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Drawing a line in the sand

Danni Lucille — Wed, 08 Apr 2026 13:00:02 GMT

Ziezo, ik trek een streep in het zand. Tot hier en niet verder!' There are a bunch of sayings in Dutch that I love and that I often use. But this particular saying - it's the equivalent of setting a firm boundary and not allowing any room for negotiation - I never used once. I wondered why the Dutch believe a line in the sand is a firm boundary, when growing up at the beach taught me the concept of impermanence. Still, I thought about it, I fantasized about using it and I considered all the variations (een streep in het zand trekken, een lijn in het zand trekken, een grens in het zand trekken) I could use. But I actually never did.

Ziezo! In this context best translated as 'that's it!' The moment you resolve to no longer take it. The moment you decide that this is not what you want nor what you deserve. It might be a small thing, e.g. deciding to abandon a queue, because the thing at the end is no longer worth standing in line for. It might be a bigger deal, such as ending a friendship that is ok, but often makes you feel 'meh'. Or it might be a life changing event, such as escaping an abusive relationship or making a drastic career switch. I've experienced the whole spectrum and what I found, which come to think of it is inherent to a spectrum, is that these situations are all the same. This vague feeling in your gut that eventually moves up higher as a flutter in your chest to finally land very heavily as a burden on your shoulders. While this feeling mutates and grows, I usually compile a pros and cons list in my mind fueled by endless rumination. Until one day the burden is too heavy to carry and I resolve to drop it. Ziezo!

Ik trek een streep in het zand! This is the part where you actually draw the line in the sand. You generally have many options. Calmly draw a straight line with your colorful shovel. Or, if you came unprepared, you might choose any old stick that happened to come in with the tide, inevitably resulting in a wobbly line. In desperate times, you'll probably use your big toe for a short line and throw in a dramatic hands-on-hip pose to make up for it. However you happen to do it, at this stage it's clear to the opposing party that you really mean business this time. Likewise, I have been at this stage many many times before.

What usually happens next, is something I have not been able to grasp let alone master. My lines are sometimes met with a smile and an apology, often making me cross my own line over to the other side and start the whole cycle all over again. Other times, my lines are met with cruel laughter, making me shrink and allowing the other party to step over the line and walk all over me. Occasionally, my lines are met with a shrug and the other party turning on their heels and going the opposite way, leaving me feeling guilty or running after them. More often than not, my lines are not even acknowledged and disco-danced all over, leaving me feeling utterly deflated.

Months in therapy - to understand why I never graduate from drawing the line to someone actually respecting the line - taught me the words 'parentified child', identified my mother as the root cause and other people who were supposed to love me as accomplices. It also taught me another important concept. It's true that the line has two opposing sides and the option to dig in my heels, but it also has three other directions that are equally viable pathways. Left, right and soaring above it all. I experimented with all angles. I tried going left and right, with mixed results, because beyond the line the boundaries became blurry again and I eventually lost my way. I tried taking flight, but without shedding my burdens it was very difficult to get my feet off the ground. I dug in my heels and felt discouraged when the waves diligently erased the line where I was standing. I even joined in on the disco-dancing at some point, but couldn't quite catch the beat.

I was about to plunk down and just stare at the horizon, when my daughter drop-kicked her bestie in the face. My daughter made several attempts to end the friendship in the kindest way she possibly could, but her bestie would not accept. The conversation that followed with my daughter forced me to consider the basic question of when and how one is allowed to choose themselves above others. Then the question of boundaries came up in an interview with someone from a very rough neighborhood where people are murdered for small acts of disrespect: where do you draw the line? Next, during a work-related get together, a recent hire asked a bunch of us if we were even aware that we no longer had any real principles that we uphold at work. To top it off, multiple people made demands on my me-time (once a week on the Thursday afternoon): invitations for attending a lecture at work, a friend's birthday drinks and extra practice for the upcoming ballet show.

Tot hier en niet verder! It was bound to happen; the moment I would say 'enough, no more'. I always imagined a dramatic moment: loud with lots of flair. Instead, like so many things in life, that moment was nothing more than a whisper to myself followed by action: a polite text declining invitations, a tentative response to a job offer that has been sitting in my inbox for days, the decision not to medicate my daughter because she made a colossally bad judgement and enjoying the changing sky without any feelings of guilt or shame on a random Thursday afternoon.

Ik trek een streep eronder. I'm drawing the line.

The one about the jazz shoes

Danni Lucille — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 13:00:00 GMT

God always provides. I wholeheartedly believe that. My life has been full of ups and downs, but even during the hardest times, me and my daughter never went without. Not a single day. Once I started believing that, I also started seeing it. The blows would come one after another: a car break down, debt that I never signed up for but am still liable for (thanks ex-husband!), to be topped off by a frivolous lawsuit (courtesy of the same ex-husband). But, once I was able to master pausing just for a few moments (or a few days), I could see that the blows were followed by an unexpected windfall: a client calling with an urgent job they are willing to pay double for covering the exact amount I needed. It happened so often and so consistently, that I no longer marveled at it. I no longer doubted. Instead, I waited for the money to hit my bank account.

