Losing someone you love sucks. Big time. And then there’s the logistics. My experience caring for and losing a parent opened my eyes to the extensive list of admin tasks associated with death. Like trying to get access to a secret bank account. Or obsessing over funeral choices despite never talking about it. Most of us avoid the inevitability of death. But by doing so, we add an unnecessary dose of stress during an already overwhelming time. I realized how much easier it could have been if I had asked the right questions while I still could.

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I have two brothers and was incredibly lucky to be in the rare minority of siblings who didn’t fight over anything in the process. However, there wasn’t a single day that I didn’t think about how different that could be. How easily conflict can arise in dealing with all the logistics associated with a parent declining in health and ultimately dying. How normal it is for people to be pushed past their breaking point because of a silly little task because their baseline emotional state is intense, unprocessed grief.

It inspired me to write a list of all the questions that I wish I could have asked years before there was the threat of decline, when anticipatory grief wasn’t even in the picture. This list starts with the basics to get clarity on the things that I promise you will not want to think about in the moment. There’s a peace in knowing exactly what someone wants. It can eliminate the overthinking, guilt, or paralysis that comes with trying to act how you think they would want you to.

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I recommend you do it with anyone who you may one day be responsible caring for. If it’s a parent, copy & paste these questions into an email, add your siblings, and send it to them to fill out on their own time. Or, set up a call and run through them, writing out the answers as you go in a shared format like GoogleDocs or your Notes App.

No one wants to talk about dying, especially when they’ve been hit with a diagnosis or a big birthday comes around that makes mortality take up all mental capacity. Which is why I say, the earlier the better. Ask your parents, ask your partner, ask your friends. Because knowledge is power and addressing a big ass fear (like death) has a way of giving it less weight.

Let’s begin…

1. Who do you want to be involved to make key decisions about your wellbeing?

2. Who should have the final say if everyone above is fighting and why?

3. Under what conditions would you no longer want to be alive?

4. Describe what you want your funeral to look like. Get as specific as possible.

5. Describe your ideal way to die. Include how you want to say goodbye and anything that would bring you more peace.

6. If you need external care, what are your requirements for the environment? What are your dealbreakers?

7. Do you expect to leave anything behind financially? If so, how do you want that spent?

8. What or who can give me access to all your necessary log-ins (banks, mortgage, life insurance, etc)? Would you be willing to enter everything into an encrypted sharing platform? [I love 1Password for this]

9. List the tangible items that hold the most value to you and why. Delegate who you want to have them and/or what you want to happen to them.

10. How do you want to be remembered and by who?

Lastly! If you’re willing, I would love to hear how it goes in the chat. Resistance is so normal. As is avoidance. But often, uncomfortable questions serve as a launch pad for vulnerable conversations that are so healing.

Be brave, friends !!

And thanks for joining the worst club on the internet.

xoxox Merel

This morning my mom sent me an email with an article in it. A not infrequent occurrence, since information sharing is the primary love language on her side of the family. Subtle displays of consideration aimed to echo a love that is hard to express verbally or physically. Today’s link featured a list of records from the 70s, all of which were deemed to be quite valuable today. I scanned the list, spotting several albums that reside in my home, cuddled side by side in the wicker basket under my record player. Each of them passed down from my dad’s collection.

1. The Rolling Stones Let It Bleed: Surely valueless in most eyes since ‘For Merel’ is written in permanent marker across the label. Not that it matters, I would never part with this record by choice. If that day ever comes, just know that I’m either stuck in a conservatorship or there’s elder abuse at play.

2. Bob Marley & The Wailers LIVE: From the source! A record he bought at the actual concert. Imagine holding that safely all night while jammin’ and taking hits of a blunt. Kids our age could never.

3. Bruce Springsteen Born to Run: An outlier since my Dutch father hardly struck me as a Springsteen guy. He did always have a curious fascination of Americana, though, so I take this one as a metaphoric relic rather than a frequent listen.

What surprised me most about the article was the range in alleged worth. Some albums were being sold for upwards of $5,000, while for others, $100 was a price worthy of note. Which, yes, my own privilege comes into play of not needing $100, let alone finding it valuable enough to include in an accredited article. More than that, a price so low seemed disrespectful. Because for me, none of my records are commodity. They are a vessel of preservation.

The power of preservation in art is mesmerizing to me. In the institutional way of ensuring something is never lost. The beauty of people dedicating their life’s work so that generations and generations can experience even a sliver of what those who got the first taste did. And, in the enigmatic way of freezing and storing a memory in your soul.

Memory is something that becomes invaluable the older you get. The more you lose. It’s a lesson I learned early, from a man who had this at the top of his values. The intention in which he created memories ingraining who I would become. Molding a person that will do almost anything once to add to their lovely list of life experiences.

And, because I’m the child of a man who revered the arts, that became the channel. Every childhood trip to a new city was anchored by an exhibit so that my forming brain could gather perspective: Picasso in Madrid, Duchamp in Paris, Botticelli in Florence. Then, once he realized my subconscious had selected fashion design as its art form of choice: Alexander McQueen in London, Jean Paul Gaultier in Rotterdam, Dries van Noten in Antwerp.

Then, of course, there was music. The foundational education that happened in his living room through a sound system that even the biggest music snob would have to respect. We started with the classic stuff — Bach, Beethoven, Brahams — before going deeper with Thelonious Monk and learning how much can be said without words through Miles Davis and John Coltrane. As I impatiently waited for the lyrics to begin, the requirement was always to listen and make it mean something to me.

When we moved on to the sounds of the 1960s, I understood why I needed the context. The captivation I felt for The Beatles and The Rolling Stones was paired with a depth of understanding that all brilliant innovation comes from building upon something that’s already been established.

The expansion of genre showed me how individual interpretation allows for many translations of something seemingly the same. Motown as translated by Stevie Wonder, soul as translated by Otis Redding, psychedelic rock as translated by Jimi Hendrix, folk as translated by Bob Dylan. Each album paired with the varying reactions of my dad. I saw him as a teenager chasing The Beatles, his own personal style influenced by the charming Brits. I saw him as a lovesick 20-something listening to Bob Dylan, writing a letter that reverberated the lyrics. I saw him as an antiestablishment 30-something protesting Aparteid as Bob Marley poured out of the speakers.

To this day, when I hear the first crack of Gimme Shelter, I’m seventeen in my dad’s living room. Him dancing, me feigning embarrassment until I accept that he doesn’t care and will continue to move freely. It’s something I think about often. Just how precious his ability to do so even was. How many people in this world won’t even allow themselves the somatic release of dance. It’s likely why I’ve interrupted a moment of overstimulation by learning the Manchild line-dance. Or why I hit play on a dedicated playlist for shaking it out when frustration peaks.

Receiving this foundation of the arts means that now, art serves as the backdrop to almost all of my memories. Each era of life defined by albums I had on repeat, shows I saw, exhibits I visited.

College Dropout, which immediately takes me to the Lower East Side record store, my first year living in New York City, where my brother bought me my record player and added this album as the cherry on top.

Nostalgia, Ultra, which reminds me of who I am as an artist because of lyrics that showed me how to express what’s happening inside me in its entirety, without having to tell anyone my secrets.

Lemonade, which teleports me to a friend’s couch in Gramercy Park, the eruption of squeals after an anticipated drop, and a shift in my perception of artistry — from a singular expression, to an infusion of every element of one’s being.

Imagine how much clearer all of this makes the cruelty of Alzheimer’s. A disease that takes away your memories, in layers, beyond what you could imagine. For my dad, it was the loss of his own memories. The torturous unpredictability. The grasping desperately to whatever was still there, repeating it over and over as if that may stop the memories from thawing. For the ones with shared memories, it’s losing that path to connection. For me, there was losing the ability to get answers to questions that I hadn’t thought to ask yet. It was watching him lose what I knew meant everything. It was the phases of lost hope, one more painful than the other, until even the most reliable photo couldn’t ignite a recognition.

Which is perhaps why the price list felt so insulting. To reduce a source of ignition to something that would barely cover a single grocery run. An ignition that fueled my dad for a long time, and continues to fuel the only thing that was more valuable than his memories, his legacy. So no, I do not care if my records soar to six, or even seven, figures. As long as they still work, there will never be a number worth more than the feeling that comes from pressing play, hearing the light crackle, and the memory it takes me to.

xoxox Merel

I’m in the midst of quite the Ariana Grande hyperfixation. This week, it’s Positions, to be exact. Like many of her fans, I find myself rotating through old albums while highly anticipating the drop of her upcoming album, Petal, next week. She’s been the pop star I’ve felt most connected to for as long as I can remember. First off, we’re the same age, so her trials and tribulations in love always seem perfectly on time. Second, we’re both water signs. Put another way, we share a tendency to go through life as feelers first, who require every emotional experience be a portal for transformation.

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Then, there are the not as widely relatable similarities. Falling in love with and having to walk away from someone with an addiction. Wearing your heart on your sleeve every time, even as life piles up examples of it leading to pain. Her lyrics have long been the backdrop for every heartbreak, every crush, every ovulation cycle. But her essence is what makes me a fan. Her sense of humor, her strangeness, her penchant for drama, her trying on many different personas (embarrassingly, publicly) to try to figure out what feels authentic, and her quiet resilience. She is someone who perfectly represents my belief that the greater the grief you’ve experienced, the greater the capacity for joy you unlock.

I spend a lot of time on the internet, so of course that means I’ve seen the nonstop discourse on the ponytail princess over the years. But never have I seen someone connect the dots between the new level of contentment we’ve seen unlocked as a result of her many life-altering, grief-inducing experiences. The concert bombing that left 22 of her fans dead. The death of her ex-boyfriend Mac Miller from a drug overdose, after a two year relationship and the agony that comes from choosing to exit. Oh and let’s not forget the influx of internet trolls blaming her for his death. The Pete Davidson of it all, a whirlwind romance that felt like it could fix everything until the crushing realization that’s not how love works. Whatever happened on the Wicked set that put her in a state of disassociation for more than two years.

And here’s the thing with grief. It compounds. The first big one changes the default resting state of your nervous system. From that point on, it’s impossible to grieve for only what’s in front of you. The grief of losing my relationship was impossible to separate from the grief of losing my dad. The grief of losing a pet became impossible to separate from the grief of losing my relationship and the grief of losing my dad. Even the minor shit has a way of snowballing down the hill towards BIG GRIEF #1. Work stress. A friend fight. A situationship gone wrong. Everything becomes more heightened, more activated by this new nervous system you’re working with.

Anyone who has been through major grief knows this. They also know there is always an inflection point where you must make a choice. Do I let this take me down? Or do I chose to let it transform me?

Which is the part that many seem to miss in Ariana. How every time something devastating happens, she seems a bit lighter. Not in a bubbly, everything is great type of way. In a way that communicates a new level of release has been unlocked, without a word being spoken. On the outside, it can seem odd. Crazy, even. But when you’ve been through a traumatic loss, you also lose a great weight. The weight of gripping desperately to control. With each subsequent loss, there becomes a new opportunity to deepen this shedding. Because without it, you can’t make space for the joy. So that it can resist the grief, which has already made a home inside you, with or without your consent.

