it made me feel too much.

It made me feel all of the emotions that I had persistently tried to bury deep inside of me.

Art, movies and reading poetry (not making poetry myself!) were confronting me in ways I wasn’t yet ready for and it was triggering so many old wounds in me.

So when I finished watching ‘The Drama’ in the movie theatre, it did exactly what I predicted it would do: it triggered something inside of me.

Whenever I feel bad for a character, that feeling absorbs me. Their sadness and emotions seem to affect me in ways I cannot explain.

When a character suffers, I don’t observe it from a distance, I feel it, almost as if it’s happening to me.

And I cannot shrug that feeling of until hours, or sometimes days, after.

It makes me want to make them feel alright and loved and seen (I am aware of the fact that they are just playing a role, but I am just so f*cking empathic sometimes it almost kills me. And let’s be honest, there is something about Robert Pattinsons face that makes you want to hug him and tell him that everything is going to be alright).

What I am trying to say is that over time, I’ve realized that for me, culture doesn’t just bring me happy feeling, it also opens wounds.

For a long time, I thought this was something I needed to avoid (and maybe ‘fix’). That maybe I was engaging with culture “wrong,” or that I needed to build some kind of emotional barrier.

But barriers don’t come naturally to me.

In recent years, I’ve quietly stepped back. I choose not to watch certain films. I hesitated before entering spaces that were meant to inspire, but would leave me feeling triggered and drained.

But I realised there is a loss in that. Culture is often how people connect with something larger than themselves. It is a way of opening wounds and choosing to heal them one by one. It is a way of feeling and accepting the beauty in our pain.

And I feel like I’m ready to finally discover my love for art and culture again. Even if it will make me cry from time to time (after all, you can’t blame an empath for being too empathic x).

So, if there is anyone out there who recognises themselves in this or feels heard and seen, please come to the front, I would love to meet an empathic soul like yours.

Love,

Eleonora x

en men geruisloos door de nacht dwaalt

breekt een groot misschien de wegen open

op zoek naar eenheid in de strijd

naar dromen in de werkelijkheid

waar kleine stukjes zand de weg naar elkaar blijken te vinden

zeeën van tijd

zonder angsten

zonder snelheid

alleen maar dwalen in de grote mogelijkheid

als de tijd even stilstaat

Love,

Eleonora

I have been sick for over two weeks now and my nose is still blocked.

Waking up feels exhausting, falling asleep is taking me forever, and I feel myself spiralling more than ever.

I am used to feeling one way or another, to high highs and low lows, and to the daily(?), weekly(?) (definitely monthly) existential crisis and mental breakdown about my looks and my overwhelming thoughts & fears.

But on that random sunday evening on the 1st of march, while watching an episode of the well known podcast ‘the diary of a CEO’ on the influence of sugars, I decided to try a little experiment on myself.

I decided to- cold turkey- cut out all (added) sugars, for one month, and here is how it went.

Monday 03/2:

I woke up, went to work and didn’t experience much symptoms on this first day of my sugar detox, until the evening came. I had a small headache so I headed to bed at 21h30.

Tuesday 03/3:

This day was a challenge.

My body was CRAVING sugar and putting up a protest in every way possible. The headache from the evening before was still there and my brain could not stop thinking about ice cream, waffles, cookies…

I was extremely tired and did not manage to eat much because my body and brain were not ‘satisfied’ with foods that did not taste sweet or sugary.

Wednesday 03/4:

This was by far the worst day. I had only slept 4 hours that night (also due to the cold that was STILL there). Besides that, my body was very restless during the night.

During the day, I felt extremely tired, super emotional (I even cried at work that day haha) and I felt very much out of balance mentally (more than usual).

In the middle of this mental state, I had the most brilliant idea that everybody has when they are worried about something; I tried to google my symptoms.

Luckily for me and my worried brain, I learned so many things about what going through a sugar detox does to your body.

Apparently, the symptoms were all very normal and my brain was now in a ‘state of panic’. It was finding a way to adjust to the new circumstances.

I read that most symptoms should disappear after a few days.

This day was NOT IT for me, since I was at my lowest mentally and physically.

I felt tired, stressed, easily irritated, overly emotional, and most of all, saying no to those jummy looking chocolate eggs at work, was triggering the sh*t out of me.

Thursday 03/5:

The positive points about this day were that I slept very well that night and woke up feeling rested. I felt very ‘light’ and I was not as bloated anymore as I used to.

BUT, I was showing real withdrawal symptoms. I felt dizzy, I had low energy, my hair was dull, my skin was breaking out badly and my body literally started shaking every now and then (apparently it’s called the sugar flu). Besides that, I had a serious brain fog, I was easily irritated and extremely anxious.

And the cravings? My body was SCREAMING for it.

Friday 03/6:

On the 6th day of my sugar detox, something unexpected started happening.

Even though I was still low on energy and my skin was turning into a sort of pimple party, my mood was different. Something was changing.

The intensity and length of my fears and overthinking were decreasing.

I could snap myself out of negative spirals way better than before.

But most importantly…

I felt stable and calm overall.

Something I have not felt since I was 18.

Saturday 03/7:

The second last day of week one was making me see some patterns.

