The highlight reel

For years my Instagram was a highlight reel in the most literal sense.

I had around 3,000 followers — mostly friends, friends of friends, people who already knew me. I posted when I felt like I looked good (embarressed to admit) . When I had a milestone worth announcing. That was it. Two reasons to post, nothing more.

It was fine. I didn’t think real connection was possible on social media anyway. So why would I put out a version of myself that was insecure, that struggled, that had ‘things’ she hadn’t yet learned to name? Nobody needed to know that. I barely let myself know that.

The judgment

Then one day I shared that we had bought a house. The first house I had ever owned. I was so proud, you know, the kind of proud that comes from years of work and sacrifice but also the particular weight that immigrant women carry, the sense that you have to earn every good thing twice. I shared it with a family member of my fiancé.

She responded with judgment. Condescending words about the type of house I was able to afford. What I later understood was resentment.

It brought me down for a while. Made me question whether I should have shared it at all. Whether my pride was too loud. Whether my happiness was somehow taking up space it wasn’t entitled to.

The turn

And then I sat with it.

And I thought, I don’t want to feel embarrassed about decisions I make for my own life. Not with the work I have put in. Not with the mental load that comes from being an immigrant woman, from having to prove your right to exist in spaces that weren’t originally designed for you. Not with everything it took to get here.

My first instinct was to write all of it in my journal. First about my frustration. But soon it became about what my vision of home is. About fashion and what it means to dress for a life that’s actually yours. About what it means to be a woman building something from scratch. Slowly, sentence by sentence, I started feeling more powerful. More like myself than I had felt in years.

Why not share it?

And then I thought: why not share it?

Maybe someone else feels the same way. Maybe someone else has a vision for her life but isn’t sure yet whether she’s allowed to say it out loud. Maybe someone else is holding back the truest version of herself because she’s waiting for permission that was never going to come from anywhere but herself.

I posted. And then I posted again. And slowly, something happened that I hadn’t expected.

People found me. Not because I was performing, showcasing my achievements or that one day my curly hair was looking great or the new Prada loafers I had bought which I’m still unsure on why I actually bought them.

What the trends can’t touch

Here is what I have learned from that, and from the years since:

There is no right or wrong way to build a life that feels good to you. There are trends, yes — images of the best life pushed at us constantly, the correct body, the approved aesthetic, the version of success that photographs well and fits the current algorithm. The pressure to perform a life rather than live one is relentless and it is getting louder.

But underneath all of that noise is something that doesn’t trend. Something that doesn’t have a peak and a decline. Something that the algorithm cannot manufacture and that no amount of aesthetic curation can replace.

Your actual self. Your specific vision. The particular way you see the world that belongs to nobody else.

That is what people are hungry for. Not because authenticity is a content strategy — but because we are all exhausted by the performance. We are all looking for evidence that it’s possible to build something real. To be seen as you actually are and have that be enough.

Post anyway

It is enough.

You don’t need to wait until you look good. Until you have a milestone worth announcing. Until you’re certain no one will judge you. Someone will always judge you. The family member who reacts with resentment rather than joy will always exist.

Post anyway.

Write it in your journal first if you need to. Find your vision there before you share it with anyone. Feel what it’s like to say the true thing to yourself before you say it to the world.

And then share it.

Not because the world deserves it.

Because you do.

With love,

Gisele

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I am a columnist for Vogue and this is a piece I wrote in Dutch originally but translated to English for you guys! I hope you will enjoy this heartfelt piece.

On the morning of her citizenship exam, breakfast was already waiting on the table before 7 a.m. My brother and I sat at the kitchen table like we did every other morning. We had no idea that, for our mother, it was one of the most important and nerve-wracking days of her life.

My mother came to the Netherlands when she was thirty-two, carrying two children and the weight of starting over. She didn’t speak the language. She knew no one. She had to find her way through a country that was not yet hers.

The first thing she learned was how to ride a bicycle, because she needed to take us to school. Her Iranian driver’s license was not valid here. During the day, she attended language classes. In between, she cleaned houses to make a living. Slowly, step by step, she built a life.

She volunteered. She earned her vocational diploma, and later her bachelor’s degree. She did all of this while raising two children on her own.

But I didn’t know any of that back then.

She never let us feel the weight she was carrying.

Two months ago, I took my mother to Greece for a girls’ trip. Watching her enjoy herself so freely touched something deep inside me. I realized that I no longer see my mother only as the person who raised me. I see the woman behind the role. I see what she carried, and how she carried it.