She is living her life in the way that all the books talk about. The ones that try to help guide you out of the grief, to teach you to alchemize pain into art, to hold both truths at once. It’s seen in both her despair and fulfillment as she performed at the One Love festival to benefit the Manchester victims. It’s seen in two back to back albums filled with emotional dichotomy as a response to losing Mac, gaining Pete, then losing Pete. In Sweetener, “better off,” a song of defeated surrender is immediately followed by the giddy hope of “goodnight n go.” In thank u, next she opens the album with “Imagine,” a track that instills confusion in the listener, leaving you both devastated and faithful, and not knowing which feeling is right. It’s beautiful in a way that pop music rarely gets credit for.

Her light is still so bright. Brighter, even, because of what’s happened to her. The way she continues to show up for her fans, who understand what she’s singing a bit too well. And continuing to show up for herself, choosing paths that lead to joy no matter the cost. Because she has to. Because otherwise the grief will take up too much real estate. And because the world needs more of this. The people who beam with an internal light so radiant that people simply cannot believe what you’ve been through. That’s the ultimate compliment.

xoxox Merel

PS if you get value from my writing, please please send it to a friend. It’s so simple but truly the biggest way you can support me <3

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First it came from teachers, flagging concerns that while I seemed bright, I had a presence problem. It’s like she’s in another world. Then, came the boyfriends, all of whom delivered some variation of the same sentiment: are you even here right now? Well, depends what you mean by here.

In my head, there is often a very different story than the one in front of me. It’s why I’m a writer, creative, able to see paths of innovation that others can’t. It’s also served as a consistent source of disappointment and pain. Because, if you can believe it, most of the time reality doesn’t play out like the fantasy running through my head. It’s much nicer up there.

Being present is a practice I’ve been working on for almost a decade now. It started with learning yoga, connecting my breath and body for maybe the first time ever. Then came meditation, where I learned that it’s possible to notice my thoughts. For years, nothing seemed to change, until all of a sudden, my awareness shifted. I could recognize feelings, rather than act on them. Huh! I could pull myself out of an anxiety spiral rather than digging in deeper. What! I could even decipher the difference between a thought being real and it being true. You’re joking!

But nothing dials up your default settings quite like incomprehensible grief. And after I lost my dad, I chose to enter back into a fantasy world: The World Cup.

Less than a month after his funeral, the world’s biggest sporting event kicked off just weeks before Christmas, a weird rescheduling thanks to Covid. I had spent the last month in Amsterdam and decided it was finally time to return to where I was living, albeit in a state of complete dissociation. That is, until the first Netherlands match. Who, I had decided, would undoubtedly become the champions. Days after my return, we took on USA, quite literally an identity crisis for this half Dutch / half American lady. But in that moment, I didn’t even consider Team USA as an option. In that moment, I was only Dutch. Because so was my dad. And that was the only truth that mattered.

The elation I expressed after their win raised significant concerns for those around me. Me, someone who up until that point, could not have given less of a fuck about sports of any kind, now making Netherlands football the center of my world. I saw the are you okay look in their eyes as I rambled on. Of course I’m not! I may never be again! But look, hope! Can’t you see!

Then came our match against Argentina, the team that would ultimately take it all. We crawled our way from 0-2 to level things out in the last seventeen minutes. It was a truly incredible feat, the final shot sliding in with only seconds left on extra time. No one around me in this cold depressing city could even possibly understand the magnitude of what was happening! Then came overtime, and we held our own. It was a sure thing in my head. Not fantasy, reality. If we had already pulled off a miracle, then of course we were destined to win.

Oh how quickly that fantasy slapped me across the face. Penalty kicks resulted in heartbreak that was deeply disproportionate to what I was experiencing. For weeks, I couldn’t get over it. How could it have happened that way? This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! There must be a way to adjust the outcome! It was almost as if something else was the source of my grief.

Fast forward nearly four years later to last week, when I found myself faced with a similar story. A nail-biting Netherlands match that took us to overtime and then into penalties against Morocco. It was a story that I knew the ending to before it happened. It was a reality I wasn’t ready to face yet. For weeks, I had been hyping the team up to anyone who would listen. Emphasizing how they were always overlooked, but would no doubt make it to the finals this year. You’ll see. Here comes my proclivity to exit reality and double down on fantasy in moments of stress. Instead, another round of penalty kicks that left me with heartbreak.

I was too tired to feel much of anything in the moment, it was 6am by the time the game ended, having started at 3am. I immediately fell asleep in the same bed at the same hotel I slept in the night my dad died. The next morning I woke up with a familiar feeling rising with urgency. A panicked state, anticipation that the loss of this match was destined to trigger a wave of grief that would knock me on my ass all day, if not all week.

Instead, something unfamiliar happened. I noticed. I felt the pit in my stomach. I recognized the feeling as disappointment. And I could see that anything beyond that feeling, wasn’t about a game. Or a team.

It gets even better — I chose to move past it. I felt my feelings and kept things moving. Riveting stuff! Quickly, my disappointment morphed into joy for Morocco. For the political impact that a win over The Netherlands would hold beyond simply entertainment. For the elation that thousands of people would wake up feeling as a result of that.

I don’t take it lightly, my ability to chose to move forward in the face of a trigger that still has the power to take me down. To fight my default setting, the one that says: quick, run to your nearest fantasy! A world that is oh so easy to access. We can deal with reality another day! Maybe never, if you don’t want to! It would be easier, sure. And I think it will always sound incredibly tempting. But nothing hits quite like the present.

xoxox Merel

A few weeks ago I was visiting NYC, a not uncommon experience for me, but one that, this time around, came with a lot of big feelings in just five business days. Most in connection to a sense of home. Which, for someone who has spent much of their life in a rotating state of who, what, and where that is, brings up a lot. It was a sensation I know well by now: grieving. Grieving a life that was once mine. The kicker is, the decision to leave that life was mine. And that, is where the discomfort lay.

It’s funny, no? To get hit with a wave of loss when there was full ownership in your action? Why then, is there so much sorrow in something that I could have chosen not to do?

As a kid, I was exposed to a lot of change before the age of seven, none of which was within my control. Settling into one life to soon be dropped into another. Then another. The question of where are you from is not a simple one for me. I do not return for holidays to a town where I have roots. I am not connected to the places my parents are from. I no longer have a parent in the place I was born. It made me develop an instinct to hold on. Often too tight. Like a reverse psychology. Which translated well into my adult life, despite the gears shifting into my control.

It would be too simple to say I left New York because of circumstances out of my control. There’s an angle for this, of course, one that is on autopilot when telling someone unfamiliar how I ended up where I am. Sick dad, long-distance relationship, global pandemic. But below the surface it was much deeper than that. I loved New York. I identified with it. And by the time I left, it was home for eight years, a steady, grounding force of a place. Something I had never been able to so easily tether myself to up until that point. My problem with New York, and why I had to leave, was that it felt like I could stay there forever. Which, in fact, terrified me more. Because I knew I had many more lives to live before something like that could happen. And so, it was time to choose the next one.

I consider myself to have lived many lives for being in my early 30s. Not just in the metaphorical sense, but in the transformations that occured as a result of changing physical locations. My first life: joining the world in the Dutch countryside. My second life: a little Dutch girl entering the USA south. My third life: my formative years in Stepford Wives town outside of Chicago. My fourth life: a sorority girl in Indiana. My fifth life: a certified fashion girl working in NYC. My sixth life: a 25-year old given way too much responsibility at an overfunded start-up and a committed girlfriend. My seventh life: an entrepreneur, caretaker, and cohabitated partner in Chicago. My eighth life: dad-less, depressed, and miserable in a city that didn’t feel like mine. My ninth life: working for celebrities & single for the first time in 7 years in Los Angeles. Whew.

And you know what? I’m better for all of them. I value all of them. Because in my long list of values, that are yes, on my Notes app, nothing ranks higher than growth. I was born with a deep sense of knowing I would spend my life experimenting, trying on many identities and experiences to figure out what suited me. Even now, all of these lives feel like a blip. Phase 1 & Phase 2. Because I know there are many lives still ahead of me. And that exhilarates me.

At the same time, this can result in a not so unsubstantial feeling of nostalgia. One that, at times, can debilitating doubt. Rumination. Did I make a huge mistake somewhere along the way? Why can’t I be one of those people who picks a life and sticks with it? It’s an internal dialogue I’ve fought aggressively, on and off, for more than a decade. It’s a dialogue that, since entering into my current life, has become a lot less loud. To which I eagerly say, Welcome! Does this mean we’re getting close to the life?

Well, not so fast. Because then came the resistance I felt when a flood of “what ifs” crowded my brain, walking down the Brooklyn streets on a sunny Spring morning listening to new Kehlani. Imagine the resistance I felt when a table of my closest friends are seated in one room, all giving their pitches to lure me back. Oh the allure of New York. It’s a tempting one. A comfortable one, in many ways. It’s also a distracting one. Distracting me from solidifying the foundation I know I am meant to be building in this moment. A foundation that I have been desperate to establish since childhood. A foundation that is inside of myself. A foundation that is my home.

Home is a far more complex notion than what we try to simplify it as. It is not your current zip-code. It is not the zip-code of the hospital you took your first breath. And it is not the zip-code where the person you love most in the world is. It is all of these and none of these. It is why I’ve been able to walk away from past lives that were filled with people and places I love. Even if it came with a side of kicking and screaming.

It’s like that old philosophical proverb: No matter where you go, there you are. We can never escape ourselves. A new city, a new job, a new relationship. It’s all a temporary, and sometimes highly effective, solution to a bigger problem. A problem that is really a home problem — the perception of home that still does not exist. A home-within-ourselves that is not only abandoned, but never housed us in the first place. And oh does it feel good to start solving that problem.

xoxox Merel

Every morning I have a routine. Implemented for sanity and continued for stability. Taking a breath of fresh air is a crucial part of this routine. Which, now that I live in Los Angeles, is a much nicer experience than when I was living in Chicago, permanently at odds with the elements. But that is a distant memory now. Instead, rain is a rare occasion. A curious occurrence that is typically embraced. A reason to stay inside. To sulk and be moody. It’s quite hard to feel bad for yourself in a place that is forever summer.

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This morning I stepped onto my front porch, espresso in hand, the words of Katherine Woodard Thomas in my ear. Yes, there was another heartbreak. Mind your business. But when I walked outside, the scent overtook me. It registered immediately, somatically. The air smelled exactly as if I was in my dad’s backyard. Which, mind you, is odd. My dad lived in the Dutch countryside. His neighbor was one of the largest dairy farms in the area. His backyard opened up into a canal and tulip fields.

The mornings here were always quiet. Peaceful. The only guaranteed sound a gentle coo from the Jurassic Park looking birds who would nosedive into the water dramatically. If a car drove along the narrow unfinished street, it slowed to a point where we could make eye contact, because, why are you here? It’s a place that guaranteed me a nervous system reset. A guarantee I haven’t had access to since we sold the house in 2022.

