The Walk

I almost didn’t go outside to record this episode. I was sitting at my desk, staring at my to-do list, convincing myself that staying put was the responsible thing to do. After all, I had committed to finishing twenty scripts by the end of the week for a new podcast series about the saints. And I was already behind.

The temptation to keep pushing was strong. But I’ve learned, the hard way, that when your body starts sending warning signals—like poor sleep, flushed cheeks, constant tension—you ignore them at your own risk. So I put on my coat, hit record, and went for a walk.

As I talked, I realized how much pressure I had piled onto myself. Not just with the podcast project, but with the Advent story I’m publishing daily. At first, both felt doable. The saint scripts were supposed to be short, around six minutes each. I estimated two hours per episode—research, writing, recording, editing. It sounded reasonable. Until I discovered that many of the sources contradicted each other, and some of the research had names or events that were completely made up. I ended up spending entire mornings rewriting one script from scratch, checking the smallest historical details.

Meanwhile, the Advent story, which I thought would be a light and cozy creative outlet, started demanding more structure, more consistency, and a lot more energy. I’m no longer writing just for myself—I’m sharing each chapter publicly, which adds a whole new layer of pressure. I find myself triple-checking every plot point, worrying about continuity, trying not to introduce something that will break the story later on.

The real issue, I think, isn’t the workload itself. It’s my unrealistic expectations. I always seem to start with an ideal version of how things should go, and then try to bend reality to match that. But it never quite works. I plan with best-case scenarios in mind, and when things take longer—as they always do—I’m left scrambling, overextending myself, working late, and wondering why I feel so depleted.

There’s a part of me that just doesn’t want to let people down. That still believes the only way to be valuable is to deliver, no matter what it costs. But I’m learning, slowly, that there’s a difference between challenging yourself and pushing yourself past the breaking point. Between being committed and being chronically overcommitted.

This episode became a way for me to pause and look at the bigger picture. To admit that I can’t sprint through every day, and that working smarter means respecting my limits, not denying them. I don’t want to give up on either project—the saint series is deeply meaningful to me, and the Advent story supports a cause I care about. But I also don’t want to lose sleep, energy, or health trying to prove that I’m faster or stronger than I am.

So I walked. I talked. I tried to be honest with myself and with you. And I came away with this small reminder: you can’t give what you don’t have. Rest matters. Pacing matters. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is take the walk you almost skipped.

December is already wild, but this week has been next-level: I can finally reveal the huge project I’ve been hinting at. Starting January, I’ll be writing, narrating, and producing a daily podcast about the lives of the saints for the Dutch national broadcaster KRO-NCRV.

This isn’t your typical info-dump podcast. I want to take listeners into the stories—make you feel like you’re standing next to a saint as they make the hard choices that defined their lives. It’s all about emotional connection, not just dates and facts.

That means:

• Story-first episodes, 5–7 minutes each

• A full year of daily content (yes, 260 episodes!)

• Written, performed, and produced with love and lots of tea

It’s daunting. The scripts alone are like writing a full novel every two months. But this feels like the natural next step in everything I’ve been building toward: storytelling as vocation.

And because I can never do just one thing at a time… I also launched a cozy fantasy Advent story, written live each day as a fundraiser for Cato, a fellow fantasy author who urgently needs life-saving surgery.

It’s madness, and it’s mission. I’ve never been more exhausted—or more excited.

🎧 Check out the full story in this week’s episode of The Walk, where I explain how it all came together, why I nearly burned out two days into December, and how I’m trying to find a sustainable rhythm for the creative marathon ahead.

It’s pitch dark outside as I’m recording this. Advent has begun, and while the Christmas lights sparkle on leafless trees, I’ve been working like a madman indoors—writing, pacing, writing some more. Because today, on the 30th of November, I did something I’ve never done before: I finished writing a full novel in just 30 days.

Not just any novel. A story that feels like the best thing I’ve written so far.

The last few days were a blur of writing marathons, church duties, a Comic-Con surprise, and trying to babysit a thousand spinning plates. There were times I was sure I was behind. Turns out, I was actually way ahead—I just hadn’t had the time to notice.

That’s the power of moral commitment. When you push forward, even when it feels impossible, sometimes you find yourself standing on the summit without realizing how far you’ve climbed.

This month taught me that:

I can write an epic story in a month.

I must continue making space for personal, playful storytelling—even when professional projects threaten to take over.

Balance doesn’t mean doing less. It means choosing well and walking daily (literally and figuratively).

