The heart of Brickbergen 

The return trip from France should have been a smooth and complete 2025 vacation. Memories were tucked away among the suitcases: the smell of the pool, the taste of the many pizzas, the sound of children playing in the backseat. But just as I drove off the campsite, my coronary artery closed. The vacation was over; the battle had begun.

The first hours were a surreal nightmare. The French ambulance arrived, but upon arrival at the emergency room, my passport—a small, red book—seemed more interesting than the heart attack unfolding in my chest. As I struggled to endure the pain, I heard the grumbling about my Dutch identity. It felt like I was disappearing, less important than the bureaucracy I represented.

After five long, anxious hours, I finally ended up in the intensive care unit. For five days, I was a plaything of technology. IVs in both arms pumped life-saving fluids, and a tangle of wires and electrodes recorded every heartbeat, every breath. I had become a body, a project of medical science, lost in a limbo between life and death.

When, against all odds, I was released to travel home, I was a different person. My body was weak, my mind exhausted. Rehabilitation began slowly, a frustrating process of small steps. In that sea of ​​forced rest and uncertainty, I had an inspiration. I asked my parents to retrieve my old Lego from the attic. It was a childhood memory, a grasp for something tangible and innocent from a time before fear.

A large barrel arrived, dusty and full of promise. At first, I began cautiously with the old sets, following the instructions as if my life depended on it. But soon I went further. I began sorting the loose bricks—first by color, then by type, and finally by even more specific categories. It became a meditation. The clicking sound of two bricks colliding became the sound of order in the chaos, of healing. My body, weakened by the medication, found stability in the precision work.

And then it happened. The spark was ignited. Simply recreating my own childhood was no longer enough. I wanted more. I dove into the internet and discovered a whole new world I'd never known: BrickLink. A universe of bricks, rare parts, and thousands of other collectors. I saw the possibilities: not just building, but also trading, collecting, and starting my own business.

Now that I have my own BrickLink store is a direct result of that journey of discovery. But it's just the beginning. The thought of expanding this—of turning my passion into my new life's work—gives me a direction I'd lost since my heart attack. What began as therapy has blossomed into a new mission.

Lego is building a new path, a new dream for me. Brick by brick.