Back to this morning, though. It wasn’t just the visceral scent of a faraway place. There is another thing worth mentioning. When I walked into my kitchen, there was a glass on the counter. A glass I am certain was not there when I went to bed. I am what you would call methodical in the upkeep of my home. Everything has a place. And before bed, everything is cleaned up and organized into its said place. So I can start my next day in peace. It’s one of my favorite things about living alone again, because it’s something that was a point of contention in my last relationship. Which, sure, has elements of control. But it has more to do with a brain full of distraction. A messy space creates a messy mind. A mind that cannot focus until all surroundings are tended to. It is only then that I’m able to focus. The cat is fed. The cappuccino is made. The rose-scented candle is burning. Therapy is in an hour. All is right on this calm Tuesday morning. Let’s write.

All this to say that the mystery glass was peculiar. But my gut told me the answer right away. Don’t get me wrong, my anxiety tried its best to get in there. Especially since I’m currently reading The Shards, a novel about a serial killer targeting young women in LA, where he first breaks into their homes and rearranges the furniture. But I shook that one off, overpowered by the thought, the knowing, that it was my dad, a sign he was settled in my new life. I know, I know, here we go. Look at this woo ass bitch. Well, yeah. Look at me! I’d love to chat with someone who has experienced major loss and isn’t at least a little spiritual with it.

Anyway. I recently hit the one and half year mark in my home and new life, a complete reinvention from a life I left behind. It was less of a smooth transition and more like getting pushed out of a moving car, but I can confidently say I’ve never felt more aligned, as if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. But there was something missing. After my dad died, I felt his presence all the time when I was living in Chicago. I have a notes app titled Signs from Dad, which I update with messages he is sending me. Messages that almost always show up at low points. Moments his reassurance could easily soothe, that now feel inaccessible. At least not in the material sense.

Before leaving Chicago, I went to see my psychic, a woman who I first visited a few days before my dad’s birthday, five months after he died. To put it lightly, I was lost. Flailing, really. A shell of myself and so disconnected from reality due to the grief that I was hardly functioning. I was still on a self-imposed work hiatus, despite telling myself I would get back at it after 3 months. My body was in a state of inflammation that required a physical therapist, acupuncturist, and physician-prescribed drugs to get through the day. So when I showed up to get a tarot reading, I was just looking for anything that might shake me out of this state. What I was not expecting, was a medium. My dad came through immediately. And it became the turning point in which I was able to even begin healing.

By now, you can probably tell that my default mode is spiritual and open-minded, but I have to admit I had always been skeptical about mediums. I didn’t grow up religious. I wasn’t conditioned to believe there was an after life. And honestly, if someone had the power to tell me there was nothing beyond right now, I didn’t need to hear it. After my dad’s death, though, I had the intuition that my dad’s energy was surrounding me, hovering almost. But I couldn’t prove it. So I doubted it. Then came this conversation. A conversation that eliminated any doubt in my mind. It allowed me to accept reality in a way I had been avoiding. It allowed me to finally move forward.

This medium, Leslie, became a trusted source. And before I left the city permanently, I went to see her for a final time. In this conversation, she warned me that my move would be hard for him, meaning my dad. She said this not to scare me, but to prepare me. She explained I may feel disconnected from him for awhile, that it would take time for him to adjust, but that he would meet me there eventually.

I don’t think it was coincidental, either. The new life I was about to start very much felt like a solo journey. A mission, really, to figure out how to navigate life myself. At first, my dad was that crutch. When things felt like too much, I ran away to the Netherlands to factory reset. If life felt like a mess, I called him for a psychological analysis. And shortly after I would get a long email with personal anecdotes and hidden proverbs. When I lost access to that I was 25 years old. The same age I met my partner, a person who had a way of filling this gap for a long time. But then we split up. And I was not just back at where I started, but somewhere I had never been before. Completely dependent on myself for the answers. Snapped into the realization that up until this point I relied a bit too much on support outside of myself. This became the moment I was forced to go inside. And face the loneliness that came with it. No matter how many loving people you surround yourself with, true healing and growth is a very solitary journey. The deepest depths of my own psyche became my required reading for evolution.

So this morning felt like a marked milestone. As if my dad, God, my guardian angels, perhaps all their friends, got together and said she’s ready, let’s put this glass somewhere odd and make outside smell like Beets so she connects the dots. Those little tricksters plotting for my best interest. The mysterious Erewhon glass and Dutch countryside scented Echo Park air tells me he’s gotten comfortable. With my new life. And so have I. Which is exactly why I think he was able to show up again. Because I’m no longer the girl running away when life overwhelms me. I’m facing it head on. And the pain that comes with it. And that’s on accepting reality, baby.

xoxox Merel

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My dad’s personal style was defined by layers. A predictable uniform comprised of a classic button-down shirt layered underneath a sweater, sometimes two. It even went a layer deeper, with at least one undershirt, something that was beyond my perception until my days as a caretaker began. He dressed as if he were always too cold in his home. Holland is a cold country, he would tell me. There was also his physique, which hardly helped hold any warmth, his tall, lean limbs devoid of body fat despite going through multiple loaves of bread per week. While mostly functional, his approach to styling himself communicated a consistent level of refinement. Not once did I see my dad wearing sweats, or even pajamas. Whether he was spending the day with me at an art gallery in Amsterdam or simply meandering around his countryside house listening to records in between cappuccinos, the uniform was always in tact.

It was simple, yes, but it instilled upon me a signifier of taste that I didn’t recognize until I hit my late 20s, around the time I really started to come into my own personal style. I was obsessed with fashion for as long as I can remember, which turned into studying then working in it. So, up until that point, experimentation and trend adaptation were the defining factors in how I chose to dress myself.

I have a photo of us on my fridge in Paris during summer ‘08 that perfectly shows our contrast at the time. The temperature was scorching, I remember the sweat beads forming within minutes of sun exposure, which also left a light pink coating on my shoulders. There I was, in a lagoon blue tube top joined in the middle with a faux-wooden circle, a pleated knit mini skirt, a tiny knockoff black Louis Vuitton Murakami Speedy, and giant circle tortoise shell sunglasses. Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie were profoundly formative. Meanwhile, there he was, in his reliable button down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the forearms, a light sweater draped over his shoulders, and his warm weather pants, linen, he assured me. Pants I now have hanging in my closet, tailored to hug my waist and hemmed to no longer drag on the sidewalk.

When he died I felt closest to him wearing his clothes. I still do. And it wasn’t just because of their ability to retain his scent for a limited period of time, a scent I would spend my entire life savings to bottle up and experience again. It was more than that, though. Because by the end of my 20s something shifted. I knew what I felt best wearing and was no longer tempted by a fad. And I was instinctively gravitating towards a sneakily familiar combination in my own routine of dressing. Because what felt the most like me, my internal sense of home, was dressing like him.

Which is maybe unsurprising because he was the one who recognized my love for fashion early and nurtured it. He took me to museum exhibitions like Peter Lindbergh and Jean Paul Gaultier at the Kunsthal in Rotterdam, and a Dries Van Noten retrospective that required a train to Antwerp because I was learning about the design techniques of the Antwerp Six in college. The older and more serious I became about pursuing a career in fashion, the more he was able to flex his discerning taste. And have the opportunity to show me where my quality over quantity preferences originated from.

I could count on one hand the number of shirts, sweaters, and pants he owned based on his reliable rotation. Nice jeans, I would say, whenever he proudly wore his Gianni-era bright blue denim. To which he would respond, Versace. His pieces by Dries van Noten, two jackets and a pair of navy velvet pants, were anointed as the highest ranking in his closet. Second only to the two sweaters that were hand-knitted by his mother in the 1960s. I have them all in my closet today. Just last month I wore the velvet Dries pants to stay warm in the cool Dutch air, paired with one of the sweaters knitted by my Oma and layered over a thin cashmere undershirt.

To get existential with it, the timing of this burst of inspiration doesn’t feel coincidental. Over the last few years I’ve been feeling a pull back towards an artistry and industry I’ve loved since childhood, but walked away from due to impatience and what I perceived as an infertile place for my ambition to grow. And when I did walk away, I had to really disconnect. It was like processing a break up. No contact would be the most effective way to get me through it. I stopped looking at runway shows every season, avoided the magazines that raised me, and vocalized my rejection of my past life. I was young, and run by ego. The truth is I hated that I hadn’t become the wunderkind success I expected to be at the age of 24.

Even as I became more and more removed from working in the industry, my love remained. My tradition of sourcing rare vintage designer pieces in any city I visited. The rush I felt when I discovered a budding designer before they got scooped up by Net-a-Porter.

I think if he were still here none of this would surprise him. I think he probably knew I would find my way back to where my heart always was. He was a psychologist, after all. He would probably tell me I needed to walk away to be able to come back with a new perspective. To be able to see that it was never just about the clothes. It’s about the feeling they invoked. The play. The fun. The hope. And the ability to turn all of us into that confident alter-ego who feels like they just might be able to change their corner of the world. Sounds pretty existential to me.

xoxox Merel

Last week I pulled off a 10/10 surprise for my nephew’s 18th birthday in Amsterdam. Because I live in America, I frequently miss out on family gatherings which, to put mildly, destroys my soul a little each time. Visiting in January is not typical for me, but it is something I had been considering since my last visit in September. It was when my nephew asked when I would visit next, a typical question, since my European adventures tend to be inconsistent in timing and spontaneous in nature due to the chaotic life I’ve chosen. What I didn’t expect was his follow up: that I should come back for his 18th birthday so I could come to the family dinner to celebrate. When I tell you I melted inside. You want me there??? An angsty teen who doesn’t fw anyone fw me??? From that point on, the manifestation began. I would be there. How, exactly? Well, we’d worry about that later.

Later had a way of creeping up on me, following a series of unfortunate events that put me in a position where I wasn’t comfortable pulling the trigger on buying my ticket. The possibility of me being there seemed slimmer and slimmer until the week of Christmas, when suddenly the surprise seemed like way less of a hypothetical wish. I called my brother to tell him I was going to London on a last minute trip the following week and maybe that meant I could also pop down to Amsterdam to pull this off. The surprise was so on.

Then came the logistics. Oh how I loathe logistics. Really just kills the vibe, right? What do you mean I have to think about every single day for the next 12 days. But I wasn’t about to block this blessing. If I had the opportunity to show up, I would be there. If I had to complicate things, add on the extra travel and coordination needed to pull it off, I’d do it. All it took was a flight change, train bookings, hotel confirmations, and a couple bouts of existential doubt and the painful part was over. This little fucker was about to be shook.

My spiritual ass just couldn’t stop thinking about how fated it all was. What were the odds that I would be going on a last minute trip to London less than a week before my nephew’s birthday? Smells like divine intervention if you ask me. Not even an unexpected and uncharacteristic snowstorm in Amsterdam that cancelled several trains from London could take me down. I was showing up to that birthday dinner, fuck the odds!