God always provides. Sometimes in the way of brand new jazz shoes. I started dancing ballet at four years old and after a twenty-ish year hiatus, I resumed classes at my alma mater at 39 years old. In the absence of an adult class of a certain level, I train with 15 year old kids. They encouraged this quiet, focused grandma who is surprisingly skilled at pointes, but is unable to remember any of the exercises (ever!) to perform four dances in the next show: ballet, pointes, modern dance and... all that jazz! Now, I own several point shoes (shout out to Gaynor Minden!), footies and the perfect socks for modern dance (you know, worn enough to be comfy, but not enough to loose traction), but no jazz shoes. Haven't worn them in twenty five years. Coincidentally (or not) on the day I agreed to perform all of the choreographies, these brand-new-looking jazz shoes appeared on the lost and found box. Just like that: poof! One of the dancers told me to grab them as we would probably need them for the show. I didn't. The next class they were still there. The dancer checked and confirmed they were my size, but I said it would be a shame if I took them and some kid got scolded for it. The following class the shoes were still there. The dancer wondered why nobody snatched them up as they were brand new. I just shrugged. That evening during class, the teacher asked everyone to don their shoes and I was the only one who did not own a pair. The dancer again said that I should take them and the whole class agreed. So I went and put them on. They fit like a glove.

God always provides. And usually immediately. However, you need to be willing to receive. The jazz shoes made me wonder how often I might have rejected God's blessing, simply because my eyes were veiled or I was otherwise misguided. The jazz shoe incident might also be another way that God provided for me. An invitation to remove my veils and truly see.

God always provides. And you know what else I wholeheartedly believe? That if something is meant for you, no way you're gonna miss the opportunity. Even if you are blind, scared or somehow unwilling or unable to take the opportunity, it always circles back around. It took me weeks to adopt the jazz shoes, but they were there waiting for me. Probably the jazz shoes have many more life lessons that I haven't even grasped. But I believe. I trust.

God always provides and I trust to receive.

I write for a living

Danni Lucille — Thu, 26 Mar 2026 12:30:54 GMT

I write for a living. I write contracts, legal opinions, court petitions and reasoned decisions as a lawyer, litigator and adjudicator. I write thesis reviews, course curriculum and exams as a university level lecturer and thesis supervisor. I write reports, complaints reviews and policies as a policy and complaints officer. I write blogposts, ads and social media posts as a copywriter. I write flash fiction, short stories and chapters for several manuscripts I am working on. I write on a daily basis. I get paid for most of this writing that I do. And my writing has been published and read by several people for decades. My writing changes people's lives; people seek me specifically for my writing skills.

I write for a living. And yet, I don't feel like a writer. As yet I am to be caught thinking about myself as an author. You see, I have been brought up with a very narrow definition of writing. Writing only consists of long-form literary fiction and especially the type of fiction nobody wants to read let alone pay for. A writer, as a consequence, cannot provide for herself and lives with her parents, unable to even afford the paper she needs to write her dense fiction on. A writer is a failure at life and therefore extremely unhappy. Clearly not a suitable outcome for me, who was clothed like a fashionista, fed like a gourmand and afforded the highest level of education possible with all the professional opportunities that come with it. If I insisted that I must write, I better make sure the writing fits with acceptable titles such as 'lawyer', 'accountant', 'CEO' and comes with overflowing buckets of money that are immediately spent on fast cars, high heels and heavy bling. And if I must be a rebel, make sure the writing can be categorized as 'copy' or 'technical writing' alongside a worthwhile pursuit like raising a family. And if I must suffer for my art, I better choose suffering that is easily recognisable as 'teaching' or 'policy' and involves a lot of hard work with little to show for.

I write for a living. And none of my failures in life can be attributed to writing or pursuing the life of a writer. Rather, my extreme unhappiness came from being a lawyer at a top-tier law firm and the need for me to always be at peak performance. The car, the heels and the bling filled my chest with sensations; not from exhilaration, but from heart palpitations. True to their word, when I decided to trade in my black gown for jeans and flip-flops and pursue my lesser dream of writing copy for magazines and newspapers, my parents encouraged me to do the mature thing and settle down with a respectable partner (note: not the person I was dating, but this other person who was much more sociable and well-connected on the island). By the time it became clear that the connections were less robust and the nature of said partner less sociable than previously thought, my parents were knee-deep in an ugly divorce resulting in several scandals in our small community and nobody really paid attention to the next generation that was being born in this family to continue carrying the burdens of the previous generations. I sought refuge in teaching and drafting policy alongside legal consultancy working round the clock only to watch the money in my bank account evaporate as soon as it hit.

I write for a living. And in order to prove that to myself, I took two weeks off during the holiday season of 2023 to write a novella. I did. And it was hard. Not the writing - as soon as I allowed the words to flow, they came naturally - but the putting-my-foot-down part. I realised that I already had all the ingredients to live my best life and a state-of-the-art kitchen to cook it all up, but I was standing by while other people had free reign of the pantry, fridge, stove and oven. They fried, baked and grilled to their hearts' content, while I was patiently waiting to clean the mess after imagining all the lovely meals and desserts I could have enjoyed. I decided to take back control. First, I took responsibility for my mess and dropped other people's responsibilities I was carrying. That gave me more freedom to move. Next, I implemented a door policy, letting fewer and fewer people in. Subsequently, I decluttered. I let go of excesses that were not my choice in the first place or that I no longer wished to have in my life. Lastly, I chose a different kitchen all together, taking only those things that are needed to build the life that I want to live.

I write for a living. And although I wish I had the courage to set aside more time for writing fiction, I am writing more of the words that give me energy. Although I am restricted by custody disputes and expensive court proceedings, I sometimes get to explore parts of the world with my favorite little human and we make sure we capture all the beauty through our art. Although some days are harder than others, I do prioritise my life goals and make sure that my feet are firmly planted on the ground.

I write for a living and therefore I am a writer.