I still had intense cravings for sugar, but since my body wasn’t getting any, it was starting to look for other ways to get some dopamine in. I felt very tempted to drink alcohol, to smoke a sigarette, to start scrolling on the internet for hours…

And I must say that it was very hard to resist the urge to not fall into another ‘addiction’ just because my body wasn’t getting their dopamine shots through sugar anymore.

So, I went to the store and I bought a sixpack of beers (BOEEEEEE!!!)

I was also disappointed in myself, but hey, sometimes I also succumb to temptation.

Anyways, I quickly discovered that there is a lot of sugar in beer (oops) so I decided to quit drinking that too.

The following days were no different. The first week was the absolute worst.

After that, things got better. WAY BETTER.

I noticed that a big part of my sugar addiction was related to comfort and boredom.

I did not crave sugar during the day, unless I felt bored or when I was watching TV (because I used to eat cookies everytime I was watching tv).

This is still one of the hardest things for me right now. I absolutely love eating something sweet when I am watching a movie or reading a book. It will take time for my brain and my body to unlearn that habit.

After the first two weeks, I felt amazing. My body felt light, cardio felt easy, my mind felt energised, and I started to lose my appetite for sweet foods (except if there were standing delicious pastries or other sweets in front of me haha, that’s the biggest form of torture for me).

Do you remember that at the beginning of this letter, I told you that I was watching an episode of diary of a ceo where they were talking about the influence of sugars?

While I was watching the episode, this scientist was talking about how eating sugar during pregnancy could increase the results of your baby having psychological problems later in life.

Since I am struggling with a bipolar disorder myself, I thought, what would happen if I stopped eating sugar? Would it have a positive impact on my -already existing-psychological issues?

After one month of quitting sugars, I can confirm that my mental health has never been better. I have not experienced any high or low episodes yet. Maybe it’s just all a coincidence or maybe this is the key that can open many doors for people who are also struggling with mental health issues.

It is SUCH a challenge to find foods without added sugars. It is everywhere. In our meat, our sauces, our rice, bread, cheese, drinks, breakfast, granola, yoghurt, smoothies (be careful of the smoothies and orange juices, there are so many sugars in them, even if you make it yourself). Finding/preparing foods without added sugar in it takes a lot of time and energy.

It took me so many hours of research to know what to look for in foods and how to adjust every meal to my sugar detox.

I don’t know about you, but I feel like our food industry is constantly feeding our addiction to sugar more and more. It has 0 benefits to our health and it is causing so much problems physically and mentally.

Sounds suspicious to me… ;)

On that note, I decided to extend my sugar detox.

Although I miss my sweet foods dearly, I do not want to give up the state of mind I am in right now.

And if I ever decide to run into the arms of my precious cookies and chocolates again, I promise to eat them with caution.

I owe it to my body.

And I owe it to my future self.

Love,

Eleonora x

Protecting it from anyone who tries to enter

Like a shelter from the storm

But what if you are the storm?

Like a slavishly king on a throne

Obedient to torment

Putting fear on a pedistal

A hostage to your own beliefs

And you wonder why you feel so empty.

You’ve built walls around your heart

Walls so high no ray of fortune can get in

You’ve made yourself a prisoner in your own castle

And you wonder why you feel so lonely.

Subscribe now

Eleonora x

The next step in my morning routine is to open the window to refresh my room.

My cat walks me to the bathroom where I brush my teeth, take a shower, dry my hair, curl my hair, put some make up on my face and choose my clothes for the day.

The weather app shows me dark, rainy clouds. Ugh, another day without the sun.

I leave for work at 7.45 and start my daily walk to the busstop.

The world is still waking up.

It’s quiet, cold and calm.

My favorite kind of mornings (minus the cold then).

As soon as I get on the bus, I send my boyfriend a good morning text. I still don’t check my social media.

I arrive at work, pour myself some coffee and open the windows while my laptop is getting started for the day as well.

I still don’t check my social media.

It is 10.30 until I check my messages again to see if my boyfriend has texted me back. I check my instagram homepage for the first time that day.

My feed is filled with pictures from pregnant friends, from people showing off their workout routine, a spoken word poetry/ rapping poet, files from the horrible, rich men files (you know what I’m talking about) and publicity from my influencer following.

I already feel drained.

Being actively online sometimes feels like a low effort sport I play. And we all engage in the- what I like to call it- ‘Olympic sports of comparison’.

I think that I can speak for a lot of people when I say that I !!plead guilty!! for comparing my life, my looks, my cleverness, happiness, life accomplishments (the list goes on and on) to other people.

It’s a natural thing to compare yourself to others. To know if you would be able to do certain things a little bit better or less better than others.

And the ‘less better’ comparisons cut through our souls like a sharp knife.

The wounds get deeper and the insecurities feed themselves with our need for approval, leaving its mark on us by infecting all of the parts that are loudly waiting for our nurture.

This comparison sport has no time-outs, plays competitive and keeps the score at all times.

You lose yourself a little bit more with every win from someone else and every failure from your own attempts (ugh what an ugly, bitter and jealous thought of me that everybody else pretends they do not have).

That voice in your head screams at you: Don’t fail at this!

Don’t rest!

Don’t lose your spark!

Don’t be like the rest!

Be unique!

Stay the same!

Be relatable!