After an exhausting day of Dutch-weather induced delays I made it to the hotel down the street from my brother’s apartment, extra incognito thanks to an XL fur headband I got off the street in London that made me look like a spy. Once I wasn’t bracing the elements, I realized how cutesy the big flakes were falling outside the window and of course had to snap a pic for the gram. I was savvy enough to have blocked my nephews from my stories but I forgot I hadn’t told their mom about the surprise. It wasn’t until she saw my post that she knew I had made the journey. And it wasn’t until she told me how emotional it made her that I realized it. Just how my dad this move was.

It immediately transported me back to 2015, when my dad staged the original 10/10 surprise to get me to my brother’s 40th birthday party. I was living in NYC at the time and was deep in corporate PTO hell. Not only that, I was working in fashion, which viewed any days off as a sign of not only weakness, but complete contempt for the opportunity in front of me. So many girls would die for! I told my dad I didn’t think it was possible. There was no way I could take more than 1 day off and if I did, I would have to fake sick. He said I can work with that.

I flew over on Thursday night, arrived in Amsterdam Friday morning and walked into the surprise party Friday night. I even got a few tears out of my brother. Success. Then, I was back in my tiny apartment by Sunday evening, ready to go to work on Monday morning. At the time it felt quite extreme, making such a long trip for such a short amount of time. When you’re spending all this money to travel far away, you might as well stay awhile to make it worth it, right? Wrong. Because looking back it’s one of the most worth it memories I’ve had in my life. More than that, it’s one of the memories between my dad and I that I cherish. Pulling this off together, was us in our flow state. Executing a top secret plan, known just between the two of us, a parade of our shared qualities on full display. Our love for spontaneity. For dramatic entrances. Our playfulness. Our family over everything sentiment. Our giddiness over the ‘work the system’ nature of my PTO strategy. It was all just so us.

And I was so him in that moment, walking into my nephew’s birthday dinner, causing his jaw to drop. I was so him that it was almost like he was walking right next to me. If you really want to get woo with it, which, I always do, you could say he ordained the entire outcome. Because I certainly wouldn’t have been able to walk into that room if left to my own circumstances and control levers.

So the surprise was special. But showing up as not just me, but as me embodying the energy of my dad, made it that much more so. It was a clear display of the idea that the people we love don’t just go away. They continue to live through you, if you let them. It’s an experience I feel deeply grateful for. The moment that I recognized just how willing I was to let him live through me. I’ve realized that it’s something that has been happening more and more lately. And it seems to have a direct relation to greater and greater willingness to release control. Old me would have tried to move mountains to make sure the desired outcome would happen. New me smiled knowingly at just how fated me getting to Amsterdam on January 8th felt. And that, my dears, made it all that much more worth it.

xoxoxo Merel

The funny thing is, I didn’t even like coffee for most of my life. Like wine, it took me until my mid 20s to appreciate both the artistry and the flavor. Despite all odds, my dad never stopped trying to change that. He was the king of the Rancilio, after all. And I, his princess. By the time I was 15, he eagerly offered to make me his signature “perfect” cappuccino, determined to teach me the craft in the process. And, despite a continued, and consistent, scrunched up nose and vehement head shake, he kept at it for the next nine years.

Despite my aversion to the liquid, the smell of the beans was another story. That became my move. He’d ask to make me a cappuccino, I’d reject his offer, but request a moment to stick my nose into the can of Illy Classico. A second to take it all in. I didn’t know it then, but the grounds had already been lodged inside my psyche, establishing themselves as a formative link to the peace I associated with the countryside my dad called home. And of him.

The scent of Italian roasted beans were so ingrained with his personhood, that they became a top note of his personal scent. A scent that I can still almost smell, even after three years. A scent that lingered on his sweaters when I brought them back to America with me. A scent I’ve been terrified to lose ever since. Oh what I would do to bottle that scent. To spritz it around my apartment instead of my Aesop room spray. To do so would be to instantly transport myself to the tiny town of Beets, awaiting that eager offer to make me a perfect cappuccino.

The real tragedy is that I finally started to enjoy cappuccinos at the same time he started to forget how to make them. Eventually, I had to takeover. To carry on the legacy of the Petri perfect cappuccino. Which, hasn’t been too hard, especially against most of these cafes in America. Why so much milk? Has no one told them the color should be more brown than cream? A somewhat dark brown, frankly. Oh, and way more foam. Half the cup should be amassed by the cloudy pillows of pure whole milk.

I just recently got an espresso machine for my home. My first ever, believe it or not. Almost ten years after I learned to love the art of the cappuccino. What was once preserved as a ritual only to be performed in Holland, has become a standard start to my morning in Los Angeles. And it’s been transformative. Every morning I walk to the kitchen and stick my nose into the bag of beans. I inhale deep, starting my day with a mental teleport to somewhere sacred. It’s become a daily practice of peace that I really can’t believe I kept from myself for so long.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe I wasn’t ready for the peace. I wasn’t worthy, even. How could I adapt a routine associated with such joy when it would inevitably be overpowered by sadness? Sadness of what used to be. For a life with him in it. I think it’s a step in the right direction, though. A step towards acceptance. Allowing his absence. Allowing myself to treat me more like he did. A Rancilio princess. Allowing him to live through me, each morning. And allowing the pain to be there too, without allowing it to overpower the joy, and the memory, that comes with it.

xoxo Merel

They make me want to be negative, an emotion I neither enjoy nor accept. I grew up in a house where the negativity bias ran deep. I was extremely sensitive to this, being the porous Pisces I am, and to this day have to work on processing and unlearning the impact this had on me. As I became an adult, I realized I had the power to shift my perspective. It took years to make gratitude, or what presents as positivity, a default setting instead of an intentional (and often exhaustive) effort.

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Today, I pride myself on being a source of positivity, which, might sound nice, but it also means I still haven’t made peace with the version of myself that is negative. I don’t like her. She drains me. She piques my anxiety. She doesn’t seem like someone worth being seen, let alone, embraced. And honestly, she’s super mean to me.

She is, simply speaking, my inner demon. And she’s never alone. She loves to pile it on, especially when I try to fight her. When that happens, she brings more and more of her little demon friends. Until they become impossible to ignore. Until they have the power to takeover.

And wow do they make me want to be bad. I can tell it’s happening when the positive inner self talk starts to disappear. When the desire for emotional growth and refinement feelings exhausting. When reverting to my trauma responses sounds far more appealing.

If you’re a spiritual person and know the energy of astrology, it’s probably not that surprising to you that every year I yearn to self-sabotage during Scorpio season. Scorpio is a sign known for being intense, secretive, mysterious, and more than anything, controlling. And these demons certainly give their all to control my thoughts, actions, soul and body.

If you’re a religious person, you probably identify my demon girls as the devil hard at work. Putting me through a period of testing to build my strength and faith in God. Just say no to the devil! Sure. If only it were that simple.

I choose to describe my demons as those friends that always get you into some shit. You know you need to cut off. But they make being bad look so good. Feel so good. They’re the ones whispering in your ear all the things that you want to hear. The things you do a pretty good job of fighting the other 11 months of the year.

Oh, how good it feels to fall back into patterns that perpetuate negative thoughts.

Oh, how good it feels to fall back into playing the victim and skirting accountability.

Aren’t you tired of always considering others’ feelings so much? Do they even consider yours?

You deserve to be evil right now! Look at what you’re dealing with! No one could possibly understand!

OK! OK! There’s only so much I can fight you bitches. Soon, they’ll start to make more sense. I’ll start to doubt myself, my processes. Because if they were so solid, then why would I be feeling so depressed? Huh?? Exactly. Ah, they’ve gained control. And so it begins, I’ve hit the slopes. Down I go. First my thoughts, then my actions glide with ease towards the bottom, gaining speed meter after meter, nailing some of my most reliable techniques along the way, inclusive of but not limited to:

1. Initiating a fight about something that I won’t care about in 30 days then playing the victim

2. Wielding my energy as a weapon rather than simply communicating what’s wrong

3. Avoiding conflict because it drains my energy short term and I don’t need that right now so I’ll just kinda hang onto the resentment I’m feeling forever

4. Pushing away the people who just want support me even though all I want is human connection

5. Dramatically changing my hair to “reset the energy” and get attention so that I feel like people care about me

6. Relying on a diet of Goldfish, Diet Coke, sour gummies and soft serve ice cream with rainbow sprinkles

7. Not responding to texts for 12-24 hrs then being upset when I get the exact same response time

8. Ignoring the people who love me because they know too much and even their presence will force me to feel feelings I don’t want to feel

9. Blaming others because they didn’t act exactly in the way I pictured in my head but didn’t say out loud

10. Making that mean that no one cares about me because if they did they would have done that thing I expected them to do but they didn’t so they don’t

Phew! Well, that was fun. Thanks ladies! Looking forward to the treat of having to answer for my actions and attempt to repair the self induced drama. Same time next year? Maybe next time I’ll pull an Ariana and try to ask them nicely to leave me be. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll try to manipulate them right back. I have a feeling they’ll be proud of that.

xoxo Merel

Now, there are several things about this tradition that I love. First, if you know me, than you know I’m all about rebranding this whole death thing. Día de los Muertos flips the standard Western narrative to embrace death as a natural part of the human experience that should not feared. I mean, ya! It’s going to happen to all of us. So maybe we could try an alternative to fear, sadness and dread? Plenty of other cultures are already on board.

Then, there are the alters. Talk about stunning. The drama. The detail. The devotion. As a woo woo bitch, this level of dedication speaks to my soul. Preparing an alter really takes the whole prayer / meditation / manifestation thing to the next level. The overflow of orange and yellow marigolds serve as such a display of liveliness, sunshine, and exuberance rather than the doom and gloom monochrome most Westerners associate with death.

Next, we have the painted skulls (and faces). I’m a sucker for saturation and the hues used are invigorating. The bright, vibrant pigments are very intentional — they are meant to welcome spirits back to visit their families. I don’t know about you, but nothing would draw me back to the physical world quite like an overflow of my favorite flowers and colors decorating the doorway.

Bet you can guess where you’ll find me on November 1st. Pulling out allllll the stops to lure welcome my dad back. Come on in, bestie! It’s great to have ya back. Oh, and while you’re here, I do have some very specific, very unanswered questions for us to get into…

My dad developing Alzheimer’s when I was 25 left me with a lot of questions. My grief started while he was still alive, mourning all the things we would never get to talk about. And all the questions that would never be answered. I was certain we would have years, if not decades, to get into a cornicopia of philosophical and existential topics in my 30s and 40s. He even told me so! Said there was no way he would die sooner than 90. Well dad, guess who has to live with 16 years of missing conversation.

During those first few years my rumination was constant. The recurring thoughts were slowing destroying my psyche. “I just wish I could ask him...” Or “I’ll never know the truth about…” Ask your mom, or your brother, people who loved me would offer my desperation. “IT’S NOT THE SAME!” I wanted to scream. Or '‘EASY FOR YOU TO SAY!” I’m dealing with an unreliable narrator in the former and a then-teenager with an undeveloped frontal lobe in the latter. I was way past the point of obsessing over when my therapist offered a potential solution.