She never made us feel like we were missing anything. She never placed the weight of her struggles on our shoulders. We grew up surrounded by the warmth and safety she created, never knowing how much strength it took from her to create that world for us.

The mothers who rebuild without a safety net

In the Netherlands, hundreds of thousands of families are led by a single parent.
In most cases, that parent is a mother.

Every morning, countless women wake up, prepare breakfast, take their children to school, go to work, care for others, and quietly prepare for the next day. So much of what they do happens unseen.

And then there are the mothers who do all of this in a country that is unfamiliar to them. Mothers who are not only navigating single parenthood but also rebuilding their entire lives in a new language, a new culture, and a new system — often without a safety net.

This is especially true for many single mothers with a migration background. They are often described as vulnerable because of the challenges they face: financial insecurity, housing struggles, language barriers, and the absence of a support network.

But when I think of my mother, vulnerability is not the first word that comes to mind.

I think of courage.

I think of determination.

I think of a woman who created a home for her children while she was still trying to find her own place in the world.

More than resilience

There are things statistics will never be able to measure.

They cannot measure the way my mother gave us a sense of safety while she was still figuring everything out herself.

They cannot measure how she created a home in a place where she knew no one.

They cannot measure how she woke up every morning and kept going, making sure we felt loved and protected, even when she was carrying struggles we could not see.

The circumstances may have been difficult. But the person standing inside them was always so much greater than the word “vulnerable.”

We often call this resilience.

But even that word feels too small.

Because what does it really take to rebuild an entire life while continuing to hold someone else’s world together?

Maybe there is no single word that can fully capture that kind of strength.

I see her now

My mother eventually earned her diplomas. Today, she supports women who are experiencing domestic violence, perhaps because she understands what it means to have to begin again.

She dances every week. It is one of her greatest joys.

And that image stays with me.

My mother dancing.

My mother laughing.

My mother glowing in a way I always knew as a child, but only now truly understand.

What moves me most is that she never lost her curiosity. She talks to strangers, makes new friends, learns new things, goes belly dancing, and occasionally enjoys a celebratory cocktail, experiences that once felt far away from the woman who arrived in a new country with nothing but courage and hope.

When I look at her, I see someone who refused to let hardship make her smaller.

That makes me proud.

She is my greatest inspiration.

I never heard her complain about what it cost her. But when I see her now, dancing, laughing, living, I don’t only see the woman she has become.

I see everything it took to get there.

This is for my mother.

And for every mother who has done it alone, in every country, in every language, in every corner of the world.

You built homes in places where others might have given up.

And the world is better because you did.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you’ll subscribe (it’s free) so we can stay in touch! See you next time X

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I have been trying to understand what it means to root when belonging is not something you have ever really experienced.

There are people for whom place is uncomplicated. It attaches early. It stays consistent. You don’t have to think about it too much.

Rudmer grew up in the same village his entire childhood. When he talks about it, there is no hesitation. It is simply where he is from. Where he returns to. He doesn’t have to explain it.

That has not been my experience.

I grew up with the sense that where you are can change, sometimes quickly, and not always by choice. When my parents, my brother and I fled to the Netherlands, I was young, but I understood something immediately: I needed to adapt.

I remember my first days at school. Sitting at a desk, not speaking unless I was spoken to. Listening closely, trying to catch meaning from tone before I understood the words. Watching the other children to see when they laughed, when they stayed quiet, how they moved without thinking. I followed that more than anything that was said.

I don’t remember asking whether I would feel at home. That question didn’t feel available to me.

What mattered was learning how to fit in.

After a while, it stops feeling like a strategy. It just becomes how you are.

There is a distance in that way of living. You are present, but not entirely. Something stays held back. I am not sure I ever learned what it would mean to be fully myself, or if I would recognize it if I saw it.

This is why the idea of rooting has begun to feel less romantic to me, and more like a problem.

Because what does it mean to root in a place that does not fully recognize you? Or that recognizes you incorrectly?

I am building a home now, an atelier, in a landscape that is very quiet. Flat fields, long stretches of sky, a stillness that feels like it’s not asking me to fit in. The stillness of the forest allows me to think and just be, which was quite confronting to be honest.

Sometimes I walk through it and feel a kind of clarity. Other times, I am aware of how visible I am. As if there is nowhere to disappear to. Nobody I can adjust myself to.

There is a path I walk often, where the ground is uneven and the wind moves without interruption. Nothing breaks it. Not buildings, not trees close enough to soften it. The first few times, I found it uncomfortable. Now I notice when it is not there.