Be MORE! AND MORE! AND MORE!

All. The. Time.

You scroll.
You fixate.
You measure.

You look at someone’s promotion and feel your own job opportunities shrink.
You see someone’s abs and suddenly your lunch feels like a relationship you’re too scared to commit to.
You read someone’s “So excited to announce…” and suddenly your entire existence feels like a draft email you never sent.

And the wild part?

We are judging someone’s entire quality of life based on their 30 second reels and the heavily, but barely, edited bikini pictures of our influencer followings on their new brand trip.

We cling onto the online crafted lifes of our favorite influencers like it’s a sacred, religious ritual or something?

I just cannot wrap my head around the fact that somewhere along the way, life became a sort of racetrack.

And there are only two kinds of racers:

the ‘aheads’ and the ‘behinds’.

A popular and extremely well fabricated myth (but secretly hated by everyone).

So, which kind of racer do you think you currently are?

We talk about being “ahead” in our careers.
“Behind” in relationships.
“Late” to success.
“Early” investors.
“On track.”
“Off track.”

As if there is a universal manual we all received at the start of our lives that said:

At 21 you need to find your passion and stick to it forever.

At 25 you need to be financially stable.

At 30 you need to be able to buy your own house.

At 32 you need to have at least one kid, because after 33 you’re getting too old to carry more babies (oh, and you HAVE TO have a kid, no discussion, got it?).

At 35 you need to know better but also keep doing better.

At 40 you need to be inspirational but humble about it.

At 50 you should be calm, modest and not try anything too wild anymore.

At 80 you should accept a life full of ‘what ifs?’. You should also be less annoying, be less grumpy, spoil your grandkids, not ask for too much help and put yourself on the waiting list of a nearby retirement home (just in case).

Isn’t it crazy that one day, someone or something decided that your life is a well structured timeline with its own goals and expected achievements?

And that you have to fulfill them at the right age, at the right time, under the right circumstances?

If not? You are off track, insane, unstable, rebellious or a misbehaved person in society.

What were you thinking? Choosing your own path and deciding your own life choices? That is not going to happing with your local patriarchal folks and the ‘regrets- having- a baby- so- forces- others- to- have- one- too’ parents.

I am happy to announce that I have 0 idea on where I am on the timeline tracker. At the moment, I am just trying to figure out what I want for dinner without spiraling into an existential crisis.

I would like to rethink this whole ‘racetrack’ idea (I really don’t enjoy competitions without an ending)… or competitions in general. It makes me stressed and unproductive.

I would like to see our life as a hiking trail with poor traffic signs.

Some people will choose to sprint uphill. Some like to take detours and enjoy to deviate from the path that was actually perfectly paved in front of them.

Some sit on a rock and question every decision that led them there.

Some of them will walk at their own pace while admiring the view, the people, the bumps, the sudden challenges and beautiful adventures that come along with it.

And some of us will try to do everything all at once.

As usual, I always try to end my letters on a good note so let me tell you this:

The mountains will not move.

Not if you sprint, not if you take another direction, not if you slow down, not if you take a moment to sit in the middle of the road to look back to appreciate the path you already walked.

For every big, bold and loud success story, there are a thousand quiet victories and failures that no one even knew about.

Please, give yourself the credit it deserves for that.

Victories like a person who choses therapy instead of keeping on hurting the ones they love.

Victories like the employee who sets a boundary for the first time.

Victories like the woman who choses to live by her own terms, not the ones forced upon her.

Victories like the man having a healthy family of his own while not having one himself when he was younger.

Victories like the courageous demonstrators who keep fighting for what they believe in and keep on creating an impact on the world.

Victories like the person reading this instead of scrolling on the internet and for engaging with a writer that they want to read something from (I see you and I appreciate you, thank you from the bottom of my heart).

And those small victories are not the ones going viral. They don’t come with applause. They don’t come with a reserved position under the spotlight.

We are so used to measure visible outcomes that we forget about invisible growth. We forget that becoming kinder, tender, braver, or more self-aware is a form of success that isn’t easy earned or seen.

The pressure to always achieve can make you miss your actual life. The random friday night plans. The inside jokes. The peace of reading a new book in a nearby coffee store. The pet who is always overflowing with joy when you come home.

So the next time you scroll and feel that you are ‘falling behind’, let me be that tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that you are not late.
You are not behind.
You are not less.

You are just on a different trail.

And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do in a world obsessed with “more” is to decide that, for today, you are enough.

And maybe success is less about outperforming others and more about outgrowing the need to compare at all.

All my love,

Eleonora x

Instead, I have three group chats with entirely different people who are at entirely different stages of their lives. And I feel disconnected to all of them.

15 year old me, who had a whole harem of friends available for every event or opportunity, would not believe that 26 year old me has the social life of a 80 year old woman.

The one where all her friendships are either falling apart or are taking newer, and unfortunately sometimes, lonelier forms.

There’s a specific kind of heartbreak that comes with the realisation of you either letting go or being let go of.

There are no dramatic fights, no betrayals, no remorseful feelings.

It’s simply just the fact that everyone is living their life with the people that they choose to move forward with (and sometimes you are not a part of that choice anymore).

Everyone is living different lifes: some are working, some are still studying. Some are getting married while others are travelling from country to country trying to enjoy their own company for the first time.

