I thought I was starting a book, but the book was starting me.

It began in the spring of 2020.

The year of Van Eyck.
Don’t ask me why, but something about it stirred something deep inside me.

It was a Saturday.
At the time, I loved my little rituals. A fresh cup of coffee. The silence of the morning. The weekend magazine spread open in front of me.
As I read the pages about the Jan van Eyck exhibition (Optical Illusion – MSK Ghent), I suddenly felt it: warm and cold at the same time.
My body knew before I did.

Me, someone who actually knows very little about art — felt an irresistible pull to that magnificent exhibition in Ghent.
With my husband and son by my side, I wandered through it — and just kept wandering, long after they were already waiting for me in the cafeteria.

I remember walking back to the painting of Jan van Eyck’s wife.
I lingered there, as if expecting her to tell me why I was so deeply triggered.

    Jan Van Eyck’s Wife

She didn’t say a word.
But I felt that one day I would unravel her secret.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.
The light, the interplay of shadow and sheen… how could he capture it so precisely?
And those details — I needed a magnifying glass to see what he had painted with the naked eye and infinite patience.
It moved me. Not just because of the craftsmanship, but because I recognized something.
An echo, maybe. A sense of coming home to something I couldn’t yet name.

From that moment on, my curiosity was sparked.
Not only in Van Eyck, but in something greater.
Something that began to stir quietly within me.

An inner knowing

But why this urge to write a book?

Honestly? I don’t know.
And yet: I know it so well.
It wasn’t an idea. It was a feeling. A knowing.
A whisper that told me: “This is your path. This is the direction you are meant to move in.”
So I began. Not knowing where it would take me, but certain that I had to begin.

I still remember those first months clearly.
A flood of information came rushing in.
Books, insights, themes that appeared before I even had the words for them.
It was as if I had tapped into a source I could barely comprehend.
And yet, I didn’t feel overwhelmed. On the contrary — I grew more and more eager.

I felt driven.
So much so that I began to reshape my days.
By then, I had already formed a few new habits: a morning walk, fifteen minutes in the garden, a daily Duolingo lesson — Italian, because it sounds beautiful and Italy calls to us.
I added something new: one hour a day to write / deepen / explore.
Just to see what would show up.

I had no idea where it would lead, but I knew: this is what I want to do, this is what brings me joy.
And if I’m honest — deep down, I already knew it would become a book.

Not just a collection of thoughts or notes, but a real book.
Only… I didn’t dare tell anyone.
Not because I didn’t take it seriously — quite the opposite.
But because I wasn’t ready to reveal myself.

Because that book… it was me.
Not a role I played, not a version of myself I already knew, but something deeper.
Something I hadn’t fully accessed yet, let alone something I could show to the world.

So I kept it to myself.
My secret hour of writing, every day.
My inner journey, fueled by whatever surfaced.
And gradually, the book began to write me.

I thought I was starting a book — but the book was starting me.

It began showing me things.
Things about myself.

That I was allowed to be seen.
That I didn’t have to wait until I was ‘ready.’
That my words truly came alive only when I dared to share them.

And so the moment came when I tentatively started to tell people:
“I’m working on something. I’m writing.”

Just a small sentence — but it changed everything.
Not because it suddenly felt more real, or because I needed focus — I already had that.
What changed was something else entirely.

Until then, I had mostly lived behind the scenes.
Happily, wholeheartedly — but also with a certain caution.
That book gently nudged me forward.
Into the light. Into the spotlight.

And that was new. Scary. But also freeing.

At the same time, it felt like something greater.
Not just a choice, but a kind of calling.

I felt: I need to share this with the world.
There’s something that wants to be said. Something that wants to come through me.

It became stronger than me.
A duality began to grow: I, who had always preferred the background, suddenly felt I had to claim my place.
Not to shine — but to stand.

For what I felt.
For what I had to say.
For what wanted to be heard.

And then, the doubt

But even with that drive, the questions came.
What if one morning I’d wake up and suddenly think: “What have I been doing all this time?”

That thought came. More than once.
But the moment — the moment I truly wanted to quit?
It never came.
And now, it’s been five years.

On the contrary. Every time doubt crept in, something else arrived too: a sign.
A van driving by with “Van Eyck” written in big letters.
Or a chance encounter on a walk, where I mentioned my book — and people paused.
Moved. Touched.

I still remember a WhatsApp message from September 22, 2022:
"Hey Regine, you really inspired me with your passion. It made me want to pick up my pen again. So thank you."

That was two and a half years after my first word.
And I knew: this is what happens when you’ve found your inner child again.
Then, the passion burns.
Simply. Forever.

An invitation for you

Maybe you recognize it too.
That something inside you wants to rise to the surface.
It doesn’t have to be a book.
Maybe it’s a hobby you keep postponing,
a shift at work that’s been lingering in the air,
a passion you quietly nourish but haven’t dared to speak aloud.

Do you want to search for it? Name it?
Pay attention to what truly brings you joy.
What gives you energy, rather than drains it.
What carries you somewhere you haven’t been before —
but where you somehow feel at home.

Because that is the beginning.
Not of an idea, but of a movement.
And if you allow it, it will unfold all on its own.
And along the way… you will meet yourself. In the light.