She told me to start an ongoing list of all the questions that would never be answered, logging them as they came to mind. Hmm. Not a bad idea, lady. More than anything, I think, her intention was to stop the fixation. Me? I thought, aha! An organizational tool! An easy source to reference in my quest to fuel my journey to rock bottom! Now, in my frequent moments of spiraling towards mental destruction, reading my little list of questions could join the reliable classics of looking at photos of healthier times and listening to saved voicemails while sobbing in bed.

Now, what’s this little list have to do with Day of the Dead, you ask? Well, well, well. What could be better than all the questions you never got the answers to when conjuring spirits? I, for one, plan to use my Día de los Muertos effectively. Checking off some unknowns, like:

• How’d it really go with you and my mom? No being biased, k? You’re dead. I swear it doesn’t matter anymore.

• What parts of your life brought you the most satisfaction?

• Is there anything you would have done differently?

I am so serious. I will be making my alter. I will be reciting my little questions every night before bed. I will open the portal / veil / whatever it is, god dammit! I’m someone with an exhaustingly active dream life, so I’m pretty confident I can get 1-2 knocked off the list as I slumber.

If you’re one of the lucky ones who interacts with me over the next week and catch me blabbing about lucid dreaming or explaining why I’ve slept for 12 hours straight, just nod and say “sure.” And if you happen to be in my home, and see my copies of How to be Your Own Medium and How to Develop Your ESP Powers flanking an alter of marigolds, just let me conjure, ok?

xoxox Merel

Ultimately it’s unimportant what kicked off this journey, but what is important is that I started it. When my dad died it felt like I had been training for this moment, the the mental health olympics if you will. Having years of practice learning and unlearning, fighting and submitting, and so on, is the only reason I didn’t absolutely lose my shit, crawl into a proverbial hole, and call it quits.

Mind you, even with all my lil’ tools and tricks, I was still an absolute disaster. But, I do think this trusty guide might help you get your baseline mental state to a place where you don’t wanna burn it all down when you lose someone you love. Bon Appétit!

My Daily Non-Negotiables

Every morning I do at least three of these four things. On the off day that I don’t, oof do I feel it. It’s what I consider the bare minimum to set myself up to behave like my favorite version of me for the day. The version(s) without this routine, however? Pure instinct. Overly reactive (thx Leo Rising), overly sensitive (thx Pisces Sun), and often deeply apathetic (thx Taurus Moon).

1. Affirmations (2 min)

   As soon as I wake up, I say my daily affirmations. Someone told me your brain is the most malleable in the morning and I blindly believed them so here we are. This consists of anywhere from 5 - 10 statements that serve me in my current state. I’ve recently started to make a new list for every Astrological season based on how I know the season will affect a certain area of my life. Here’s an example of what I had for Libra season - a month that emphasizes communication for me:

   

2. Meditate (10-20 min)

   I knoooooooow. I know. Another person promoting meditation. But there’s a reason!! Not to be dramatic but it changes everything. And it’s not about perfectly sitting in silence and thinking of nothing. It’s about noticing when your mind wanders. And that skill, to pause and recognize what’s happening internally, has changed everything about how I move in the world. My entry point was Tara Brach’s podcast which you can find on all platforms. Her meditations are about 20 min which was a solid challenge as a beginner. But you can also start small - even 5 min is a building block. Now, I typically do an Open meditation which range between 10-15 min.

3. Journaling (10-20 min)

   Clearly, writing is very therapeutic for me. I recently finished The Artist’s Way, which brands journaling as “morning pages” where you essentially brain dump for 3 pages to get everything in your head on the page and start the day clear. This is an amazing entry point for journaling imo. I also like to read my journal once I fill it because it serves as such a perspective tool. More often than not, whatever I was obsessing about at the time, I could care less about a few months later. And that is good to remember.

   

4. Sweat (15 - 60 min)

   Exercise is crucial for my mental health. Whether it’s a quick 15 min body strength routine at home, a walk around the lake, running my neighborhood steps, or pilates, I need to break a sweat before I feel like I’m ready to take on the day. Which, remember when Mario Lopez got trolled for saying his day didn’t start until he broke a sweat? Well, I stand with Mario.

Now let’s wind down. Every night, I do the below to feel like the day has wrapped and I’m ready for rest.

1. Reading (30-60 min)

   For the love of God please turn your phone off at least 30 min before you sleep. An hour, really. I swear your brain will thank you. Pick up an old fashioned paperback (I love a dramatic novel) and dive in.

2. Gratitude / Prayers (5-10 min)

   After I read I snuggle up and get to talkin’ to whoever is running things up above. I say five things I’m grateful for based on the day and try to get as specific as possible as to not run on autopilot of the basics. Then, I ramble off whatever or whoever is on my heart, sending love & light to their ~aura~

3. High Vibrational Music (20 min)

   This is a new add-on and I don’t do it every night, but I’ve started to enjoy the white noise since moving into a house vs an apt. I do always incorporate it into my routine around New Moons to fuel manifesting. Then, I set a sleep timer for 20 min and try to think about my manifestations as I doze off.

Other Consistently Inconsistent Practices

I work in the below into either a weekly and monthly routine, and all have served me heavily during different periods of my life. It was in dabbling in all the below that I was able to create my daily non-negotiable list.

• Breathwork - Sometimes I swap a meditation for breathwork to help remember that I don’t breathe enough through stress. I am very loyal to the Open App which offers both, plus virtual yoga and pilates practices to connect body and mind a step further.

• EMDR therapy - A type of trauma therapy that has been a game changer. As someone who has been in therapy on and off for 11 years, I started EMDR about 6 months ago and it’s been really effective for me to actually change the how and why I’m triggered. Talk therapy and CBT are great too - I credit them with a lot of my growth. Personally though, I hit a plateau and EMDR has been an effective next phase for getting to the root of the problem.

• Acupuncture - My second form of therapy. He’s the only thing in LA I’ll gatekeep. But if you really want to know, message me and I’ll tell you because he is the definition of a healer. Every time I leave more balanced, centered, and aligned.

• Reiki - Whenever I feel really emotionally blocked, I know just the girl to call. Reiki will tear you to pieces in the best way. I’ve never left without a puddle of cathartic tears gathered in my collar bone. Essentially, it’s an energy practice kinda like a massage but they don’t touch you. Instead, they shift blocked energy based on a Chakra system and trust that a lot comes up in the process.

• Astrology - Where do I begin! This is an entire article itself so tell me in the comments if you want the nitty gritty. Astrology has been so crucial in my healing journey. Both in learning and accepting parts of myself I didn’t want to face and in allowing me to release control in ways I previously clung too diabolically.

• Tarot - Similar to Astrology, I started to learn Tarot as a daily practice to connect with my spirituality and find guidance when clarity of any kind felt impossible. The cards have a way of showing you exactly what you need to hear and serve as a helpful reflection tool to pair with journaling.

• Mirror work - Saying affirmations in front of the mirror was my entry point to making affirmations work for me. Now, I don’t have to look myself in the eye to get it to hit, but sometimes I still will because I swear it makes a difference.

What I Should Be Doing But Am Not Quite There Yet

Now because I am extremely imperfect, there are a lot of things I’m actively working on. I can’t in good faith claim to do this stuff consistently yet but I’m tryinggggg, ok?

1. Make space and time to actively grieve every week

   I know this is what I need to prioritize most. Usually I push down my grief until it hits me like a tsunami and throws me into a depressive hole for at least 48 hrs. My therapist told me to instead make room for the grief to not build up so intensely by blocking out an hour to look at photos and really lean in and let it out. And she’s onto something because when I do it, I’m only sad for a few minutes or hours instead of a few days. But mostly I don’t wannaaaaaaa. I fight feeling like Tyson. But I’m gonna do it more. Promise.

2. Feeling my feelings

   Across every area of my life I’m working on letting an emotion have some air time before I quickly sweep it away. I don’t like clutter! Shoo! Get out of here, you termite. Can’t I just analyze and intellectualize the feeling instead?WRONG. I try to give myself a full 60 seconds to stay in a big emotion and 9/10 I stop ruminating about it, rather than letting it hold power over me.

3. Saying it with my chest

   The next part of my journey includes addressing the emotion sooner rather than later. AND I STRUGGLE. I want to process. I want to make sense of it so that when I bring my feeling forward I have it perfectly presented. Well, surprise, that doesn’t work for most people. Cue, unnecessarily causing myself and others stress. Can you believe? No more brushing it off and holding resentment. And you know what? Saying how I feel, when I feel it, brings me way more peace in the long run.

Books for Your Enlightenment

These are my top picks for starting this emotional (and mental) embarkment. You got this, promise.

The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz

I loooove this book so much. So simple and so profound. I go back to listen to chapters over and over when I’m struggling to apply one of the principles to my daily life.

Radical Acceptance by Tara Brach

An accessible and impactful approach to meditation, mindfulness & Buddhism that includes practical ways of how to move more peacefully through your life.

The Power of Now by Eckhartt Tole

Buckle up because this will break your brain (in a good way). Definitely not my recommended entry point, but worth working up to. Get a grasp on meditation and Buddhism first before jumping off this cliff.

You Were Born For This by Chani Nicolas

My first read for learning astrology which instantly got me hooked. I’ve been a fan of Chani’s work since I heard her on a podcast in 2017 and she is still my most trusted source of content. Her app is worth every penny. Pls stop using Co-Star.

Tarot for Change by Jessica Dore

My first and favorite book for learning tarot written by a psychologist that weaves therapy lessons with divine guidance. She approaches tarot from a neutral place of owning your self will vs the TikTok-ified good / bad rhetoric.

People To Follow For ~ Good Vibes ~

Hope it helps.

xoxox

Merel

It was also the last day I felt in my body for a long time. Instead, I entered a state of floating. And not the “I just spent an hour in a sensory deprivation tank and am experiencing my first non-drug induced high” type. No, no. The kind where I was disassociated to the point of not knowing what day it was. Or month. That’s the state I returned to the United States in. The state I walked onto the airplane in. Unaware of the silent stream of tears that fell down my face the entire nine hour flight to Chicago. The same state I was in two weeks later when I spent Christmas alone. Inside my 800-square-foot concrete box ten floors above the sidewalk. No tree. Not a single piece of decor to signal that it was that fuzzy, special time.

The craziest part was that it was the first time something had felt right since I was in that room. Of course this is how it would go. Of course I was forced into a solitude so unbearable I couldn’t possibly survive. Of course I would have to face my overwhelming fear of being without anyone who loved me at the exact time I had to face how to exist in a world without the person who loved me. Finally. Something that made sense.

Let’s back it up a little. I do not enjoy the holidays. I haven’t in a really long time. There was about a decade in my early childhood where Christmas was the best. The kind of stuff you see in classic old movies. A crowded room filled with stressed out Italian Americans with their love languages on full display: yelling at one other and buying way too many gifts. The kids tearing through gifts like four tiny tornados. The piles of homemade cookies that would later become fodder for a multi-month feud. It felt like how holidays should be. Everyone was together.

Well, not everyone. I never spent a Christmas with my dad and brothers. Instead, there was an obligatory phone call as a kid that eventually was replaced by an inner nagging to remind me that my family would always be separated. On one side, my mom’s family was the embodiment of American tradition. One the other side, the foreigns. Led by my anti-religion, anti-establishment father, who found the holidays quite overdone.

