Starting Over Isn’t Running Away — It’s Rewriting the Map
- Lycette Wilson
- Aug 5
- 2 min read
Hello julle — vat gou ’n koffie en sit reg.
Dis nie net ʼn expat pep talk nie… dis ’n whole testimony in lekker Gen X-style, with a side of nostalgia, Dutch rain, and zero sokkies. (Ja, ek mis dit ook.)
When we first arrived in the Netherlands?
Eish. My bru.
It wasn’t exactly giving Lizzie McGuire Movie.
More like: “Accidentally cry in an Albert Heijn aisle over 76 types of yoghurt and none of them say ‘full cream’.”
New language.
New rules.
Weather that attacks your soul and your conditioner.
And let’s be honest —
We didn’t come skipping over because we were bored of boerie, braais, and DStv.
No man. Some of us had to leave. Really leave.
The kind where you pack not just your things, but your entire sense of home.
Your corner shop. Your vetkoek lady. Your people.
We didn’t run.
We chose.
Sometimes out of desperation.
Sometimes out of hope.
But always with that heavy feeling in your chest and one suitcase slightly over the airline limit.
And then… boom.
Netherlands.
Land of cycling chaos, moody skies, and admin that makes SARS look like a school raffle.
First few months?
Rough-stuff, my china.
You miss your ma.
You miss Spar pies at 1am.
You miss random chats at the bottle store and the comfort of knowing where everything is — even the potholes.
You question yourself.
You doubt the choice.
You wonder why the houses here have no curtains and the people don’t greet.
But then… you carry on.
You learn to laugh again.
You master the GP form after three tries.
You cry on the train and then wipe your tears with a stroopwafel.
You say “lekker” to Dutch people who don’t understand the full power of the word.
And slowly —
You build.
Not a replica of the life you had…
A new one.
With bikes and bread and bureaucracy and a little more bravery than you ever knew you had.
You realise something quietly powerful:
You didn’t come here to escape.
You came here to expand.
To grow.
To change.
Ja, maybe you’ll never get your husband to sokkie again.
Maybe your Dutch still sounds like a boerie roll stuck in a blender.
Maybe the only time you feel truly understood is when another expat just nods and says, “Ag, I know…”
But still — you get up.
You make it work.
You keep going.
So here’s to us:
The Elsburg escapees, the Brakpan brave, the Pretoria pioneers with tired feet, thick accents, and hearts that refuse to quit.
We’re not runners.
We’re re-mappers.
And we’re rewriting our stories in stroopwafel crumbs and bicycle gears.
You're not alone.
You're not crazy.
You're just busy becoming someone new.
One soggy bike ride at a time.
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