In this story, I share one of the most impactful and defining experiences of my life. In the end, it led to life event (because that’s truly how it felt) to writing my book. ‘Stand out & shine. A practical guide to fearless authenticity and self-trust’.

I think investing in my own growth is important. So I regularly attend trainings, courses and workshops. In 2024, for example, I spent four days in Munich at an international training on leadership and marketing, together with around 400 people from all over the world. That alone was already slightly intimidating.

Beforehand, we were given an assignment: choose a 90-second clip from your favorite song and bring an outfit that matched it. I chose Let’s Go by Calvin Harris. Not because it moves me deeply on an emotional level, but because it energizes me and gives me courage. It’s one of those songs that says: come on, stop making excuses and just go for it. Especially useful when I’m dreading something.

The outfit was a bit trickier. At first, I thought about wearing workout clothes, but that felt too boring. So I gave it an eighties vibe: purple leggings, a swimsuit over them, a sweatband around my head and leg warmers. If you’re going for it anyway, you might as well make it fun.

On the second day, we were told that the following evening would be all about outrageousness. In other words: socially unacceptable behavior. Social: fine. Behavior: also fine. But that “unacceptable” part made me a little nervous. What exactly were they expecting from us? And more importantly: what would come up in me?

We would each go on stage for ninety seconds, one by one, to our own song. With a microphone. And the idea was that we wouldn’t just move, but make sounds too. We were supposed to behave outrageously. By then, my armpits were already sweating.

The trainer told us he had been organizing evenings like this for years and had truly seen it all. Then he told us about a woman who had once taken part. She was severely overweight, struggled to move around, and carried a little fan with her all day. When she stepped onto the stage, she was wearing a large white robe. She sang an opera song, badly. People in the audience started to giggle. Until, at the end of her performance, she tore open her robe and revealed that she was naked underneath. She had undergone a double mastectomy.

There was complete silence. In that moment, everyone realized that this evening wasn’t about being crazy just for the sake of it. It was about something much deeper. About what you show. About what you hide. About where shame is still in control. About healing, even when someone else doesn’t understand what they’re seeing.

And me? By then, I could feel the sweat running down my butt crack.

I was scheduled for the first evening. Our group of 400 people was divided into three rooms, so I ended up standing in front of around 130 people. Not that that helped much with my nerves. Luckily, I wasn’t first, so I could watch the others and get a bit of an idea of what to do. Until they called my name.

I walked onto the stage with a mix of excitement and pure terror. The music started. I began to move, sing and let go. The audience cheered loudly, just as they did for everyone. Slowly, I started to feel more grounded in my body. I surrendered to the beat. And then something came up: the urge to scream. To yell. To let everything out.

So I did. Full on. From the bottom of my lungs. And then something unexpected happened. I. Peed. My. Pants. (Yes. Really.)

I managed to stop it just in time, but the damage was already done. There I was. In tight purple leggings. In the spotlight. With a wet patch, on an evening that was literally all about being shameless. I wanted to get off the stage, but my song was still playing. So I did what I had always done when things got uncomfortable: I pulled back. I turned my body away. Made my movements smaller. Made myself smaller. My moment slowly faded away.

And I knew that feeling all too well. I was bullied a lot when I was younger. Ignored, excluded, made fun of. Because I was different. Maybe too much myself, too visible. So whenever I feel vulnerable, that old system immediately kicks in: pull back, disappear, become invisible.

Afterwards, all I wanted was to get away. I didn’t dare look anyone in the eye.I couldn’t find my bag with dry clothes, so I had to spend the rest of the evening walking around in wet trousers that were smelling less charming by the minute. I felt dirty. Small. And stupid.

Later that evening, we paired up to reflect on what had happened. In a whisper, I told my partner what had happened, adding urgently, “But you can’t tell anyone.” He looked at me with a big smile and said, “But this is amazing.” I thought he’d lost his mind. “What do you mean?” I asked, completely confused. He explained, “You gave it everything. You truly let go. This is exactly what it’s all about. You should tell others about this”

I politely thanked him, but inside I was thinking: nice try, my friend, but this story is staying safely buried in Munich. Only things turned out differently.