I say I am building a home, but I am still learning what that means. I prefer to think of it as an experiment. An experiment allows for mistakes. It allows for uncertainty. It does not require you to get it right the first time.

What I understand more clearly is the act itself. Staying. Returning to the same space. Letting it gather traces of you. The first experiment was to get rid of all of my belongings (it wasn’t much to begin with) and start again. Objects that were chosen and curated by me. It felt powerful to surround myself with very little but with carefully curated items. It was not much, but it was mine.

And yet, something shifts in that repetition. Without constant movement, there is less to hide behind. The work changes. It has to come from somewhere else. Not from newness, but from attention.

I begin to notice things I would have missed before. The same view, slightly altered. The same thoughts, arriving differently. Instead of moving and creating new memories, I now deepen the memories I already have.

Sometimes I think about how easily I used to leave. How natural it felt. As if nothing essential would be lost. I am less certain of that now.

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When I wake up and see the same trees around me, the same little house in the forest. It doesn’t make me feel like I have to get away. It actually reminds me of staying, embracing the quiet and nurturing what is there.

It is possible that rooting has less to do with belonging than I once thought?And more to do with finding out who you are when you stop adjusting.

The place does not give you that answer. But it holds you still long enough that the question becomes harder to avoid.

It may have more to do with staying in the question of it. Allowing a place to remain slightly unresolved. Allowing your relationship to it to remain partial. I don’t need the forest to make me feel like home. I thank it for reminding me who I am and who I’m evolving to be.

I am still learning how to do this.

Some days it feels like a commitment. Other days it feels like a kind of refusal.

I stay anyway. The experimentation continues. Please let me know if any of this resonates and what your thoughts are on it…Or send it to someone who might need it right now.

Share Thought & Space

What Gisele Has Been Loving

Objects, ideas, books, spaces, and moments that feel considered. Useful. True.

We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if there’s anything you’d like to read from us. Hope to talk to you next week.

Gisele and Rudmer

This morning Rudmer was sanding a piece of oak outside our atelier. The sound is almost meditative. Slow, repetitive, patient.

It made me think about how different his work looks today compared to when we first met. Back then he spent most of his days behind a screen, designing brand identities and typography. Today he works with wood, clay, and space.

The shift didn’t happen overnight. It was gradual. Quiet. One curiosity slowly leading to the next. That pretty much sums up his personality too. Never the one to take center stage, so I will.

This week I asked him about it, how a graphic designer slowly becomes a carpenter and a potter.

On discovering design

G
You studied graphic design and worked in the field for years. When did you first realize design was something you wanted to dedicate your life to?

R
I didn’t really have a turning point or a big “aha” moment. It was always something that lived in me.

As a child I built wooden huts and constantly drew my dream house, without ever thinking I would become a designer later. During my skateboarding years I built an entire skate park for the neighborhood using scrap wood from construction sites.

So I can’t point to one specific moment. I just remember it always being there.

One thing I do remember very clearly is being upset in high school because I wasn’t allowed to take both craft and drawing as subjects. I had to pick one. Eventually I chose drawing, and during one of the classes my teacher told me I should become a graphic designer.

At the time I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but it stayed with me.

On success and the missing piece

G
You had a successful career in graphic design. Awards, recognition, great projects. From the outside it looked like you had “made it.” Did it feel that way from the inside?

R
I always felt content with what I was doing. But looking back, I also realize there was something missing.

The industry itself has changed a lot as well. When I started, graphic design felt much more like a craft. There were specialized printers, endless paper choices, ink, and different printing techniques. Designing was physical, working with materials.

A lot of that has disappeared over time.

Today the timeframes are much shorter and the possibilities at the printer are far more limited. It still exists, but much less than before. I think that’s one of the reasons I slowly felt less passionate about being purely a graphic designer.

I began to feel drawn toward fields where craftsmanship plays a bigger role.

The first pieces of furniture

G
When did you start working with materials like wood?

R
When I was 25, I bought my first apartment. It was in an old school building, so my apartment used to be a classroom.

My budget wasn’t very big, so I built most of the furniture myself. I made a wooden table from old floor boards that came from my parents’ house. I cladded one of the walls with wood and it turned out really beautiful. I still love it today.

But the first piece I really designed intentionally was when we moved in together.

You wanted a desk, and because I knew how much you love stationery, writing, and journaling, I felt the desk had to be something special. So I researched, sketched, designed, and eventually built it.