It is the people you used to party with, gossip with, hang out with every weekend… and now you barely see them because your life’s don’t seem to match at all anymore.

The rhythm is off, the conversations get smaller and contact bleeds to death.

And the scary part? You don’t know if this is temporary or permanent.

So, last Sunday evening, after having this immense gut wrechting feeling and pain in my chest from realising that I am losing (almost) all of my closest friends, my boyfriend suggested to make a ‘Bumble BFF account’.

Oh godddddd, I feel so pathetic that I had to create a bumble account TO MAKE NEW FRIENDS?

I’m 26 and I need an app to find new friends.

Never thought this would happen, but there is a first time for everything (right?).

So there I was; creating my Bumble account, rewriting my bio 4 times and swiping everyone to the left because they do not even come close to my long lost friends that I miss & love deeply (I’m still in stadium 1 of my friendship heartbreak, bare with me).

But here’s the part that isn’t funny: the grief that no one talks about.

The sudden realisation that you keep losing the ones you wished to never lose at all.

I honestly just feel so lonely.

Like I’ve lost meaning to all of my friends.

Sometimes I scroll back through old photos and feel like I’m looking at a different lifetime.

We were so close.

So sure we’d stay friends through it all.

So sure of each other.

So sure of making it to the end together.

It makes me question myself.

Am I bad at maintaining friendships?
Am I too quiet? Too boring? Too sensitive?

Am I not reaching out enough?

Do they not like who I am anymore?

Do they not like who I am becoming?

Do I not fit in their lifes anymore?

Am I not as important to them as I used to be because of how much we all changed?

Or is this just life?

So here are a few things that I learned from this (or that I am still trying to accept):

1. I suck at accepting this.

2. Downloading Bumble BFF is not stupid. It’s effort. It’s admitting the need for connection.

3. Most adults are lonely. They’re just better at pretending they’re not.

4. Making/ keeping friendships at 26 requires more effort. It doesn’t “just happen” anymore.

5. Friendship heartbreaks HURT SO MUCH, ugh.

And maybe the hardest lesson of them all: When we were younger, making friends came naturally. You made them in high school, while going out, at university, at your first jobs, through friends of friends…

And now? We have to actively CHOOSE the people we want to put effort in (and they have to choose us back)

And I find that terrifying.

I always try to end my letters with a more hopeful(?) part (and now I definitely will because I really need one).

So, here comes the hopeful part:

I don’t think we’re losing all of our (old) friends.

I think we’re just carrying them differently.

Some will circle back.
Some won’t.
Some new ones will surprise you.

Maybe at this age, we’re all just kind of in the awkward middle between who we were and who we want to built our lives with next.

And maybe making friends at this age isn’t desperate.

Maybe it’s brave.

Even if you created your ‘looking for a BFF’ profile on a random sunday evening (on your boyfriend’s advice).

Or maybe you’re still waiting for them to message you first. To make plans with you. To let you know that they are still thinking about you.

Maybe.

Let’s hope they do, right? (Because I do)

And let us live with that beautiful thought just a little bit longer. <3

All my love,

Eleonora x

The dark, cold days of winter have a way of testing the courage and discipline in myself.

Not dramatically.

Not all at the same time.

But slowly and persistently.

The sun rises late and leaves early.

Like the sun also has a difficult time showing up.

During the winter, I can most definitely call myself a member of the ‘seasonal depression club’ (and there are way better clubs to be at).

I don’t like how life becomes a hundred times harder to manage.

I don’t like how I can’t seem to find joy and therefore treat everyone close to me like sh*t.

It feels like a task to live rather than a gift.

Familiar routines feel heavier.

Like it is asking double the energy to do the most simplicit things.

And it wears me down quietly.

Joy doesn’t disappear, but it becomes harder to commit to.

In winter, joy is found in the smallest of places.

It shows up in the feeling of waking up before your alarm.

When you realize you can stay under the covers for just five minutes longer.

It is the salvaged feeling of taking a warm bath after walking in the snow with frozen fingers and frozen feet.

Winter makes you think about the things that you often take for granted.

It makes you think about the little joys in life because there seem less of it.

The way the sun cuts through the clouds for a little moment.

Candles lit for warmth and cosiness.

The irreplaceable feeling of a warm blanket at night.

The quietness in early mornings before the world wakes up.

These are little moments that force you to appreciate the slowness of life.

Something we often tend to forget in a busy world.

Winter asks you to pay attention to these moments.

It challenges you to stand still.

It challenges you to actively notice the good in the coldest, roughest periods of life.

(Don’t get me wrong, I like a challenge, but it’s hard to be challenged when there is literally not a single bone in your body that is prepared FOR the challenge.)

Finding joy in the darkest times doesn’t mean that you are pretending that winter is easy.

It means that you are refusing to let it erase everything that’s still gentle, simplicit and slow.

Winter teaches you that joy doesn’t have to be loud or constant.

Sometimes it’s quick.

Sometimes it’s quiet.

Sometimes it’s just the fact that you made it through the day and found one thing that made it feel lighter.

And that lightness is the thing that keeps you going and the thing that makes you slow down at the same time.

It is the thing that keeps you close to yourself.

