Because life is now

And then just like that, the snow begins to melt on the lower slopes. Week by week the stations close for the season, and the final Skimo World Cup gets ticked off the calendar. Although I did not make the same leap forward I made last year, I still achieved some goals that once felt far away: racing the Pierra Menta, becoming a World Champion and winning silver at the Masters Skimo World Champs, alongside personal best results in the World Cups.

Yet this season felt different. Maybe it was the intensity of chasing Olympic qualification last year that set last season apart, such a clear and consuming goal. Or maybe it was the feeling that everything I was doing, I was doing alone. Well… almost alone, with my four-footed buddy Mac always by my side.

Becoming World Champion in my AG and 3rd overall at the Masters World Championship

racing the Mixed Relay with Jens at the World Cup in Villars

I have always been intrinsically motivated. I do not rely on praise from others to keep going. But coming home to an empty apartment after races, carrying stories inside me, whether stories of success or disappointment, and having no one there to share them with, felt harder than I expected.

Even though I quickly met many people in the Chamonix valley, they were not necessarily the people I longed for. My sister, my closest friends, all lived oceans or mountain tops away. And with a winter packed full of racing and working full-time to fund it all, I felt more isolated than I have in a very long time.

The strange thing is that I crave connection, yet I am deeply introverted. I genuinely enjoy people, but socialising drains me. I often come home needing quiet and space to recover. Combined with the fatigue of training, racing and working, I slowly found myself retreating further and further inward simply because I no longer had the energy to keep showing up.

It was a season full of highs and lows,  in form, health, fatigue and happiness. But I suppose that is life. Breaking my toe two weeks before the icing on the cake of the season, racing the PDG with Lara and Camille, felt like a brutal twist. Maybe I did not want to face reality. Like always, my brain searched for solutions, It will be okay, I kept telling myself. I did not want to let my teammates down by not racing, but in the end I let them down by racing while not healthy enough to take on such a huge challenge. It was not how I wanted to close the skimo season.

starting the PDG with such strong teammates in Camille and Lara was a dream come true

After the PDG, I realised just how exhausted I truly was. How much the last twelve months had taken out of me. Building a completely new life from scratch. Mending  broken trust. Watching my mother’s health deteriorate. Coming to terms with the painful reality that some things may never fully heal. 

I am a dreamer. That is who I am. And the way I cope is by moving forward as quickly as possible, by chasing the next thing, the next goal, the next challenge. Maybe sometimes that means outrunning the pain instead of facing it. A delayed processing. Which had created numbness in the last 12 months, a feeling of simply going through the motions.

 feeling so incredibly happy living in the mountains and isolated at the same time 

to have this as part of my daily routine is a dream come true 

For years, one of my biggest dreams has been to own a home in the mountains. Strangely, the collapse of my personal life became the very thing that pushed me back toward that dream. After months of stress, endless French paperwork, and unbelievably patient owners who waited a full twelve months to sell me the apartment instead of putting it back on the market, I finally sat in the notary office to sign the final documents and receive the keys.

It felt surreal. After so many setbacks, I almost could not believe it was truly happening. I listened as the notary explained that the apartment had belonged to Mrs. V for forty years, and that her son was selling it on her behalf because she had become too ill to use it anymore. Then I noticed something on the paperwork: her birthday was October 31st. My birthday too. What are the chances?

I thought I would break down emotionally the moment I walked through the door. I thought the weight of the last year would finally hit me. Instead, I walked into the living room, looked out at the breathtaking view of Mont Blanc glowing in the sunset, I looked at Mac who made his way on the balcony, I put the keys on the outdoor table, and despite how beautiful it was… I still felt numb.

a home with a view 

As usual, I tackled this new chapter head-on. Thanks to my real estate agent I found a builder who lived next door, and before I knew it, a new kitchen had been chosen, carpets ripped out, tiles picked for the bathroom, walls stripped and half the apartment painted, all within less than a week of owning it.

painting with Mac 

When close friends laughed and told me that this was “so typically me,” I caught myself wondering if maybe that is also why I have always struggled to fully fit into groups.

But owning my own place in the mountains means more to me than I can put into words. And then I received a message from my best friend Jantiene. She had uploaded a little video of herself dancing — something we used to send each other last year when both our lives felt like houses of cards, ready to collapse at any moment. Her message read:

"Dearest Nienke, I have not forgotten you. Here is our daily dance. We are owners of a home in the mountains."

As I watched her beautiful, joyful face dancing on my screen, it finally hit me.

I did it. We both did it. 

And the tears came.

I am not finding it easy doing everything alone. Every milestone, every setback, every step forward. My beautiful sister is battling her own struggles in the US, and much of my family watches my life from a distance. But Jantiene’s message reminded me of something important: I am not truly alone. I have dear friends scattered across countries and continents who celebrate with me when life is good, who suffer with me when life is hard, and who stand beside me even when it feels like I am facing my darkest moments alone. 