You loved it so much.

That moment really triggered me to explore this side of design further.

From graphic design to space

G
You often say graphic design taught you how to see. How did that translate when you started designing objects and spaces?

R
One of my biggest inspirations has always been Donald Judd.

His work has such a strong graphic quality but also this extra spatial dimension. I feel very drawn to that. It helped me translate my graphic design thinking into something more architectural and physical.

Clay, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

Almost nothing I knew before was useful when I started working with clay. It’s unpredictable. There are rarely straight lines or a straightforward way of working.

And that’s exactly why it challenges me so much. It forces me to look at design from a completely different perspective.

Learning carpentry

G
What was it like learning carpentry from scratch?

R
I’m a true perfectionist, and that works very well in graphic design. On a computer I can make something perfect down to the very last detail.

With wood, I learned that you simply can’t.

There is no way to make it perfect to the very last millimeter. But I started seeing that as a challenge, learning the craft well enough that it becomes perfect in my own way.

That patience, and my drive to make things as precise as possible, helped me learn quickly.

The cladding of our cabin is a good example. It’s built from narrow wooden panels that had to follow the architectural shape of the cabin. I had never done anything like that before, especially not on that scale.

But I worked on it for countless hours, learning while doing. And in the end it turned out beautifully.

Patience and determination really carried that project.

Learning pottery from his father

G
Recently you started learning pottery from your dad. Watching the two of you work together has been one of my favorite things. What does that experience mean to you?

R
It means a lot to me.

Seeing his hands work in clay and create beautiful objects that we use every day, like our coffee cups, is very special.

His hands are my hands.

It feels like I can continue his legacy by learning his craft and evolving with it. My father actually started pottery later in life, after retirement.

Having this shared passion with him again feels really meaningful.

He taught me how to ice skate as a child, which eventually led me to compete in short track speed skating at a high level throughout my childhood and teenage years. Later, I was even able to teach him some of my techniques.

Learning pottery from him feels similar.

On being a designer today

G
If someone walked into your atelier today, they would see clay, wood, tools, sketches. How would you describe your practice now?

R
I’ve never stopped being a designer.

Probably not even for a single day of my life.

The space I work in has been designed by me. The workbench I use for pottery has been designed by me. Everything I make embodies my thinking as a designer — just in different dimensions and materials.

Advice for creatives

G
What would you tell someone who feels curious about another discipline but is afraid to start over?

R
I discovered that I love many different disciplines, but I only found that out by actually doing them.

There’s something very liberating about trying, falling, getting up, trying again — and either succeeding or deciding it’s not for you.

You learn either way.

I never thought I would work with clay because I believed the material didn’t fit my way of working. But by trying it, I realized I could use my skills in a completely different way.

The challenge itself is fulfilling.

Try the thing you’re curious about. But also try the thing you think might not be for you.

You might be surprised.

Closing note

Watching Rudmer move from screen to wood to clay has taught me something about creativity.

It isn’t fixed.

A graphic designer can become a carpenter.
A carpenter can become a potter.
A career can evolve into something completely different from where it started.

The common thread isn’t the medium.

It’s curiosity.

What Rudmer Has Been Loving

Objects, ideas, books, spaces, and moments that feel considered. Useful. True.

We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if there’s anything you’d like to read from us. Hope to talk to you next week.

Gisele and Rudmer

Last week we were in Paris for Paris Fashion Week and the interior design exhibition Matter and Shape.

We were away from home for an entire week.

To many people that probably doesn’t sound like a big deal. But for us it felt strangely significant. It was the first time in three years that we spent that long in a big city rather than somewhere quiet, surrounded by trees and long stretches of silence.

For the past few years, our rhythm has been very different. Most of our days happen in the forest, slow mornings, long walks, working in our atelier, observing small seasonal changes that most people would probably miss.

Paris was the opposite of that.

Noise. Movement. People rushing from one place to the next. Ideas everywhere. Fashion shows, exhibitions, conversations that stretched late into the night.

Every evening we would return to our hotel room completely overstimulated yet incredibly inspired. Instead of immediately falling asleep, we spent hours lying in bed talking about everything we had seen that day, the clothes, the spaces, the people, the atmosphere. It became our way of slowing the city down. Of processing what we had just experienced before the next day began.

And somewhere during those conversations, a thought kept returning to us: most of the things that brought us to Paris this week were things we once didn’t feel ready for. And probably all the inspiring designers and editors we had met were at the same place at one time in their careers too.