I never admitted it, but I craved it. And still do. The compilation. The amalgamation of everyone I love in one space for one window of time where they all love each other as much as they love me. That’s what makes admitting that I don’t enjoy the holidays so hard. Because I want to love them. I’m trying to love them. But with that comes facing a reality that brings me a sense of defeat: I wasn’t able to create the family dynamic I always wanted to in time.

There are so many layers to accepting this reality. My dad is gone and will never be a part of any future traditions I create. I never got to bring my vision to life. One where he is in it. The burden of the glue feels real strong when you haven’t accomplished the whole me, the love of my life, and our kids set the bar for how good family life can be thing. Where we become the harbinger of connection between families who eagerly anticipate this season of togetherness.

Then there’s the layer of not wanting to make others feel depressed by my depressing state in an allegedly joyful time. Then don’t make me pretend this isn’t the time of year I dread the most! Don’t ask me about my holiday plans. Don’t make me paint a nice lil’ picture of a far from ideal scenario. Thanksgiving? Oh, I’m so glad you asked! Maybe I’ll spend it with a group of strangers again because for the last five years I’ve spent it with my ex-boyfriend’s family, but we’re not together anymore! Oh, and this is neat! I lost an entire group of people who I considered family in the process!

Are you starting to get why it was surprisingly peaceful to spend Christmas completely alone a month after my dad died? Sure, my flight was cancelled indefinitely. Sure, my boyfriend had abandoned left me alone for the first time since to see his family. But it’s not like I didn’t have other options. My childhood friend invited me to join her family. Oh, how daunting that was. Ring ring! Sad little Merel with the freshly dead dad here! I didn’t wanna. With anyone. I welcomed the dual benefit of not having to explain “how I was doing” ad nauseam and putting my theory to test: if I’m completely alone on a day when everyone else is not, I simply will perish.

I put in an order of pancakes from the mediocre spot next door, walked 489 feet in negative five degree weather to pick it up, popped on the Lindsey Lohan Christmas romcom, and leaned into just how much of a bummer my reality was. I even decided, why not make it worse! I started a fight with my boyfriend about how he wasn’t supportive and didn’t care about my grief. I ignored several calls of people that loved me and just wanted to check on me. I watched videos of my dad for hours and cried so hard I couldn’t breathe right. I kept digging and digging, eager to find rock bottom. Because maybe if it didn’t destroy me, I would know what to do next. To my surprise, my theory was proven false.

Still, when October hits, so does my state of unease. I don’t remember exactly how it happened. How the traditions that shaped my childhood stopped and the weight of the holidays took over. Us kids grew up. My grandparents died. Fewer people were willing to make an effort. It kickstarted the understanding that this time could be depressing as hell. It set me up for what I now know to be true. That the older you get, and the more people you lose, the more presumably happy moments become draped in a veil of mourning.

Two weeks ago, I went to see a movie inside the Burbank mall. My friend and I pulled into the Macy’s parking lot and started to make our way across the never-ending display of household essentials. And then I saw it. The Santas. The trees. The ornaments. RUFUCKINGKIDDINGME. I am not in the mood to be sad yet. Perhaps I’ll start a formal petition for no displays of family togetherness until December 1.

xoxox

Merel

My dad always sent me mail. I have a stack of postcards from across the world that he sent me during his work travels when I was a kid, exposing me to places even when I wasn’t there. Then there were his semi-frequent state of the unions, letters that started with something happening in his current world that sparked a memory and turned into a story of philosophy or existentialism.

When I was a teenager, I brushed them off as just another quirky trait of my quirky father. I wasn’t able to fully comprehend the connection between his farmer neighbor buying a distastefully massive new tractor, his decision to leave home as a teenager and find work at a textile manufacturer, and my love for fashion. Now, the interconnectedness makes perfect sense to me. The merged meaning of everything. The ability to see the invisible webbing of life across generations, continents and individuals. It was a poetic way to view life. The same poetic way I’d later find in my own perception.

More often than not, these letters came with a photo or two. Sometimes of me from a recent visit together, sometimes of a decades old film print that my dad took long before he even knew there would be a me. Always plastered with several international stamps, at least one more than actually necessary. He was always worried that it wouldn’t make it from his tiny Dutch town to wherever I was living in America. He also took packaging very seriously. There was no buying a standard envelope or shipping box. What? When you could construct an intricate yet ecological contraption using spare cardboard in the garage? His packaging required me to open slowly and with precision, because I never knew where the actual contents may lie. Which, of course, I learned this the hard way. Perhaps he was trying to teach me patience, a virtue that has never been my strength. You are so impulsive, darling. A knowing laugh in his tone when I admitted I ripped one of his photos by opening it with a bit too much vigor.

His final delivery, the one with the weighted and knowing message, was almost no different than something he would typically send. Except it was the third time he sent me the same photo, paired with the same message. Stay together forever, written in his eccentric handwriting on the back of a thick cardboard mounting, that, when turned over, revealed an enlarged photo printed on computer paper and carefully taped on two ends. In the photo stood the four of us, with me naturally lodged between my two brothers. The glue.

The photo quality was horrible. It had been taken on my iPhone, the lighting far too dark and it was noticeably grainy. And in this, he had given himself away. By this point, his symptoms were becoming harder to ignore. He remembered less. Repeated more. He was, however, still very much himself and his intellect made him really good at masking just how far he had progressed, even to the people that knew him best. It was a time where moments of intense depth and clarity were sprinkled with moments marked with a general air of confusion. Confusing, it was. To all of us.

For him to celebrate this shitty iPhone photo sent a pit to my stomach. His impeccable taste was faltering. My dad was an amateur photographer and exceptionally talented, so much so that my childhood photos would not look out of place in an art gallery. He was obsessive and particular with his craft. More than once we had to pull over on the highway for him to get out of the car and capture something that caught his eye. He would not stop until he knew he had a crisp, clear shot that captured his subject in their most authentic state. Something was seriously wrong if he was grasping on to this picture.

It took awhile, years even, for me to look past the quality of the photo and see the real meaning. His smile. The person behind the lens, despite the less than clear outcome, had captured something clearly - the joy my father felt when all of us were together.

Our upbringing was less than traditional. Three children with three different mothers. Sixteen years separating the eldest and youngest. Two living in Holland, one living in America. It would have been completely understandable if I barely knew my brothers, or, as many kids tried to correct me while growing up, my half-brothers. God I hate that label. One of my earliest memories is me ending up in the principle’s office for making some little asshole cry after he tried to diminish the validity of my relationship with my brothers. And you know what? I still don’t feel bad. Because how dare he suggest that we were somehow less legitimate than his perfect little nuclear family. Oh you all have the same mom?? How fucking coooooool. I don’t remember what I said to him, but I have no doubt it entailed using my freakish perception for evil rather than good, revealing his deepest insecurities in the process. I bet he learned about himself that day and I hope it has served him in life. Don’t push a Pisces to the edge unless you want to be told about the worst part of yourself.

I still have a visceral reaction to that “correction” to this day. Sure, I have a better hold on my reactions now, but nothing has the power to take me from 0 to 100 like someone trying to tell me about my family. I know how much effort had to happen for me and my brothers to have a relationship at all, let alone one that is healthier than most people I know with “regular” siblings. And you know why? Because my dad was the glue. He held us together, despite our circumstances. He would fly to America to bring me back to Holland when I had breaks from school. He would bring my brothers to America so we could spend summers swimming, eating ice cream, and getting on each other’s nerves. He would include me in family trips, ensuring I tag along to places like Madrid, Paris, and London despite being so young. All of it was so important. It taught me that ease and proximity are not the markers of love, effort and intention are. It taught me that circumstance does not have to equate to outcome. I had the power to change that.

More than anything, though, it connected me and my brothers in a way that I refuse to ever lose. And my dad knew that. He could see that I would be the glue when he was gone. The baby. The only girl. The soft spot that was biologically created inside of them by watching me grow up despite what a little terror I can be. It’s a role I take very seriously. Now, I’m the one who flies to Amsterdam several times a year to create moments for everyone to be together. I’m the one who schedules FTs despite a 9-hour time difference. I’m the one who created our own family holiday because spending actual holidays together was not realistic. And I’m the one who holds everyone to it, no matter what. And I won’t stop. Because I’m the glue.

I recently finished Intermezzo by Sally Rooney, which centers on two brothers following the death of their father, who was also the glue. The brothers reminded me so much of my own. One 10 years older, charismatic, with a big friend group, a prestigious job, and no shortage of girlfriends. The younger a brilliant chess wonder, sweet and introverted, uncomfortable in most social settings. I fell in love with both of the characters and felt so much sorrow for their strained relationship because for me, it represented what could have been. Or maybe what would be, if there was no me. No baby sister to bring them together. Instead two brothers drifting further and further from each other in their grief, something that would undoubtedly break their father’s heart.

The novel reminded me just how rare what my dad was able to create between us was. And how crucial my role is in continuing that. I know nothing would make him happier than knowing that I read the last page while laying on my brother’s couch in Amsterdam.

xoxo Merel

“You’re so American.” The phrase like nails on a chalkboard. As a kid, it was a label that drove me crazy. It had the power to send a pit into my stomach, erupt me into tears. When my dad and brothers (all 100% born and raised Dutch) would say it to me, I knew it wasn’t a compliment. I could read the room. None of them respected America. Certainly not Americans. With their big cars, loud voices, and unhealthy food.

“I am not!” I would yell back, lump forming in my throat. The words filling me like venom.

“You really can’t be teased,” my mother would shoot back when I tried to be consoled by her.

No one understands me!!

It could never just be a joke to me. It held too much weight. If it was just teasing because of my display of obnoxious American idiosyncrasies, then fine. Sure, I could concede to my own sensitivity. But no, it was so much more than that. All I heard in that phrase was you’re not like them. Which I made to mean that something was wrong with me. Which I made to mean that I wasn’t a real Petri. Which I made to mean that I wasn’t enough.

It poked at an identity crisis that continues to follow me today. It is still what separates me from them. My dad, my brothers, and now my nephews. The family I’ve always desperately wanted to be a part of. All the time. In a way that was never going to be my reality. They were a club I was permanently left out of. All because my dad just had to hook up with an American. Think he stopped to think about the impact of making me a mutt as a result? Then, to add insult to injury, the American (my mother) dragged me back to America! Had the audacity to raise me in the tacky place! Established my life there! Without even consulting my opinion!

Here’s the thing, I now know that the meaning I made of this little “joke” was never how the people I loved most meant for me to take it. And, even further to their defense, I likely was acting very American. I would complain about the towels (no dryer, too crunchy). I would complain about the house temperature (no AC, heat system weak). I would complain about hotel rooms (smells funny, too old). I would complain about lugging my suitcase up narrow death stairs (elevator, who?).

All sounds pretty American. Because I was American. Sure, half Dutch by blood, but there came a time when I had to admit to myself that I had been far more influenced by American culture than European culture.