And maybe that is life. Every emotion. Every dream. Every breathtaking sunset. Every mountain climbed, physically and emotionally. At the end of the day, they belong to you. 

my remote employment at VET-AI has given me more than it can ever take from me 

Chasing dreams can get lonely. Yet I would still choose this life again and again. 

To dream big. To chase impossible goals. To fail and rise once more, head held high. To keep building, keep progressing, keep living. To embrace every moment, the beautiful ones and the painful ones alike.

As I head into the summer season with big goals ahead, I feel a renewed sense of energy. And I want to keep searching for the other misfits out there, the people who live and feel deeply, who take on this roller coaster called life with courage and open hearts, and nourish the ones I already cherish. 

Because life is now. 

starting the cycling season with Katie and Jo Jo

appreciating close friends in Chamonix 

by chance Jo Jo was driving passed and my first guest 

From the Sidelines to the Start Line: The Pierra Menta living up to its reputation

I have done many incredible races in my career as an athlete, from mountain bike stage races to adventure races, and the infamous Atlas Mountain Race, which left a real impact on me when I raced it with my friend Katie a few years ago.

But nothing quite matches what I felt racing the Pierra Menta—before, during, or after. Every cell in my body came to life, and every bone carried the depth of the emotions that came with it. People often refer to it as “ it's the Pierre” when they try to explain it, but you don’t truly understand it until you experience it yourself.

Watching from the sidelines is what first got me hooked. The level required just to complete it is so high—it excited me. It has everything I am passionate about: adventure, mountains, high performance, and camaraderie all in one. It’s something truly special.

What I love about ski mountaineering races is that there’s nowhere to hide. The mountains have a way of exposing everything—every weakness, every doubt, every gap in preparation. A strong heart, powerful legs, and solid lungs are only the baseline; they’re not enough on their own. You need resilience, technical skill, mental clarity, and the ability to keep going when everything in you is telling you to stop. And that’s exactly what makes this sport so exciting to me—because it’s so incredibly tough, so honest, and so demanding that when you show up, you know you’ve truly earned your place.

For a few years, I looked at it without the confidence to enter. I was new to the sport, new to skiing, new to the mountains. I simply didn’t have the level to make the cut-off times, let alone do it day after day for four days. The downhills were known as being “mad”—taking you into some of the most unskiable parts of the mountains—and the days were big, with as much elevation gain as they could fit in. I’m not scared of many things when it comes to racing, but of the Pierra Menta, I was.

For the last three years, I’ve been coached by Emilio Corbex. I love working with Emilio—he understands me, we click. Over that time, he has helped turn me into an elite competitor. I’ve learned to show up with confidence, and I’ve improved more than I thought possible. So this year, on the 40th anniversary of the race, which also counted as the World Championships, it felt like the right time. I signed up.

Choosing a teammate for something like this isn’t easy. When I realised my original teammate wouldn’t have the level needed, I had to make a change less than a month before the race. I was lucky that my friend Virginia said yes.

At the race briefing, looking around at all the top athletes, the magnitude of it really hit me. I had a moment of doubt, questioning why I keep putting myself in these situations. But over the four days, I found my answer: I love this process. I love pushing myself, learning, and discovering that I’m capable of more than I think.

just before the start of the first stage

It’s hard to fully describe the emotions, mind set and effort needed to finish each stage.

Day one pushed us straight out of our comfort zone—45-degree couloirs on hard-packed snow at race pace. Nothing felt easy. It felt like a clear message: “Welcome to the Pierra Menta.” Even the strongest athletes were talking about how serious the descents were. The support along the course was incredible—something I’ve never experienced before. It really makes you feel like a superhero. Finishing that stage felt like a big achievement in itself. I felt like I was living the dream.

Day two started in Arêches and was a big 3000m elevation gain day, and I didn’t start with full confidence. I’m not sure exactly what happened in my head. We began well, but I asked Virginia to slow the pace because I was worried about sustaining it. In the end, we raced too conservatively. At the cut-off, there was confusion—some volunteers told us to stop, others told us to go. I made a quick decision and told Virginia, let’s go.

the incredible descents

We pushed hard from there. It was hot, and we both gave everything. We didn’t say much, just checked in with each other as we went. We started catching other teams, which always gives a boost at the end of a stage. When we finished, we weren’t sure if we were still in the race because of the confusion at the cut off area. When we found out we were, it was a huge relief—but also a good wake-up call.

I knew I didn’t want to repeat that. I had to trust myself more and not let doubt dictate the pace.

Day three was another big one—2800m of elevation gain, including the Grand Mont. From watching in previous years, I knew how special this stage was, and I didn’t want to miss out. So I studied the course, knew we had to push where and when. I took the lead and from the get go started with a strong, committed pace. I felt confident. The technical terrain was tough for Virginia, but regardless she kept pushing. We built a solid margin before the cut-off, which allowed us to ski the descents with more control.

coming over the ridge line of the Grand Mont

the kick turns of the Pierra Menta 

That day, I felt the strongest I ever have on skis. I could actually take in the atmosphere—the people, the noise, the energy. It made me feel an incredible sense of freedom and happiness Climbing along the ridge and then reaching the summit, hearing the crowd, I got quite emotional. It was one of those moments you will never forget. It was a tough day for Virginia, however she never gave up, and we finished strong and moved up a few places.