A few years ago, our lives looked very different. We were both standing at a crossroads, questioning the paths we had been following for years. At the time, none of our decisions felt particularly confident or strategic. If anything, they felt uncertain. We knew we didn’t want to stay in the same spot we were, but we didn’t know what decisions would lead us to a place we wanted to go. Can we ever really plan our lives anyway?

Leaving familiar careers.
Moving away from the city.
Starting over in the forest.

None of it came with the reassuring feeling of being prepared. There was no way of preparing for something like this. If we had waited until everything made perfect sense, we probably would still be waiting.

Instead, most of the things that shaped our lives began with a small, slightly uncomfortable decision: doing something before we felt completely ready. And we can say for certain, you will probably never be ready, and you can always improve while doing.

Looking back now, it seems almost obvious. Readiness is rarely what comes first.

You begin with curiosity.
Or restlessness.
Or the feeling that something needs to change.

And then you move. Only later does confidence begin to catch up with the decision you already made.

The Myth of Being Ready

For a long time, we believed readiness was something you eventually arrive at.

That one day you wake up and suddenly feel confident enough to begin. As if experience, preparation, and planning would eventually eliminate uncertainty.

Finish the degree.
Gain enough experience.
Build the right connections.

Then start.

Rudmer is a true perfectionist, as a designer, you have to be. He can spend hours on end without distraction working on something, and I admire him so much for it. I, on the other hand, think of an idea and prefer to make it happen instantly, but if it requires patience, I often don’t do it at all. Both tactics, it turns out, didn’t take us where we wanted to go.

When we moved into the forest three years ago, we had no real experience building spaces, designing a life around nature, or stepping away from the structure that had defined our careers for years. We didn’t know where to start, or how we could even afford everything we wanted to do, let alone create a career that would combine our passion for nature and architecture while building a community of like-minded people in such a remote place.

And yet that decision became the foundation for everything we’re doing now. The same is true for smaller things: starting this Substack, opening our lives and ideas to strangers, even coming to Paris this week.

None of it began with confidence. If anything, it began with hesitation.

But we’ve learned that confidence rarely appears before the first step. It usually arrives somewhere in the middle, once you’ve already committed, once the work has begun, once you’re forced to figure things out as you go. It’s the middle ground of both our personalities.

Readiness, it turns out, is often just another form of delay. The only real way to overcome it is surprisingly simple: you start before you feel ready.

Learning in Motion

We’ve started to notice something about creative work: you don’t learn before you begin. You learn through beginning.

When Rudmer co-designed our first cabin, he didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t know how the materials would behave, how the space would feel in winter, or how light would move through the windows. Every choice carried uncertainty. Every decision felt slightly precarious.

And yet, the act of doing taught him more than any plan or preparation could. Mistakes revealed possibilities. Constraints sparked innovation. The things he couldn’t anticipate became lessons in themselves.

The same goes for everything we’ve done together: publishing our Substack, experimenting in our atelier, even navigating the pace and chaos of Paris this week. We learn as we go.

Creativity, it seems, thrives in motion. Not when we feel ready. Not when all the pieces are in place. But when we commit, stumble, adjust, and observe what emerges along the way.

And strangely, that is exactly when courage shows up.

The Freedom of Imperfect Beginnings

Perfection is seductive because it promises safety. Our lessons.

We all want to feel ready, to have a clear path, to know the outcome before we start. But the truth we’ve discovered is this: perfection delays everything.

Most of the things that shaped our lives — moving to the forest, building our atelier, starting this Substack — began messy, uncertain, and incomplete. And yet, they became the most formative experiences of our lives.

The freedom comes from accepting that you don’t need everything to be perfect before you begin.

Some of the lessons we’ve learned along the way:

1. Start small, but start.
   Tiny beginnings, a sketch, a paragraph, a note, become the foundation for bigger work. Don’t wait for the fully formed idea.

2. Observe, then adjust.
   When things don’t go according to plan (and they won’t) notice what works, what sparks curiosity, what feels right. Observation is the first step toward mastery.

3. Let mistakes teach you.
   Clay cracks. Sketches fail. Drafts fall flat. These are the moments that expand skill and insight.

4. Embrace uncertainty.
   Hesitation doesn’t mean failure. It signals growth. Lean into it.

5. Iterate in real time.
   Begin before perfection. Refine as you go. Confidence follows action, not precedes it.

A Small Manifesto

You don’t need certainty to start.
You don’t need all the pieces in place.
You don’t need readiness to do meaningful work.