Once I started to sense this reality, fear kicked in. So naturally, in my adolescence, I was ready to fight against the label til the day I died. I wanted everyone to know I was different. I’m not like you other full-blooded brainwashed patriots! Noooo way. Not me. The older I got, the more I leaned into my Dutch side, re-learning the language, staying up to date on politics and pop culture. Anything to distance myself from the American side and unlearn the hellish conditioning I wasn’t able to chose as a child. I had the choice now, baby! And I was team opps! It’s a scam, everyone! They’re lying to you about this place!

The fact of the matter, however, is that I still don’t live in Europe. There’s a reason I didn’t choose to go to University of Amsterdam, to start to build a life there as soon as I could. I’m extremely ambitious. Debilitatingly so, at times. Since I was 10 years old I’ve had big, delusional dreams to live a big, delusional life. To build an empire. To leave a legacy. And to make a lot of money along the way. This type of energy has never felt like a fit for Europe.

I really had to contend with this during the five years my dad was sick. It started a little after my 25th birthday. I was living in New York, trying to make something of myself in the fashion industry, and started dating someone who had a similar sentiment of skeptically to the American dream. Over the years, we got more serious, my dad got more sick, and I started making plans to move overseas permanently. So much so that I made an offer on an apartment in Amsterdam. As fate would have it, that same month he died instead. Suddenly, despite being sick for awhile. And I had to be real with myself. Did I still want to make this move? To rebuild a life that I’ve already built over 25 years in America? My friends. My career. My partner. Leave everything at a time when it felt like things were just getting started? Despite my chronic raised eyebrow and rolled eyes at my side ho country of origin, the answer was no. I chose to stay America.

And yet, the identity crisis remained. Weaker now, for sure. But still there.

Currently I’m back in Amsterdam, visiting for the month of August, which has become a routine over the last four years. It’s a freedom I created. It’s something I’ll never take for granted and I’ve gotten better at celebrating myself for it. When my dad’s illness started, I was still chained to a desk, working 10 hour days for less than $50,000 a year, terrified to ask my boss for a week off to visit my family overseas. I would fly from NYC to Amsterdam for four-day weekends because my vacation days were so limited. Today, I can work whenever and wherever I want. It’s something I’ll never sacrifice. Not even for a whole lot of money.

Last week, I was biking through the busy city center with my 15-yr old nephew when a tourist almost took me off the road, mindlessly walking into the bike lane as they do. I was irritated by the interaction and the vigilance that is required during the summer months, needing to pivot at any moment, otherwise that tourist and I both would’ve been fucked up. I turned to nephew to complain about how annoying the tourists were. His response? Well you are one too.

My god the youth are cutting.

“I am not!” I heard myself respond, before I even realized how defensive I sounded. “I have a passport,” I reminded him, checking my tone this time, worried I was a little too reactive in projecting three decades of an identity crisis on the kid.

“Seriously? But you can’t even speak Dutch.”

And you know what? He’s right. And here we are. Acceptance. Or at least closer to it. I am the Dutch girl who can’t speak Dutch. I am the Dutch girl who also has an American passport. I am the Dutch girl who is, in fact, so American.

xoxox Merel

Also, I had older cousins. And I wasn’t about to be left out. No matter how potentially damaging the experience. Every time I confidently followed the footsteps of the big kids, one of the supervising adults would look at me with a grimace. Are you sure, sweetie? I wouldn’t react. Oh, you’re talking to me? Couldn’t be. Because I’m not scared.

But of course I was scared. That’s the point, you dummies. I sought the fear and all it’s accompaniments. On the outside, I never let them see me sweat. But on the inside? A mess of anxiety. And I liked it. My legs wobbling as I took my seat, my heart racing during the first climb, my stomach dropping before we even reached the top. And the fall? Absolute silence. Not a single thought in my head. What a fucking relief that was.

I have a mind that works overdrive. Often, I cherish it. But it took me a long time to learn how to work with it, instead of for it. I remember the first time a therapist told me that my thoughts and feelings weren’t facts. Come again? That can’t possibly apply to me. But now I have a pretty good grip on when my mind is heading down spiral lane, so I take a detour. Sometimes, though, I chose not to. Sometimes, I press on the gas. Sometimes I don’t want to choose growth. Sometimes I don’t want to rewrite harmful patterns. Because sometimes, I want the comfort of the crash. The inconsolable sobs. The catastrophizing. The release.

It’s been a self soothing ritual for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I cried myself to sleep regularly. A tried and true trick to settle the big emotions that came every time I went to or left the Netherlands. Emotions I didn’t quite understand yet. But I believe now that my comfort in a state of pain is why I was able to show up so instinctively when my dad got sick. It felt familiar. As did the decision to split my time between the US and Amsterdam, flying back and forth every two months amidst a generation-defining global pandemic. Crying myself to sleep in various hotel beds. Repeating over and over on the phone how badly I wanted to stop feeling this pain. It was a ride I chose to take, over and over. It was a ride I learned to believe I loved.

Which brings us to last week. Last week was one of those moments where I was simply fed up with choosing the path of emotional peace. I needed to feel. I needed a fucking cry. Because after weeks of cozy contentment, in crept the unease of knowing it had been over a month since I shed a tear. Frankly, life had been really, really nice. Aligned in a way I had always wanted. Exciting and calm at the same time. Well, that doesn’t seem right! Let’s go after that drop, shall we?

Ladies and Gentleman! Step right up! I give you… Merel’s 24-hr emotional rollercoaster!!!!

Phase 1 - The entry: 9pm - 12pm

Anxiety and overthinking abound! It’s about that time to go over that thing you probably shouldn’t say but feel like you absolutely have to say over and over in your head. Most riders will consult 1-2 trusted sources at this time.

Phase 2 - The climb: 12pm - 1am

Time to do that thing that will without a doubt cause you emotional pain! Hit send then try to metaphorically run away from your phone so you don’t have to face your actions! But surprise! You can’t! You can only inch closer to the inevitable!

Phase 3 - The drop: 8am-10pm

Now, what makes this ride so special is that our drop feels like it’s never going to end! A few seconds? Boring! We can ensure at least six hours of disruptive waterworks and intrusive wallowing! 12-14 hours if you’re one of the really lucky ones.

Phase 4 - The clarity: 8am the following day

Finally, after a full day of emotional overwhelm and a devastation that feels connected to every pain you’ve ever felt up, you’ll wake up and realize it wasn’t even that deep. Perhaps it could have been avoided, even. But oh well! Too late now! You may even feel completely insane by this emotional 180. But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. So will your friends.

This most recent emotional rollercoaster brought back a memory from seven years ago, when my nephews came to visit me in NYC. It was a perfect summer day, so off to Coney Island we went. One of my nephews, who was seven at the time, operates in a freakishly similar fashion to me. Forethought? Uninteresting. Patience? Doesn’t seem like something that concerns me. I had a feeling he was going to be my guy for the rides.

For anyone who hasn’t been, Coney Island is a far cry from Six Flags. The most famous rollercoaster, the Cyclone, is old, rickety, and laughable to a girl who used to forge her height to sneak on the Screaming Eagle. After analyzing our options, we decided the most intimidating ride was a drop tower. I suggested we go for it, and we stepped right up.

The four of us took our places and strapped ourselves in, my brother and I anchoring each side. As we rose to the top, I glanced over to each of the boys to gauge their level of fear, seeking signs to validate that I hadn’t encouraged something a little too much for them. To my relief, I saw no panic in their eyes. Just your average anticipation. We reached the top, waited with baited breathe, and took one last look at each other before soaring down in screams. At the bottom? They were all smiles. Look at that! I didn’t cause my nephews irreparable trauma! My cool aunt reign continues!

Then, to my surprise, almost immediately upon exiting the ride, my nephew looks at me and yells AGAIN! I look at my brother, trying to gauge if this kid is for real. He bows out with a nod, knowing his limits. I, however, meet the little guy where he’s at. Let’s do it, kid. Just me, my little twin and our love for self imposed discomfort against the world! On our climb up, nothing changed. My nephew looked at me eagerly, I looked back with a knowing grin. But on the way down, complete silence. No screams. No smiles. The kid went ghost. And as soon as we hit the platform, he burst into tears, running to his dad to be consoled.

And you know what? It all made perfect sense to me. Of course he needed to take it a little too far. Of course one time wasn’t enough. Wait, where was my absolute freak out? I understood it more than he knew. Some of us just need to go there. And not because we’re reckless. Or out of control. But because we want to hit that button. The button that let’s us feel it all. And that, my friends, is why the ride continues.

xoxox

Merel

A simple explanation of my reaction was that I was triggered. I couldn’t emotionally separate the experience of losing Lola without being right back in that room with my dad, holding his hand as he took his last breath. The more complex interpretation, I think, is that once you lose someone you really, really, love, it becomes impossible to lose anyone you love without grieving all of them. All at once. I realized in this experience how my capacity to feel grief had changed. Same with my relationship with my emotions. Sure, my mind couldn’t help but insert itself, being a brief bully, but the emotions were actually felt. And that was big. Because I have to admit, that’s not something I allowed myself before losing my dad.

In the past, I was able to “control” my grief. At least, that’s what I thought I was doing. What it really was, was suppression. And avoidance. Losing a pet, a grandparent, even an ex-boyfriend, were all feelings I could put in a little box, locked far far away. I would rationalize instead of feel. Well, they were old. I would intellectualize instead of feel. There was nothing I could do because x, y, z. Not anymore though. I have, for better or worse, been changed in an inextricable way. And I’m grateful for it. Because in those last hours with Lola I was able to really feel the gravity of what I was losing. I didn’t have to minimize it. I could acknowledge that Lola meant so, so much to me. Which, yes, I partially credit to the way my dad’s illness forced me into a presence I otherwise use to avoid. But I also give a lot of credit to the recent work I’ve done in EMDR therapy. It was there that I was able to really put my love for Lola into context. I saw her as my protector. And so I was able to allow myself to feel the pain of losing something so sacred.

I started EMDR, a type of trauma-processing therapy, after feeling like all the other shit wasn’t hitting the same. I was, at this point, painfully self aware. I knew too much. And knowledge didn’t feel quite so powerful. Because being aware of all the self sabotaging shit you do and then still doing it? Don’t think that’s what the doctor ordered. It was time for drastic measures. Bring on those little buzzers! Make me relive my most painful trauma over and over until it feels like my best friend! Shock my brain until I stop, if you need to! Session one and I was ready to get things going, ready to wail. Trigger me ‘til you fix me.