:)

Love,

Eleonora x

As far as I can remember, I always dreamed of becoming an actress. My sister and i used to lay in bed fantasising about winning an Oscar, meeting actors, starring in movies, making an impact on the world…

We would become everything that we wanted to be.

Those were our dreams for later.

Later when we would grow up.

Growing up is often described as a milestone. Something to celebrate.

But no one really talks about the fear that comes with it.

What scares me the most about getting older is the seriousness of life that seems to rob you of all your biggest hopes and dreams.

Each birthday feels like a reminder that choices are becoming permanent.

That paths are narrowing.

Dreams are getting harder to achieve.

It feels like dreams are now bounded by a ticking clock.

They feel further away. Harder to reach.

It feels like “later when I grow up” has already passed by.

When you’re young, life feels wide open, like you could turn in any direction and still arrive somewhere meaningful. As you grow, that openness starts to feel fragile, as if one wrong step could close doors you didn’t even know you’d miss.

There’s also a deep sadness in watching parts of yourself fade. The innocence of not knowing how much of your dreams have already faded because the weight of adult life has knocked down the hopes of who you wished to become.

It feels like the freedom of dreaming has become nothing more than a calculating risk you have to make.

It feels like dreaming big has become the biggest fear to face.

A dream that is no longer allowed to take up space.

A dream that grew into a lifelong regret that you will carry with you until the end of your life. To keep on hearing the sounds of “what if.”

It will linger in moments where you will wonder if you are becoming who you wanted to be or just who you had to be.

I’m scared of growing up.

I’m scared of losing the ability to keep on dreaming.

Afraid that my dreams will just stay dreams.

Afraid that I am bound to live the life I always feared to live.

I am afraid of losing the ability to be curious, to hope recklessly, to believe that time will wait for me if I need it to.

Now I want to know, what is a dream that you let go of?

Because isn’t it astonishing that children are not afraid to dream big and not afraid to think that they are capable of becoming everything they want to become?

When do we all lose that hope the older we get just to regret it at the end of our lives?

So maybe we should all try to dream big again.

I want you to dream your dream to the fullest. And I want you to dream more and more and more. And to never let go of it.

Dreams are the things that set our souls on fire.

Burn the match, light the fire.

Love,

Eleonora x

en verzamel alle sterren

Ik leg ze één voor één aan je voeten

en schrijf er dan mijn dromen in

De wereld is groot maar wij zijn groter

Als een ruimte zonder muren

waar wij de leegte vormgeven

en alles eindeloos blijven inkleuren

Ik wil het geluk dat om de hoek ligt

en geef het dan aan jou

we breken het in stukjes

en hangen ze samen aan de horizon

Ik vang voor ons de zonnestralen

en serveer ze op een bord

dan vinden we elkaar terug

als alles opnieuw donker wordt

Het geheim

Ons geheim

Een stilzwijgend raadsel dat de hele wereld kende

maar niemand begreep

De tijd wordt kleiner

maar de dromen worden groter

Ik hou ze vast met beide handen

En bewaar ze tot je later groot bent.

Liefs,

Eleonora x

I am a bursting vulcano

I thought I knew which path I had to take

I thought I knew who I was meant to become

But that road led me to my greatest nightmares

I am nothing more than a time bomb

I am nothing more than a bursting vulcano

My life became a never ending loop

Of chosing the same destiny again and again

I’m an addict, addicted to pain

The path I keep on choosing is fractured

I am nothing more than a shattered soul

Who lives for the thrill of our weakened love

The voices of others, they call my name. Whispers of fake promises, whispers of my fate

My path is fractured

All is shattered

And I walk alone

Who am I now, if I take the other road?

Who do I become when my past is not my future anymore?

Who do I become when I finally step outside the shadows, into the light?

The light is burning on my skin

My dreams are creeping in my mind

The healing hurts.

I am longing for my demons

I am longing for my nightmares

The person that I am

The person that I’ll be

She’s burning

She’s hurting

She’s becoming

The light hurts when darkness is all you have ever known

Step forward

Tear yourself open

Light the fire

I am a bursting vulcano

I am the knight

Who never knew how to stop fighting

Addicted to the thrill

Addicted to the pain

I am the knight

Finally resting my sword.

Love,

Eleonora❤️

They fear our rage

The rage that remembers the voices who were forgotten in silence and taught not to speak

Always the threat, never the lead

Burnt for their power, drowned for their wisdom

But that rage bends bars

It are the echos of the burning screams from my sisters who were a danger for all man kind

They built us a cage and called it grace

I’ll light the path for all my women who’s blood flows through my veins

We will burn the hinges

We will torch the place

This rage is older than any language

Carved into our bones

A rage that grows each time we are silenced

Don’t walk, but run

Run like a mother

Run like a sister

Run

Like a girl.

Love,

Eleonora

While I was helplessly searching for that g*ddamn lighter, that I probably left in my jacket at home, he noticed me.

He didn’t say much, just asked if I was looking for a lighter, with a quiet sort of kindness, as if he’d been waiting for this small exchange all along. I nodded and said that I must have left mine at home.

This stranger told me that he had a lighter in his car, just a three minute walk from where we were standing. (I know what your are thinking. Yes, as a woman, I was a little suspicious and scared, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and I am happy that I did).