You only need curiosity.
You only need courage.
You only need the willingness to move while learning.

Most people wait for readiness.
Creators learn to move first.

Because readiness rarely arrives first.
It grows, in the background, while you’re already doing the work.

And that is where everything worth doing begins.

What We’ve Been Loving

Objects, ideas, books, spaces, and moments that feel considered. Useful. True.

We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if there’s anything you’d like to read from us. Hope to talk to you next week.

Gisele and Rudmer

The other day I noticed Rudmer had been outside for hours.

It was one of those late-winter afternoons when everything still looks asleep, but if you look closely, something has shifted. The air feels less heavy. The light lingers a little longer.

From the kitchen window, I watched him move slowly through our forest garden. He stopped at a tree. Then at a branch. Then he crouched down near a cluster of snowdrops that had just begun pushing through the soil.

He didn’t take photos.
He didn’t bring anything back inside.
He didn’t seem to be looking for anything.

He was just there. I would have lasted ten minutes.

Left alone in silence, my mind tends to turn against me. Observation becomes evaluation. Evaluation becomes doubt. I have always mistaken stillness for stagnation.

He has not.

Later that evening I asked him what he had been doing. “Nothing,” he said. “I was just looking.”

That answer unsettled me in the best way.

Because when was the last time we allowed ourselves to look without extracting something? Without turning it into a post, a plan, a product, a metaphor?

Somewhere during winter, without deciding to, we began changing the way we move.

He started writing down what he noticed outside, like the angle of light at 4pm, the texture of bark after rain, the first appearance of snowdrops. Not reflections. Just observations.

I started reading them. And something began happening between us. I hope this supports you like it did us.

1. We Stopped Leaving the House With a Goal

We didn’t call it a practice. We didn’t set a goal. We just went outside.

There’s research showing that when we’re in natural environments, the brain shifts into a softer mode of attention, one that restores rather than depletes. Creativity increases not because we force it, but because mental fatigue decreases.

But honestly, we didn’t know that at the time.

We just felt less tired.

Less sharp-edged (especially me).

More curious.

2. He Observed. I Interpreted.

He can stay with a single tree for fifteen minutes without needing it to mean anything.

I cannot.

But when I read his small notes later, my mind begins connecting things. A pattern of light becomes a design idea. A seasonal shift becomes a metaphor. His neutrality feeds my tendency to think.

We realized creativity wasn’t happening in isolation.

It was happening in sequence.

Observation.
Pause.
Connection.

There’s something neurological about this, when the brain isn’t overloaded with input, the so called default mode network becomes more active. That’s the system involved in imagination and memory. It connects distant dots.

But again, we didn’t start because of science.

This was maybe the most difficult part for me, observing without forming an opinion or judgement right away.

3. We Wrote Things Down (Before They Became Content)

This might be the biggest shift.

Writing something down without knowing what it’s for. Not shaping it. Not polishing it. Not sharing it.

Just letting it exist. It’s also called a brain dump, just start writing down whatever it is that pops up. It doesn’t have to make any sense.

Children do this instinctively. They observe before they categorize. They describe before they optimize. There’s a kind of beginner’s perception there, not naive, just unfiltered.

Winter, in a strange way, returned us to that state.

Slower.
Less certain.
More receptive.

4. When the Forest Started Moving Again

The first snowdrops are not dramatic. They don’t demand attention.

You only see them if you’ve been looking. And that’s what this season has taught us, creativity rarely explodes back into life. It resurfaces when there’s space for it.

We used to think we needed more stimulation. More inspiration. More output. It turns out we needed less.

Less noise.
Less performance.
Less urgency.

More looking.

A Small Manifesto for the End of Winter

Do not rush into spring as if you are behind. Do not mistake stillness for failure.

Go outside without documenting it. Look at something long enough for it to stop being aesthetic and start being real.

Write things down that no one will see. Let boredom stretch.

Let your mind wander without punishing it.

Creativity is not summoned by force.
It returns when it feels safe.

Winter does not kill ideas.
It buries them.

Spring is simply what happens when you’ve been paying attention.

What We’ve Been Loving

Objects, ideas, books, spaces, and moments that feel considered. Useful. True.

We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if there’s anything you’d like to read from us. Hope to talk to you next week.

Gisele and Rudmer

G:
As an immigrant in the Netherlands, I grew up with a clear checklist of what life should look like: learn the language, master the culture, get straight A’s, land prestigious internships, and, ultimately, become a lawyer, doctor, or engineer. (Many Middle Eastern parents will recognise this dream.)