Now here’s the wild part: December starts tomorrow. I could write a cozy Advent story next—24 mini chapters, one per day. A magical, heartwarming tale set in the same universe as my novel. I even have the plot ready.

But should I?

That’s the question. My heart says yes. My calendar screams no. But you’ll find out soon which one wins. Head over to my Substack and subscribe if you want to read along as the next story unfolds—or doesn’t. That might be the story too.

Today was a potato day.

Not the comforting kind with blankets and movies, but the kind where your brain checks out and refuses to clock in. The kind of day where you sit at your desk and just can’t get into gear, no matter how many productivity tricks you try. I’ve had fewer of these days over the past year, but today, it hit hard.

Still, even on a day like this, I didn’t end up on the couch. I went for a walk, even though the rain hadn’t stopped like the radar promised. It was cold, wet and muddy, but walking is one of those non-negotiable habits for me. I’ve learned that once I step outside, even if nothing else gets done, something inside starts to shift. Sometimes it’s subtle. Sometimes it sparks ideas.

Today, it sparked reflection.

As I walked, I recorded this podcast episode and talked through what’s been on my mind lately. Part of the fog, I realized, is because something big is happening behind the scenes. I’ve been sitting on the news for a while, but I can finally start hinting at it: a major new project has been greenlit by the Dutch broadcasting company I work with. I can’t share the full details yet, but it’s easily the biggest media commitment of my life. It’s a daily production project, and it’ll require me to write over 250,000 words across the year.

It’s exhilarating and daunting at the same time.

What makes this even more meaningful to me is how deeply aligned it is with my core mission: storytelling that reaches people where they are. It builds on nearly everything I’ve learned in the past 20 years—TV, radio, writing, podcasting—and finally weaves all those threads together into one sustained creative effort.

But with something this big, I’ve had to draw some clear lines. Writing has become essential to me, not just as a creative outlet but as a way of living. Since January 1st, I’ve been writing regularly—almost daily—and I can’t imagine giving that up. That means protecting the space I’ve carved out for novels and creative work, even as this new project ramps up. I’ve realized I can’t do everything. So I’m making choices. Some side projects and social media channels may be set aside. Others might evolve into something more sustainable. If it’s not aligned with the long-term vision or fueling the mission, it’s time to let it go.

And strangely, on a day when I couldn’t concentrate, I ended up doing some of the most important thinking I’ve done all week.

Potato days don’t always look productive. But sometimes, they’re the reset your mind needs before stepping into something big. I’m standing at the edge of a creative year that could change everything. And I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who’s supported me on the journey so far. Your encouragement, your donations, your feedback—it’s what made this possible.

So here’s to more walks, more words, and yes, even more potato days.

This week, the forest floor turned golden under my feet. The air was still, the sun low. One of those rare perfect fall days that remind you how good it is to be alive and outside. I’ve come to think of walking as a “non-negotiable”—something my body and mind need, like food or prayer. It’s my daily reset, my thinking time, and often, my secret writing tool.

Because here’s the thing: I’m in the middle of writing a novel. Not just dabbling, but deep in it—54,000 words deep, to be precise. That’s two acts down, one to go. And I didn’t think I had it in me, not like this. Most days, I draft new chapters while walking, recording voice memos as I go. Yesterday, I came back with not one, not two, but three chapters. Nearly 10,000 words. I couldn't believe it either.

There’s something about allowing a story to surprise you—especially when it grows from grief. One of the characters, a mentor monk, died in the story this week. That loss fueled the emotions, deepened the dialogue, and pulled out something raw and real. I didn’t plan it. But it made everything click.

Of course, this isn’t the polished version. I call it my "horse-beep" draft. But that’s okay. I’ve learned the value of pushing forward, not perfecting too soon. If I stop to edit, I never finish. If I keep moving, I grow.

Outside of writing, life’s been busy too. Masses, interviews, a fantasy book fair in Tilburg—an exhausting but inspiring mix. I met other writers, made new connections, and came home energized. Tired, yes. But motivated. This past year, I’ve written three novels and three story collections. That still blows my mind.

And even with all that, I’m still learning: about routine, about skincare (yes, sunscreen even in November!), about habit-stacking and how to ride the wave of creativity without burning out.

What fuels me isn’t just the dopamine of word counts. It’s the joy of becoming someone I never thought I could be. A writer with a real writing life. A creator who finishes things.

There’s more to come. For now, I'm walking, writing, and wondering what happens next—both in the story and in my own life.