Episode 3 — When the Outside Shifts, What Still Feels Like Home

There are weeks in which life feels almost strangely generous: laughter, music, beauty, warmth, good food, small luxuries, a sense that things are flowing.

And then underneath that same week, something else quietly runs alongside it: pain in the body, unfinished thoughts, practical disruption, old fears that suddenly speak louder than they deserve to.

This past week carried both.

One evening in Amsterdam, René and I went to a concert in Ziggo Dome where tribute bands performed songs that lifted an entire room. Some groups simply sang their songs well. Others carried joy in a way that reached the crowd immediately. You could feel the difference.

The tribute to The Beach Boys was one of those moments. Beach balls moving through the audience, people laughing, voices opening, everyone lifted for a while into something simple and light.

And I noticed again how deeply I value that feeling: joy that does not need justification.

That same week had already held a comedian, a sauna day, dinners, time with my sons, long conversations, and the kind of moments that make life feel rich in a very human way. Not grand richness. Just the richness of being present enough to enjoy what is there.

And yet, back home, something very different was happening.

The building where I live is entering renovation. Panels between balconies have been removed. Spaces that normally feel enclosed suddenly feel exposed. Sounds travel differently now. Privacy feels thinner. Even sitting on my balcony in the sun, I noticed how strongly my attention kept being pulled outward—voices, movement, unfamiliar openness.

It surprised me how much that affected me.

Because what I became aware of is that home is never only walls. Home is nervous system too.

When the outside changes, the inside immediately notices.

There is uncertainty now: when exactly they will work on the balcony, when the gallery will change, what must be moved, what may be damaged, what I will temporarily lose access to. Rationally, none of this is dramatic. But internally, I could feel unrest moving through me before anything had even happened.

And at the same time, my body also began speaking louder.

My knees hurt. My hips hurt. Walking suddenly felt older than I am. Cycling felt heavy. At moments I caught myself wondering whether I had overdone something, slept too little, drunk too little water, or simply forgotten that my body still asks for respect even when my mind feels inspired.

Because my mind this week was very inspired.

I was building ideas again. Writing. Refining language. Exploring my dream more specifically. Playing with words like dream, vision, identity, and what they actually mean beneath the usual language people use.

I found myself shaping what I now call Shamnaland—not yet a place, but an inner architecture of what I want to create: spaces where people cross thresholds, awaken joy, reclaim desire, and return more alive than they came.

And perhaps that is why this week felt so symbolic.

Because while I was clarifying the inner architecture of what I want life to become, the outer architecture around my home also began shifting.

As within, so without is easy to say when life feels poetic. It becomes more real when builders remove the structures you were leaning on.

I also noticed another layer: visibility.

My second blog had already been written and placed on my website, but I delayed sharing it on social media. Days passed. I shared lighter things easily—music, reels, concert snippets, small moments—but when it came to sharing my own words, I hesitated.

And there it was again: that old thought that perhaps I am too much, too visible, too repetitive, too present.

Meanwhile the truth was simple: the blog only remained unseen because I had hidden it myself.

It is humbling to notice that even when much has grown, certain old reflexes still quietly return.

Not because they are stronger than before, but because they wait for tired moments, exposed moments, uncertain moments.

And maybe that is where real self-awareness lives—not in pretending those reflexes are gone, but in recognising them before they become direction.

This week taught me that safety cannot fully depend on external order.

Not on a quiet balcony.
Not on predictable schedules.
Not on people behaving exactly as hoped.
Not even on the body always cooperating.

Sometimes safety becomes something quieter:

I can feel unrest and still remain present.

I can feel uncertainty and still continue gently.

I can enjoy beauty while something unfinished is also true.

And maybe many people know that feeling right now too: life outwardly moving, while inwardly you are still learning where to stand.

For now, I am learning that home may need to become something I carry more consciously—especially when the walls outside temporarily shift.

And perhaps that is its own kind of renovation.

A small extra from this week for my Birthday: my Ideal Scene Letter became a song.

Listen to Soft Power Now click here: