Imagine this: you’re in a foreign country, overwhelmed by grief you can’t avoid any longer. You’ve been crying for days, physically sick from the emotional toll. All you want is to stay in bed, wishing for peace, but you can’t. There’s a commitment pulling you out of bed—50 horses at the stable need your care, and despite everything, you get up and head down to them.

In 2023, I went to Hovgård on January 31st. It was a dream come true. In the beautiful scenery of Lofoten, Norway, I was going to guide horseback tours. Thinking back, I still feel lucky that I got to experience it. When I left at the end of April, I knew I’d come back. So a few months later, at the beginning of summer, I contacted the manager, and we set up my return for September.

That summer, I worked back home in the Netherlands, at Ameland as a horse guide. But the slower pace and routine at the stable made me feel less engaged, and I started to get bored. I didn’t feel challenged anymore. I also felt this urge in my stomach, telling me I should spend more time with my family. So on my days off, I’d travel back and forth to see them, but it was draining. Leaving home every time made me feel upset. The combination of not feeling challenged enough and missing home led me to quit the job in the middle of high season.

I got a temporary job at a restaurant, which was fine for the moment. I’d been home for about two weeks when, one Monday morning, I came downstairs and saw my mom on the couch. I was surprised she wasn’t at work. “Did something happen? Did you quit?” I asked, a bit worried. She answered, “I’m too tired to work.”

You know that feeling when you just know something is wrong? I looked at my mom, and she wasn’t the person I remembered. Her face was so thin she almost looked like a ghost. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed before.

We didn’t know what was going on, but we all had our suspicions. That week, she had multiple doctor appointments, many tests, and at home, there was this tense silence. We all sensed something was wrong, but no one wanted to say it out loud.

By Friday afternoon, my mom’s health had been visibly worsening every day, and I was terrified. I called in sick to work. My mom got a call that same afternoon and had to go to the hospital for further tests. When I came home after grabbing some dinner, my dad was sitting outside, smoking a cigarette. His face said it all.

“What did they say?” I asked. He told me to ask my mom, who was inside. “What did they say?” I asked as I walked in and found her sitting there. “It’s cancer,” she said calmly. They had found metastases in her liver using an ultrasound, which you would normally need a scan to see. It was already clear how serious things were. She didn’t cry—she looked so tired she must have expected the bad news.

Hearing her say it was painful. But my mind translated it as, “I’m going to die”—the only question was when. Would she make it to Christmas? Looking at her, I knew she wasn’t going to survive this.

My mom looked like a version of her mom when she had cancer. You could see the bones in her face. It was like a painful déjà vu from six years earlier. But this time, it wasn’t my grandmother, who was 74 it was my mom, just 53.

A week later, after more tests, we got the results: it was pancreatic cancer, the same type my grandma had. It had already spread to her liver and bone marrow.

Three days after the diagnosis, on Monday, she was put into a deep sleep. She was too exhausted to keep going. It was an incredibly tough day, watching her tell the doctor that it was enough. You could hear the pain in her voice. The next day, Tuesday, she passed away while I was beside her, along with most of our family.

Honestly, it was a relief when she did let go of life. Seeing her in so much pain has also given everyone in my circle a scar. From the moment my mom stopped working, our home had turned into a sort of church. People came in and out constantly, and we had to stay quiet to keep the peace. And I can’t imagine how I would have handled that long-term.

This might sound selfish, I’m aware. But another thing my mind was constantly thinking about was that from the moment we found out she was sick, I hoped her illness wouldn’t ruin my travel plans to go back to Norway the next month. Maybe it was just a trauma response, holding onto that small future spark to get me through this dark chapter.

During that whole period, I didn’t really break down. I cried a few times, but those tears barely touched the grief waiting for me in the future. I was honestly just tired of everyone’s pity, and I felt like everyone around me assumed they knew how I should feel. I truly felt okay at that time; obviously, I felt sad, but it didn’t feel like the world fell apart. For me, it was just so painful to see other people break down.

The funeral came and went. Everyone tried to continue life in their own way, and I just looked forward to Norway.

One month later I went to Norway, and it was the best time of my life—even better than my first visit. I met amazing people, saw my favorite horse, Mimír, at the stables again, and watched the most beautiful sunsets. Purple, pink, orange, and blue skies over snow-capped mountains. It was like living in a fairytale.

After a few weeks, most of the high-season team left, leaving just me and Doriane, a French girl who was 26. We were short-staffed for a while, so we both put in extra hours to keep things running smoothly. Those days were the best. After work, we’d go for rides through the mountains and along the beaches of Gimsoy. It was the perfect way to express my love for horses and the equestrian lifestyle.

During that time, my friendship with Doriane grew so quickly. I remember this one midnight, we stood with the horses by the beach under the northern lights. We’d never been so open with each other before.

Eventually, Doriane had to leave. She’d say, “We’ll see each other again, I’m sure.” I wanted so badly to believe her.

But words turned into actions—we’ve seen each other twice since then, and each time was meaningful. I feel lucky that I got this friendship in my life.

After Doriane left, I felt the absence deeply, not just as a friend but also as a co-worker. Weeks went by, and as the Arctic winter settled in, the days got shorter, and the grief I’d been holding back came crashing down in waves. I cried constantly, hyperventilated, and sometimes even threw up. I felt really miserable.

The co-workers I had then were kind, but I often felt misunderstood. Eventually, one small comment from a co-worker hit me hard, and I called my dad, crying, unable to breathe, and my legs were numb. I was terrified, and he must have been too, hearing me break down on the phone like that.

It was the last thing I wanted, but I found myself saying, “I have to go home.” I’d tried so hard to hold on, but I just couldn’t.

Leaving felt like failure. I loved that stable, and I still do. But I needed to take care of myself.

I know not everyone understood what I was going through. Some people made me feel like I was just being dramatic, but a few truly kind souls saw my struggle. On my departure day, the restaurant staff offered me breakfast and gave me a ride to the bus station. I appreciated it a lot, even if I couldn’t fully express it then.

Leaving that place in those circumstances was one of the hardest things I’ve done, especially since the stable manager ignored me completely once I gave my notice. She wouldn’t respond to texts, wouldn’t pick up the phone. She even made it difficult for me to get a ride to the bus station. I had to call the owner late at night, begging for approval to take the company car to the bus station.

The biggest lesson I learned? When you’re no longer convenient for people, their true colors often come out.

On my way to the airport, the stable manager messaged me, she said that she would have wanted to say goodbye in person. Her ignoring me wasn’t personal; she just needed a break. But I’d already seen her real side; she knew how I felt. I had expressed myself very vulnerably when I gave my notice. If she had cared about her employee, her actions would have been different.

Leaving early felt like failing, like I would never get a chance like that again. But I did, and every low moment along the way has only made me stronger—more resilient, but still gentle and understanding. And the version of me I’m becoming? She has BIG plans for the future, and she’s ready to turn them into reality.