For years, I followed the list meticulously. City to city. Achievement to achievement. I wanted to belong. To prove that ambition, discipline, and persistence could make a life that mattered. And yet, somewhere along the way, I realised that checking boxes didn’t make me feel alive.

The promotions, recognition, curated milestones, they looked impressive on paper. But inside, I began to ask: did I even want these goals? Was success about achievement, or about attention to what I truly valued?

R:
I went to art school to be free. To work with my hands. To experiment and see where ideas might take me. Almost immediately, I discovered my talent: graphic design. And just like that, a plan was born, to become the best designer I could be.

For a while, it worked. I honed my craft, won recognition, built a career that looked impressive. But I lost the curiosity that had brought me there. I lost time to wander, to let ideas breathe, to see what might emerge without a plan.

Eventually, I realised I was following yet another blueprint, this time of talent and ambition rather than grades and corporate ladders. And it wasn’t enough.

So we stopped planning.

No goals. No constant connection. No laptops, no notifications. Just seeing what would happen.

At first, it was disorienting. Untethered. Rudderless. But in that empty space, we began to notice what we hadn’t in years: the way sunlight touched the moss, the sound of wind through branches, the rhythm of our own breath. Life, stripped of deadlines and likes, began to feel luminous in its small details.

At first, we thought it was just relief. But something deeper was happening. Our attention began to change. We could focus longer. Ideas arrived without force. Time felt different, slower, but fuller. Research shows that time in nature restores what psychologists call “directed attention,” the part of the brain responsible for focus, creativity, and decision-making. When you remove constant stimulation, notifications, noise, urgency, the brain shifts into a softer mode of awareness. It begins to notice again.

Creativity, we realised, doesn’t come from pushing harder. It comes from making space. Rick Rubin writes that creativity isn’t something you chase, but something you allow. Sitting in stillness, walking without a destination, letting boredom appear, these became the conditions where ideas returned naturally.

In many ways, we felt like children again. Not in knowledge, but in attention. The world regained texture. Light through the trees felt new. Ordinary moments stopped feeling like transitions between important things. They became the important things.

A year passed. And somewhere in that time, we stopped trying to optimise our lives. We stopped asking where we should be next. We started asking simpler questions: What feels good? What feels true?

Sometimes, the answer is nothing extraordinary. Just coffee in the morning. A walk through the trees. An afternoon without a plan.

If there is anything this year taught us, it’s this: you don’t have to disappear into the forest to find yourself. You can start smaller. Leave your phone behind. Take yourself somewhere quiet. Walk without measuring distance. Sit without needing to document it. Let your mind wander long enough to remember what it sounds like.

Not every moment needs to lead somewhere. Sometimes, it’s enough to let it be exactly what it is.

It wasn’t that the world became different. We just began to see it again.

What We’ve Been Loving

Objects, ideas, books, spaces, and moments that feel considered. Useful. True.

We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if there’s anything you’d like to read from us. Hope to talk to you next week.

Gisele and Rudmer

From the beginning, it was clear that what we wanted from life didn’t quite line up. We were drawn to each other instinctively, shaped by very different needs. We had three dates in one week. It felt immediate, as if we belonged together, even though our lives, at the time, didn’t.

One of us lived in thought. The other lived in space.

(G)
For years, I had been moving, city to city, country to country, chasing the feeling that comes with starting over. I loved possibility. I loved imagining what life could be. When things began to feel fixed or predictable, I left. Dreaming was how I stayed alive to myself.

(R)
I stayed. I built. I committed. After finishing art school, I found work quickly and poured myself into it. Design gave my days structure and purpose. My life had form, rhythm, and focus, but very little room to question whether it still fit.

At first, our differences felt complementary. Over time, they became friction.

We loved each other deeply, but love didn’t resolve the tension, it amplified it. Conversations about the future often ended in frustration. One of us feared becoming smaller. The other feared losing stability. We were asking different questions and waiting for the same answer.

What we didn’t understand then was that neither of us was wrong. We were simply incomplete on our own.

Thought, without space, becomes restless.
Space, without thought, becomes rigid.

That realization changed everything. And it only happened a few years ago.

We stopped trying to convince each other. We stopped asking the other to adjust, soften, or become more like us. Instead, we began to ask a different question: What kind of life could hold both of us?

The answer wasn’t compromise. It was design.

