This is me in 1990, four years old, playing on the beach with my favourite toy car. I was born in 1986 in Haarlem, the Netherlands. The kind of Dutch city where everyone cycles and the sea is always nearby.

Not long after, we moved to Belgium. A new place with new surroundings, new people, and a slightly different way of doing things. I think that planted a seed: the idea that life could look a bit different, just a few hours from home.

I think that early move made me curious. About places, about people, about how things could be just a little different somewhere else.

That little toy truck didn’t take me very far at the time but it clearly left a mark. A fascination with the road ahead, and a quiet urge to find my own route.

At the age of 9, we moved back to the Netherlands. I grew up and did what you’re supposed to do: go to school, pick a study, follow the path. And then I did what you’re not supposed to do: I quit.

I had no idea what I wanted. But I knew it wasn’t that.

So I did what many confused 20 somethings do: I bought a backpack, flew to the other side of the world to find “meaning”, and ended up somewhere between the Australian outback and a neon splattered beach in Thailand. Zero regrets.

I wasn’t running toward anything in particular, just away from routine, expectation, and the feeling of being stuck.

It worked. That trip gave me my first real taste of freedom, of doing things on my own terms. I learned that the world is big, unpredictable and that you grow when you leave comfort behind.

After my gap year faded (along with the neon paint), it was time to do something productive. I enrolled in Arts & Economics in Utrecht, It turned out to be a good fit: a mix of creativity, strategy and not too many Excel sheets.

In my final year, I had to come up with a graduation project. Most students chose something practical. I chose something impractical, unrealistic and borderline ridiculous:

“Travel to the other side of the world without money, relying entirely on the help of strangers.”

Surprisingly, no one stopped me. Even more surprisingly: it worked.

That idea became Plug Me In, a journey that lasted 3.5 years, crossed 33 countries, and was powered by more than 1,800 people who offered me a place to sleep, a meal, or a charging socket.

I travelled solo, but I was never alone.

After returning home from my electric road trip, life got… strange. Burnout, overstimulation and a hernia.

I’d spent years saying yes to every opportunity. Now I needed to learn how to pause, reflect, and ask: what really matters to me?

I realised I didn’t want to stop travelling. But I did want to do it differently. More consciously. On my terms.

So in 2022, I set off again, without flying. I took trains and buses from Amsterdam to Dubai.

I moved slowly, paid attention, and proved you can go far without burning jet fuel.

In 2024, I crossed the Sahara by iron ore train in Mauritania. A different kind of adventure. One where the goal wasn’t to impress, but to understand.

I left with intention. And discovered that slow travel isn’t about taking longer. It’s about experiencing more.

The next idea is already in motion. And yes, it’s another big one.

You’d think after driving an electric car to Australia, taking trains to Dubai, and riding a freight train I might be ready to settle down. I’m not.

The truth is, these adventures didn’t “get something out of my system.” They put something in it.

Each journey planted new questions. Pushed old limits. Opened up new possibilities. And now, that curiosity is leading to something new. A challenge that ties everything together: sustainability, human connection, and doing things the hard way, just to prove they’re possible.

I’m not ready to reveal what it is yet.

But I can sahare it’ll be ambitious, unconventional, and very, very me.

When I came back from my journey to Australia, people started asking me to share what I had experienced, in companies, conferences and ngo’s. At first it felt strange. I was just a guy with a car, a camera, and a lot of stories about charging sockets in the middle of nowhere.

But the more I spoke, the more I realised something that I can inspire with my unique stories and lessons.

What started with one talk in a small room has grown into a career on big stages. I now speak for organisations across Europe and beyond, sharing lessons about sustainability, courage, change, human connection, and what happens when you dare to follow an idea that makes no sense on paper.

This isn’t a side gig. Speaking is what I do. It’s my full-time focus, because I believe stories can shift perspectives, spark action, and remind people what really moves us.

And if I’ve learned one thing on the road, it’s this:
People might forget the facts, but they remember how a story makes them feel.