The stranger had an accent, which lead me to asking him if he lived in the neighbourhood or if he was on vacation, or perhaps, visiting a friend. He told me that he moved to Ghent three months ago.

On the way to his car, we talked, but not for long. He told me that he worked at IKEA and that he had a rough day at work with the customers, but that he loved helping people despite of his hard days at work sometimes. I informed him that I worked at the OCMW. I told him that I also loved helping people, despite of my hard days at work sometimes.

When we arrived at his car, he handed me his lighter and he said that I could keep it. I asked him if he was a smoker as well, since I met him in his runner clothes, clearly still not out of breath. He said that he was a smoker, but that running was very important for keeping him healthy. Me myself, am also a (part-time) smoker and a runner, so I immediately understood what he meant. The bad goes hand in hand with the good. We both (stupidly) believe that being a smoker and a runner will balance the two out. The stranger asked me what my name was, introduced himself and shook my hand. After that, we parted ways.

It reminded me of another night.

A night where I was sitting on the staircase of a train station, waiting on the train that would take me back home. I remember me sitting there with a heavy heart and a pit in my stomach. My boyfriend had just broken up with me, for the 10th time(?).

I was staring at the people who walked by, without even noticing them. Suddenly, a stranger stopped in front of me. He didn’t say a word, just handed me a note.

Inside, it said: “In case nobody has told you today, thank you for your amazing efforts everyday! Wherever you are in your journey, always remember that everything will be alright. Because when there is hope, there is a light, and when there’s light, there is life! The world is a better place with you in it.”

No name, no reason. Just that.

And sometimes I wonder, why do I keep meeting strangers when I’m at my lowest?

Maybe the universe has a way of sending me people, signals, lifelines even, when I am lost and out of touch with myself. Maybe in my most broken moments I attract the most gentle souls? Or maybe it’s simply the fact that, when I am stripped of everything, my heart is quiet enough to notice the little things and attract the sort of kindness that I desperately need in those moments?

Whatever it is, I’ve learned to stop questioning it. I’ve learned that I am never alone, not even in times when everything inside of me feels empty and unloved.

Some people, and in this case, some strangers, just fill up enough room in my empty heart again to remind me that I matter. Those strangers saved me from drowning in sadness and from my beliefs of being unlovable. Those strangers are what life is all about. And that is why I keep them close to my heart, wherever I go.

I aspire to be one of those strangers to every soul I get to meet. Because I know how much it can mean for someone to just notice you and to give you the little courage that they need in that moment, just by being kind. I know how much it means for someone to simple just see you. As a stranger, as a person, as a whole.

Love,

Eleonora x

I’ve been a hostage of my past since I can remember. Even as a child, I would freeze mid- laugh, struck by the fear that the moment I was currently in would come to an end. I would imagine myself years later, wishing I could return to the moment where I hit ‘freeze’. Just to relive it and to allow all the feelings this time. To feel the moment in all it’s essence and being.

I have always lived with one foot in the present and one foot in the past. That habit resulted in me having this nagging feeling that I missed out on my own past. While others were running around freely, seizing every moment of the day, I was always grieving the loss of the moment that wasn’t even gone yet.

I would think about how much I would miss the moment that I was in, which leaded to me feeling sad and not being able to enjoy the moment.

But even when I was never fully aware of certain moments due to my fears, I always had these odd feelings and memories attached to the strangest memories.

On some days, I can feel this deep longing for the past. Like I’m grieving everything that I didn’t become and didn’t heal from.

Like I am holding on to some painful feeling that a part of me does not want to let go off.

On these days, I feel a sinking loneliness and emptiness inside of me. I’m grieving my past, again and again, still not ready to throw it a funeral.

Ironically, the past has been my biggest source of pain, and both, my pleasure. And arent those things made to go hand in hand? Aren’t those the things that burn a permanent mark on your soul and keep the fire warm?

The worst times of my life are also the ones I have the most feelings of nostalgia attached to. Because in some ways, they were also the best moments of my life.

The months I cried myself to sleep, when everything felt unbearable and heavy, those are the memories that make my heart ache in a way that almost feels like love. Pleasure and pain were dancing so tightly with each other that I always kept them connected to one another.

So now I live with the paradox: the more I hurt, the more alive I feel. The more I love, the more I am mourning the places, things and people that I love right there, in this moment, while it isn’t even over yet.

My past is a ghost that I allow myself to be haunted by; the past is where I was never fully alive to begin with.

I miss things I shouldn’t miss. The chaos, the uncertainty, the people who were both my joy and my misery. It hurts to remember, but at the same time, I also find comfort in the pain. It belongs to a version of me that was both broken and whole in ways I can’t explain.

Maybe that is why I keep looking back: because it was real. Even in the chaos and the pain, there were moments where I felt so connected to myself and everything around me. It were the few moments that burned brighter because they were surrounded by so much darkness.

Maybe that is why I miss them. I miss the girl who I was back then, even though I was struggling.

It’s strange to long for the moments that almost broke me. Those memories carry an odd warmth, like a poisoned kiss on my forehead.

With that being said, I think that living life in “aquí y ahora’ is still a skill for me to master.

I’m always going to be reminded of the present just by looking at that permanent mark on my arm.

It is always going to be there. In the past and in the future. But most importantly, right here and right now.