We needed space, literal and mental, where dreaming wouldn’t feel threatening and structure wouldn’t feel confining. A place that didn’t tell us who to be. A place where stillness, focus, imagination, and work could coexist.

We spent the first years of our relationship moving. From cities like New York to a small cabin in the woods in Lithuania. We paid attention to what each place did to us, individually, and together. Where we clashed. Where we aligned.

The answer, eventually, was nature.
A place that offered space to think and space to be.
A place wide enough for dreaming, and quiet enough to build something that lasts.

That’s where our differences became our superpower.

Today, our lives are built around that understanding. We work side by side, shaping different things within the same frame. One of us brings the questions. The other builds the container. What once pulled us apart is now the structure that holds us.

Our differences didn’t disappear.
They finally found their place.

What We’ve Been Loving

Objects, ideas, books, spaces, and moments that feel considered. Useful. True.

We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if there’s anything you’d like to read from us. Hope to talk to you next week.

Gisele and Rudmer

We didn’t call it a reset or a reinvention. We didn’t give it much thought at all. We found the property online, a forest house and two small cabins within our price range, and we went for it. What we knew, instinctively, was that we needed less. Less noise. Less distance between how we lived and how we wanted to feel.

At the time, we couldn’t grasp the full weight of that decision. Maybe that was necessary. Clarity often arrives later. And for good reason, it has been anything but easy.

We’re a couple: a writer and a designer. One of us works with language, the other with form. One collects sentences, the other believes deeply in restraint. We don’t agree on much, except this: a life can be edited. Especially, if you have the freedom to create a life that feels good for yourself, you must take the chance.

I am Thought. He is Space.
Together, we are Thought & Space. That’s exactly why it works.

Life here has been slower. More deliberate. Built piece by piece. Observed closely. Shaped, unshaped, reshaped. It hasn’t been easy, but ease was never the point.

This Substack is a record of that ongoing practice. After three years, we don’t feel entirely new to it, and yet, every day brings unfamiliar challenges. We suspect we’ll remain beginners for a long time.

We are students, researchers, craftsmen, sometimes all at once. It feels good to be learning again. And now we’ll be sharing it all, with you.

What We’ve Been Thinking

This week, we’ve been thinking about wintering.

After three years in the forest, this feels like the first time (maybe ever) that we’re fully inhabiting winter. We don’t long for spring leaves or summer days by the lake. We’re not waiting for the season to pass. We accept it as it is. We move with it. Stillness. Hibernation.

Our days have slowed. We spend hours wrapped in wool blankets and heavy knits, hiking boots, sitting by the outdoor fireplace. We make grilled cheese in a cast-iron pan, heavy on the butter. I make the coffee. Gisele toasts marshmallows. I still don’t understand the appeal of s’mores.

She’s been reading Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. On the first page, a line stopped us: “What matters is to live everything. Live the questions for now.”

That feels close to how we’ve been living this past year. Life isn’t perfect. There have been setbacks. But we’ve learned something essential: sitting in frustration doesn’t change the outcome.

So we choose joy. We choose each other. We don’t dwell on the things that don’t bring us further.

What We’ve Been Doing

Our winter routine has been simple.

We wake up, make breakfast, and eat it back in bed. We get ready slowly, then step outside into the forest garden for air and light. From there, we walk to our Atelier, the first cabin we finished, and our first architectural project together. We’ll share more about that another time if you’d like!

Rudmer has been learning pottery from his father. Watching him learn from someone so skilled, and so generous with that skill, has been moving. True to form, Rudmer takes his time. He studies the technique before touching the clay. Whether that patience explains why he’s already so good, or whether it’s instinct, is hard to say. Likely both.

His pottery space in the Atelier is minimal. Open. Flooded with light.
My writing area sits opposite, layered with textures and materials, personal. Books and journals. Pens and pencils. Vases made by Rudmer’s father. A few scented candles. A big run, my desk central in the space, a bookshelf with all my treasured belongings.

Between us is a small kitchenette. We can see each other working from across the hall. That visibility, the quiet coexistence, became the most important part of the design.

Most days are spent between the Atelier and the outdoors. When the sun sets, we return to the main forest house. We cook simple, seasonal dinners. I’ve been loving fennel and cauliflower. Sometimes we watch a film, Sentimental Value stayed with me. Then we call it a day.

Simple. Slow.

What We’ve Been Loving

Objects, ideas, books, spaces, and moments that feel considered. Useful. True.

We’re glad you’re here. Let us know if there’s anything you’d like to read from us. Hope to talk to you next week.

Gisele and Rudmer