As I walked back to my hotel that night, I didn’t feel ashamed. I felt frustrated. I had invested time and money in my own growth. This was my chance to respond differently in a difficult moment. But instead, I did exactly what I had always done whenever I felt vulnerable: I pulled back. And that was the opposite of why I was there. I was there to break through my own patterns. To become freer. To grow. To go beyond myself. And I felt like I had failed.

That night, I made a decision.

I didn’t want to hide this experience away. I wanted to turn it into something that would help me move forward. So the next morning, during the group reflection, I decided to share my story. I needed to get it out of my system, otherwise I knew I would always see it as a missed opportunity. When the trainer asked if anyone wanted to share something, I jumped up and shouted across the room: “ME!”

I was handed the microphone. My plan was to tell the story with humor. Make people laugh, laugh along with them, reframe it a little. A solid strategy, I thought. Self-deprecating humor had always worked for me before. Except this time, I started to cry.

After a while, I managed to tell them what had happened. How I had walked onto the stage. How I had completely let go. And how I had peed my pants. I heard a wave of sympathetic reactions ripple through the room.

And then I thought: I have two choices. I can tell the story, leave it at that, and give myself a pat on the back for having the courage to talk about it. Or I can fully own this story. So I chose the second.

I stood up straight, looked around the room, punched my fist into the air and shouted: “People, I pissed my pants!”

En wat er toen gebeurde, had ik nooit kunnen bedenken. Vierhonderd mensen schoten overeind en gaven me een staande ovatie.

They cheered. Clapped. Cried. Laughed. Gave me thumbs-up. Made hearts with their hands. For me. Not despite my shame, but maybe precisely because I had moved through it.

My whole system wasn’t used to this. I knew what it was like to be laughed at. I knew what it was like to be rejected. I knew how to pull back when I felt watched. But this? This was new. I felt warmth and appreciation.

In the days that followed, so many people came up to me. To thank me. To share their own stories. About shame. About being seen. About embarrassing moments. About not daring to stand up for what they truly wanted. People used the biggest words to describe me: a “role model,” a “hero,” and even an “icon.”

One man grabbed me by the shoulders and asked, “Do you know the movie Avatar?”
I said yes. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I see you.” And just like that, I burst into tears again.

Later, two women stopped me as I was walking toward the exit in tears. They barely said anything. They just held me. When I thanked them through my tears, one of them said something I’ve never forgotten: “Don’t say ‘thank you’. Say ‘thank me’.”

At first, it felt uncomfortable. But when I said it out loud, something happened. The only way I can describe it is that it felt as if my mind opened up and I received a download of love and peace. As if I finally saw that I had played a part in this too. That I hadn’t just gone through something, but had also done something. Something brave. Something healing for myself.

And somewhere in that moment, everything fell into place for me. I discovered that when we share our vulnerabilities with each other, we meet each other in our humanity. We realize how much we have in common, and how we can soften, strengthen and even help heal one another. And all of that simply by being authentic, without shame. I also learned that by recognizing my own role in the whole story, I got to know a bigger version of myself: it almost felt like meeting my higher self. With this book, I want you to know:

– Whatever you feel ashamed of: you are not alone.
– If you dare to talk about it, you encourage others to be more true to themselves too.
– We are all so much more powerful and capable than we think.
– You are holding back the greatest gift you have to offer the world: your unique self.

This is why this book had to be written.

I know what it’s like to hold yourself back. To play second fiddle. To withdraw at exactly the moments when you most want to be seen. To make yourself smaller as soon as shame shows up.

And now I also know there are other possibilities: you can show yourself without having to be perfect first. Shame is not the end of the road. In fact, the parts of yourself you most want to hide often hold your greatest freedom.

‘Stand out & shine. A practical guide to fearless authenticity en self-trust’ It’s about having the courage to be seen. Especially when your knees are shaking. Especially when you’d rather disappear. Especially when you’ve — figuratively or literally — peed your pants. Stand tall and f*cking own it!