Love,

Eleonora

a

And suddenly I feel so nostalgic, thinking about 8 year old me listening to Taylor for the first time. This album brings me back to the cheerful, fearless and carefree part of the little girl that lives inside of me.

It brings me back to the simplicity of life. To my teenage years. To the times when songs with a good, happy, uptempo beat were enough. Times where songs existed without heavy lyrics everywhere to keep on analyzing over.

Even though some people call this album ‘mid’, I actually think it’s one of the best ones she has written so far.

I feel a warm glow inside of me while listening to the album. Like I’m lying in a warm bath, with the music on full blast in the midst of a cold, harsh autumn.

The Life Of A Showgirl brings me back to my younger self. And I absolutely adore spending time with her again while singing and swaying away to that same Taylor Swift from back in the days.

The Tortured Poets Department felt like we were experiencing all the phases of her horrendous heartbreak where she mainly focused on the words in her songs to cut through our hearts. With ‘The life of a Showgirl’ it’s like she can finally enjoy an uncomplicated love again. It feels like she brought herself back to her fearless and red era with a new look on love, but still with the same tenderness and hopefulness as back in the days.

Taylor Swift has been through hell and back but with this album she is returning to where it all started. Even with everything that she has been through since the the beginning of her career, she is still the same underneath it after all. Taylor really lived the life of a showgirl. She IS the showgirl.

My top 3:

1. Father figure

2. Actually romantic

3. The life of a showgirl

Love,

Eleonora

x

And I do, every time. Almost effortlessly. Like it’s just something so little that it almost doesn’t even matter. But it does. And I hate it more than anything.

I tried explaining bipolar disorder to my friends, to family and to lovers. Most of them got to know more about the disorder itself and how it has an impact on my life – and also – on their life. Some of them got scared off by the stereotypical prejudices that are formed around the disorder, and therefore, they decided to leave my life. Others made the choice to love me even if they had to take ‘the burden’ of the disorder with it. And only a very few people loved me for me. They never treated me differently according to some diagnosis that I was given. They got to know me for me, loved me for me and stayed with me, regardless of the presence of any disorders or not. They saw me for me, as a person, as a whole.

I don’t know where it started.

I don’t even know if I was born with it and if it showed a glimpse of itself throughout certain periods of time in my life. Or if it just developed itself in silence until it was ready to spread itself like a virus through all the layers of my existence.

When I'm manic, I'm experiencing life differently. People often mistake it for happiness. It is true that I’m highly productive in those periods. Full of passion and constantly thriving. I feel very confident and almost like I finally figured life out.

I feel unstoppable. Like anything, literally anything, is possible. Being on this sort of high can be very fun, until it starts to drain me and it all crashes down.

My dad was the first one to notice that something was off. There were moments where I would spend big amounts of money on things that I didn’t really wanted or needed. I started drinking more than I should. I picked fights more often without any real reason. I talked very fast and very loud. I was overly chaotic. I threw myself into all sorts of projects without barely ever finishing one. I cursed and shouted uncontrollably. I got angry, way too angry, almost on the edge of exploding. And a few minutes later I burst out laughing, feeling happier than ever. I was the puppet of my own emotions and I couldn’t wait to go on that rollercoaster again. But when I eventually got on the rollercoaster again, I almost prayed to get off.

When I think about my childhood, I would not describe myself as a problematic child. I was a very good student. I did what I had to do. I was very emotional and super sweet, always wanting people to feel loved and important. I was cheerful, curious, very social and joking all the time.

I would cry at the thought of losing the people that I loved the most. I was never really good with change. Entering a new school, meeting new people, experiencing new things without my parents or my sister as my safety net, made me want to crawl back into the womb and stay there forever. I had a very hard time with feeling safe in new settings or in unfamiliar situations.

But there was something very contradictory about it all. Even though I hated change, I would always find a way to break all the stability in my life.

I think one of the earliest signs were easy to notice in my friendships. From the age of three years old until the age of ten, I had a best friend. We were known as a duo. Our parents dropped us off at each other's houses whenever we wanted to play together, outside of school.

She was the sweetest, kindest and most loyal friend that I’ve ever known. I really liked being her best friend until one day, at the age of ten, I dumped her cold-heartedly. Out of the blue. There was a new girl in class that I decided to give the title of my new best friend. And I did not care about it. It was reckless and incomprehensible.

This marked the start of my unstable friendships, where I would trade my old friends for new ones all the time. I was addicted to the thrill of something new. Something unknown.

I did not understand myself, and I did not understand why I kept doing what I did. I hated unpredictability, yet I kept creating unpredictability whenever life felt too stable. Whenever life felt too ‘boring’.

I don’t know if this is something that could’ve been an early sign of my disorder. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with it. Maybe I was just a straight-up arsehole to my friends.

All I know is that I always kept looking for routine and structure, but somehow my brain would constantly look for the next thrill.

And it became exhausting.

I often remind myself of this little story that I made up to put everything into some sort of perspective. It’s about a woman who lives on a sailboat in the middle of the sea, in a world where land doesn’t exist. The boat is a little bit less stable and less well-equipped than the other boats in the sea. This woman is forced to teach herself how to adjust her sails when the weather is turning bad, how to take control over the wheel when the boat is heading into another direction and how to manage to go through the storm that is heading towards her.

She has no other choice than to learn how to live her life with the things that she was given.

She is strong. She is a survivor. She is her own.

Some days I wake up and I can’t feel my own skin. It’s like I’m floating somewhere outside myself, like I’m physically & mentally not around. This version of me is doing things without me feeling like I’m doing it. Brushing teeth, putting on clothes, staring out the window trying to connect my body & mind. But it’s like something closed off the gate between the two of them. I try my best to cover it all up and I pretend to be fine. But you can see it in my eyes. It’s like the life got sucked out of me and I don’t know how to bring my own spark back. All I see is someone that I don’t recognise. Someone who left, again, without me knowing when she will return.

I abandoned myself again.

The low is hitting so low that I can’t even remember why I wanted to live in the first place.

With this lovely introduction, I would like you to meet depression. She is one of the most stable unstable things in my life. When she is here to visit me again, it’s not just sadness that I feel. It’s not even pain. It’s nothing, but everything. It’s a hollow knock on the door, an empty presence sinking her claws in me once again. It’s lying in bed for hours staring at the ceiling because getting up feels like a mountain I don’t have the strength to climb. It’s leaving my friends’ text messages unread for days. It’s forgetting how to give love to the people I love the most. To the people who have stood by me time and time again.

Relationships are hard. It always feels like I’m taking some sort of life-dependent exam. I cannot make any mistakes, so I have to work really hard. I need to make them happy even if that means that I have to neglect my own needs from time to time.

Those are the beliefs that keep screaming at my face until I lose the ones I love again. Another one that couldn’t keep up with all of me.

Relationships are scary for me. It’s like loving someone while holding a ticking clock. People get tired of the unpredictability. One day I’m full of life. I talk about my plans and my dreams, and I tell them all kinds of exciting stories.

The next day, I’m silent, distant, anxious – a ghost in my own body.

I’ve watched people I love leave me, over and over again. Not because they didn’t care, but because they just didn’t know how to stay.

Bipolar disorder spreads itself through all aspects of my life, not just my mood and emotions. It weaves its way into everything—money, work, sleep, self-worth. I almost lost my job because I was so busy with surviving my emotions. I’ve missed deadlines, skipped appointments, forgotten important tasks, and lost all my money in a manic haze.

And then, when the peace finally returns, I’m left to pick up the pieces of the life I’ve smashed apart, again.

I carry so much shame. So much anger. So much guilt. I know I hurt people sometimes, even when it is never my intention to do so.

I know my mood and behaviour can scare them. But they aren't the only ones who are hurting from my disorder.

I do too. A lot.

Every time I get better, I hope it’ll be the last time I have to put myself back together.

And then, another episode comes, and I wonder how many times I’ll have to go through it all again.

Therapy helps. Routine helps.

But nothing erases it. There is no cure. Only management. Only accepting it and trying to live with it. Only learning to love myself even when I hate what my mind does to me.

I read many self-help books, and I have learnt a lot of techniques to handle my episodes. Most of the time, you will not even notice what episode I’m in when you first meet me.

But when you get to know me on a deeper level, chances are big that you will experience some changes in my mood. But it’s not as bad as it used to be. I’ve already mastered most of it due to years of practice.

I wish more people understood that I am trying.

I really, really am. Even when it looks like I’ve given up. Even when I cancel plans for the third time in a row. Even when I can’t look you in the eyes because I’m ashamed of being “too much” or “not enough”, sometimes both at once.

Don’t ask me if I’m manic when I talk very passionately. Or when I’m happy, cheerful or talkative. Don't ask me if I'm depressed when I'm mad, anxious, sad or a little absent. People without this disorder have these emotions as well. I also don’t know what traits belong to my personality or to my disorder. And it actually doesn't even matter. It wouldn't really make any difference if I could separate the two. I am just a woman trying to do the best that she can with what she was given. A lot of ‘normal’ people don’t even dare to look inward and work on the parts of themselves that create difficulties for them – and others. At least I am brave enough to get help and do the work.

It’s not a flaw. It’s not a weakness. But it is a burden—a heavy, relentless one that I carry every day.

You have the choice to leave me when all of me is getting too much for you. I don’t have that choice. I can’t leave me.

Living with this taught me to accept the difficulties in people – in life – and to not leave anyone or anything when things get hard.

I know how to fight for things, and I know how to stay. That’s something that a lot of people are not good at. But I am.

So if you know someone like me. A sister, a father, a cousin, a neighbour, a friend, a lover… Please be gentle. Please be patient.

Don’t try to fix us. Just sit with us. Hear us. Love us when we’re messy and loud. Love us when we’re quiet and anxious. Love us even when we try to run away from you – or ourselves – again. Because most of the time we don’t even want to go… we just don’t know how to stay.

And if you are like me, if you're dealing with the same battles too: I see you. I see how you keep going even when you are tired or don’t feel like fighting against your own emotions some days. You're not alone. You don't have to pull yourself together every day. Living with bipolar disorder is not for the weak. And you are so brave and strong for getting up after every downfall. You are more than enough and never too much. You matter.

You matter in your ups and you matter in your downs. You matter to you.

And that is enough.

Love,

Eleonora

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