To my disappointment, the first session was more of a pleasant meditation than an emotional bloodbath. My therapist explained that we had to set up a happy place and support system first. Something to tap into if the trauma poking felt like too much. We started with my emotionally neutral happy place. I close my eyes and picture sitting at the kitchen table at my dad’s house in the Dutch countryside. He’s making me a cappuccino while I’m eating pindakaas with hagelslag (peanut butter toast with chocolate sprinkles on top). The doors to the backyard are open and the air is crisp, fresh, with subtle waves of farm life. Harry and Sally, the recurring duck duo I would throw stale bread to, are drifting peacefully across the canal. Tears are flowing down my face as I picture the scene. Because I would do absolutely anything to return there. My therapist clocks my reaction and says mmm maybe not. The happy place shouldn’t be so emotionally reactive. Fine. I pick a beach and we move on to the support system. She asks me to select one to three people (not my dad) to be my nurturers. I say my brothers and my best friend. She asks me to select one to three people (not my dad) to be my wisdom guides. I revise the prior to assign the role of nurturer to one brother and the role of wisdom guide to the other. So far, easy. Then, she asks me to select one to three people (not my dad) to be my protector. I am stumped. Initially, I picture a bodyguard or a bouncer at the club. She says mmm maybe not. I say I have no idea. I got no one then. I’m really struggling with the word. The role. My silence and inner discomfort in not having an answer made me crack a joke about how there’s a lot to unpack with this. Like the instinctual feeling that I’ve never really had anyone to protect me. Or my assumption that it has to be a big, strong man. My therapist tees me up gentle suggestions. I squirm and squirm. Until she says, “It can even be a pet,” and I immediately relax. Because I finally have the answer. Duh, Lola. Of course she’s my protector. And not just because I know that, if necessary, she likely would, and certainly could, rip someone limb by limb for me. Which, I must admit, having grown up with beautiful yet dopey dogs that my mom called ‘pea brains,’ felt powerful. But, what I recognized in our conversation, was that it was much deeper than that.

I think it’s important to share with anyone that doesn’t know, I’m not what you would call a dog person. I don’t coo on the street when I see a puppy walk by. I don’t yearn to pet a dog while standing in line for coffee. My best friend Ellie on the other hand? Quintessential dog person. Calls every one sweetheart. Would never miss an opportunity to pet. Is unbothered by foreign saliva on her limbs. Revels in conversation with the owner about each dog’s seemingly adorable idiosyncrasies.

It will never be me. I have a relatively short list of all the dogs that I love. All I can say is it’s an energy thing. And a lot of dogs have weird energy!!! Why are you so eager???Why do you think it’s okay to lick me??? Do you need to be that loud??? Not unlike dating, few catch my eye, fewer draw me in, and a mere handful have the power to steal my heart. But once they do, they really, really do. And Lola stole my heart. With her emotive expressions. Her stubborn certainty. Her strategic, and effective approach to getting absolutely anything she wanted. Her glee for just getting to hang with the girls and being chill about it.

She also healed me. Hers was the face that reset my nervous system when I was a month out of losing my dad. It was her running down the driveway with an overly excited wag for morning hill hikes that instantly took me out of my apathetic state following a brutal breakup and surprise relocation. When she stayed at my house it was her wide ass smile every morning the moment she saw me that provided a dopamine hit that not even a big fat crush could rival. Her energy was immaculate. Shit felt less heavy with her around. And after an especially heavy last few years, her unconditional love for me (not even the person who consistently feeds her!) meant more than even I can articulate. I guess with all my “painful self awareness” I shouldn’t have been as surprised by how hard this hurt. She was my only known protector in this world. Whose got me now?? My cat Chicken??? He immediately submits, belly up, to anyone who gives him an ounce of attention.

Another thing I’ll be forever grateful for was my ability to show up for my best friend in her hardest moment. I’d watched two people die already. Facing death, despite painful, was no longer scary to me. Which, call it delusional, is a blessing. I didn’t think twice about staying by her side during Lola’s lasts moments. I knew how to anticipate her needs before she could articulate them because I’ve lived them. There was no “let me know if you need anything.” Please. I’ve got a case of protein shakes on the way since it’s all you can stomach. I’m on the phone sorting the blood-curdling logistics to set up the euthanasia. Take my credit card to offset the financial stress, I’ll be CFO. Going through such a major loss gave me the superpower to be there for people I love during their big losses. I know they’ll be okay because I’m okay. I know how to reroute the unhelpful spiral of “What if I…"” or “I should have…” to something supportive like “this is happening and I can handle it” or “My capacity for empathy is becoming so much stronger.” Positive self talk is that biiiiiiitch.

This experience, albeit devastating, was a reminder that there is always something bigger at play. And yes, because I am a spiritual and existential little Pisces, I know in my soul that Lola had to leave us when she did. I still don’t know why, but I know better than to think I should. I do know that even the scientists say that energy can only change shape, and can never be destroyed. And everything on this earth is energy. Which means Lola is now changing shape. It sucks, yes. It always sucks. I hate changing shapes!!! But her immaculate energy hasn’t gone anywhere. I’ve lived that truth and it’s been the greatest harbinger of peace. Even more than a big, tall, manly bodyguard.

xoxox

Merel

In college, I wanted ‘Made in Holland,’ like Cara Delevingne, but on my butt cheek. I was so serious about it that I even got a temporary version in Mexico on Spring Break to see if I liked it. It was adorable, actually, but I never followed through. Mostly because someone once told me that you should never get a tattoo while drinking, and, Piña Coladas and tequila shots were priority numero uno on that trip.

In my early 20s, I was living in New York and working in fashion. It was the era of Jon Boy tattoos. Bang Bang was a status symbol and celebrity tattoo artists were a non negotiable. If I was going to get something permanent on my body, than I would only go to the best of the best. Which is rich, given that two years prior I was heavily considering a poke and stick by a random guy on the beach in Mexico. But I was different now. Sophisticated. And I wanted at least three teeny tiny tattoos to decorate my limbs. An ‘M’ in old english font in case anyone forgot my first name. A cross on my middle finger to be ironic. Horizontal script across my ribcage so that everyone knew when I wasn’t wearing a bra. Thankfully, even with mates rates I was too broke to follow through on this vision.

If you’re sensing a pattern then you’re onto something. I was extremely susceptible to outside influence. At the time, I don’t think I could even really articulate why I wanted one. I knew I wanted to be different. I knew I valued artistry. I liked to self adorn and had countless earrings running up and down my lobes. But I was also impulsive. I got my belly button pierced within hours of turning 18 and not needing parental sign off. So it’s curious why I never pulled the trigger.

There was something deeper at play. I think, despite not being able to recognize it, I knew none of the above were authentic to me. I worried that future me would regret it. That period of my life was so steeped in self discovery, and, looking back, I didn’t give myself nearly enough credit for how in tune I was with my intuition.

As I got older, my desire for fleeting trend-based tattoos faded, but the deeper tug remained. Almost a decade before my dad ever got sick I had an inner voice telling me that my first tattoo would honor him. I knew the one thing that I would never regret was something that made me think of my dad. The thing about Alzheimer’s is it can have you grieving someone while they’re alive for a long time. For me, the grief was always there, subtly hovering in the corner of my subconscious once his illness became impossible to ignore. It also became more acute in the face of packing up his home to sell, rereading old emails and crying in hotel beds, and playing old voicemails desperate for a time travel device.

Fast forward and it had been more than a year since my dad died and I was still ink-free. I thought about doing it often, but couldn’t get myself to commit. My inner fear was still stronger than my intuition at that time. It wasn’t until I met someone last summer who changed my perspective. The day after we met, he was getting his next tattoo. He told me how he recently started to get a tattoo after every big trip he took. Memories from each experience etched in his skin that would never be forgotten. Or become a regret. I loved that. He was telling the story of his life on his body. And I got a front row seat to see it happen. It excited me. I pictured him old, wrinkled, showing his grandkids the red jellyfish on his forearm, explaining his scuba diving adventure, their eyes lit up. It clarified something in me. I was ready to commit.

Ironically, despite almost two years with one idea in my head of what my eventual tattoo would be, it all changed in a day. I thought I would get a phrase my dad used to sign off emails to me with: be brave. It’s something I would repeat over and over to myself throughout the years of his illness. I repeated it so often that I thought, well, if ever I were to get something tattooed on my body, this would make sense. It’s like how therapists say to get things out of your head by writing it down. It was my permanent reminder to lace up my boots and face life head on.

But the fateful appearance of an old piece of mail changed my mind. I had been staying at my aunt’s house and she randomly found a letter that my dad had written to my other aunt who lived in DC. How it ended up in Pasadena, we still don’t know. He signed it off in a way that was so him - “Enjoy your life!” It was earnest. It made me laugh. It made me think what a weirdo. As soon as I saw his handwriting in that phrase there was no overthinking, it was obvious. Instinctual.

What’s that saying? Do something everyday that scares you? Well that’s how I’m trying to live these days. By committing to something everyday that scares me. Which seems a little less daunting now that I committed to permanent ink on my body. And honestly? I want more. I am not, in fact, resistant to the tattoo flood gates opening as everyone warned me.

So I might still get ‘be brave’ somewhere on my body. Because I am still an over-thinker. I might still get ‘made in holland’ on my ass. Because I am still unserious. Also, it definitely isn’t going to hurt on my ass.

xoxox

Merel

You don’t really have to cry. You could though. Either way, we’re gonna get some endorphins. Because endorphins make you happy. And happy people don’t wallow in self pity (as much).

While hosting this hike on Father’s Day is not a coincidence, you don’t have to have a dead dad as a qualifier to join. Anyone grieving anything can and should come. In fact, it’s been an especially hellish week of non-dad related grief so, this sweaty little gathering is right on time. And, honestly, you can even come if you just want an excuse to be outdoorsy and breathe the air of several baddies. I wouldn’t blame you.

This is free, obviously, as is nature. But if you’re feeling generous I’m collecting donations for Immigrant Defenders Law Center to support the people in LA being terrorized by ICE (@merel-petri).

We’ll meet at 11:45-ish and start hiking around noon. If you like reminders and your calendar runs your life, RSVP on Partiful here. Fern Dell Trail entrance (pin here)

Ok see you Sunday in reasonable shoes!!

xoxox Merel

It’s a lot, I know, but it helps me to feel grounded. And no one can tell me astrology isn’t real. Because I have the receipts.

This week, my sacred routine became mauled thanks to severe jet lag. And a state of physical/mental/emotional/spiritual exhaustion induced by 3+ weeks of doing it for the plot in Europe. You know it’s diva down when I don’t even have the energy for my favorite hobby.

Anyway, it wasn’t until Tuesday that I got back on track. I was doing my thing, listening to the girls, and my notes for the week felt different. It was bar after bar. And I knew I’d want these takeaways for easy access for future states of existential spiral / rage blackout / decision paralysis. To my notes app I go! Then I thought, huh, maybe this could serve the people. So, here it is. I hope this list gives you some internal guidance that resonates.

FOR IMMEDIATE USE DURING INTERNAL CHAOS

PAUSE! BREATH! READ! REFLECT!

1. Do what is right because it is right. Not because you’re attached to an outcome.

2. Whatever you’re not changing, you’re accepting.

3. Am I being authentic in this action?

4. You can still get approval even when you’re being inauthentic. But it will make you feel empty and sad.

5. If you have to struggle, struggle towards justice.

6. What do you want to transform right now?

7. Listen to your body, it’s trying to tell you something.

8. And listen to your instincts!!! When have they ever been off!!!

9. Heart > head. Feel your feelings instead of intellectualizing them.

10. We’re no longer seeking external validation for something we know intuitively to be true.

11. What’s making you mad?

12. Do you like how you respond to being mad?

13. Perfection is the enemy of progress.

BE FREE! Or whatever.

xoxo Merel