From experience, I know how hard it can be to reset mentally after a difficult day, especially at this level. Stay positive I advised Virginia and she did exactly that for the final stage.

on the way to the start of the final stage 

 It was cold and snowy, and the course was adjusted to a technical route through the forest. We used the same strategy as the day before—start fast to position well early on. This time, Virginia set the pace, and I could feel she was strong again. I didn’t feel at my best in the cold, but I kept reminding myself of the advise I gave Virginia, to stay positive and keep pushing.

It was great to see Virginia skiing the technical sections with confidence, especially on the descents. She was flying. Everything clicked on the final day and we worked really well together.

The noise from the crowd was incredible all the way through. At one point it was so loud my ears started ringing. What an experience. And then suddenly, we were on the final climb—500m to go.

even in a snow storm they showed up 

It hit me then. We were going to finish.

What had been just a dream only a few years ago was now happening. I felt really emotional in that moment. Tears. It felt surreal. Here we were, with the best ski mountaineers in the world and we did it. We crossed the line as a stronger team than we started, finishing in the top 20 on the final stage and 23rd female team overall across four days at a World Championship event. A dream come true.

and just like we finished 

The exciting thing for me was the realisation that there’s still a lot to improve, especially on the downhills where we lost most of our time. But more than anything, this experience gave me confidence—it showed me that there is so much more possible.

A big thank you to Virginia for saying yes, to Emilio for guiding me over these past years, and to everyone who has supported me along the way — it truly means a lot.

I’ve always known I dream big, and over time I’ve realised I’m probably wired a bit differently than what people call “normal.” For most of my life, that left me feeling misunderstood, like I had to explain or justify the way I think. But step by step, I’ve found myself surrounded by people who don’t question that side of me — they value it, they encourage it, they applaud it. And that shift has changed everything.

Pulling this off meant a lot. Not just because of the result, but because of what it represents.

It’s my reminder — and hopefully I can inspire others a long the way — that with courage, patience, and consistent hard work, things that once felt completely out of reach can actually become real.

For me, Pierra Menta proved that.

And I’d love to be back on that start line next year—seeing how much further I can go.

“It might be risky,” says the mind.

“It’s unnecessary,” says experience.

“It’s pointless,” says reason.

“Give it a try,” whispers the heart.

Friends for life 

The Legend that is Fynn

I never thought I would dedicate a blog post to a dog, but fourteen years of dog life is one hell of an adventure. When I got the news last night from Michael, I felt numb. Fynn was an old dog; I had been expecting this sad moment and thought I was prepared for it. Until I started looking for photos. Until I went down memory lane and relived all the adventures we shared together.

About 14 years ago on an autumn Saturday in Australia, I finished my morning calls as an equine vet. On the way home I drove past the dog pound in Western Sydney. On impulse, I decided to stop “just to have a look.” Outside the entrance there was a whiteboard covered in photos of dogs on death row—dogs who would be euthanised if no one claimed them or offered them a forever home in time. That’s where I saw Fynn’s picture. I went inside to ask about him. His carers clearly loved him. They told me he was about six months old, but in hindsight—with his oversized big paws and the giant dog he eventually grew into—I believe he was barely four months old when I took him home.

the photo of Fynn on the white board

Fynn was a sad little pup. The first time I let him off the lead in a seaside park, he ran to the middle of the field and wouldn’t let me come near him. Our journey began with me sitting as close as he would allow for hours, waiting for him to eventually come back to me, bribed with snacks I luckily had in my pockets. When I tried to throw a ball or stick, he would drop to the ground, shaking, as if expecting to be hit. Fynn didn’t wag his tail for the first six months in my company. He slept outside under bushes, trusted children more than adults, and would often roll onto his back for them, happily accepting pats—and occasionally sneaking a lick of their ice creams when they weren’t looking. Somehow, he already knew how to high-five when I jokingly gave the command. Slowly, day by day, he began to trust me, and with that trust he grew happier and happier.

My first day with Fynn, for 5 hours we just stared at each other from a distance

During his early years in Sydney, Fynn joined me on most of my runs and mountain bike rides. He showed what an incredible swimmer he was by following me into the ocean and swimming a full two kilometres alongside me. He grew into the softest, gentlest giant—slightly wary of strangers and capable of climbing impressively high fences if it meant not being left alone. Once, a neighbour found him standing on the roof after he’d climbed through a window trying to follow me. Eventually, Fynn became my veterinary assistant, and on days when it was too hot in Sydney to take him along, I always made sure he had someone to stay with.

Fynn on the roof after climbing out of the window to be with me

Fynn joining me on rides

When I decided to move back to Europe, the decision was never really a decision—Fynn was coming with me. I paid twice as much for his plane ticket as I did for my own. In Scotland, he became part of the crew at Thrums Veterinary Group, where I also found my home. He grew a coat suited to Scottish temperatures, far removed from Sydney’s climate, and started to look more like a husky cross than the German Shepherd mix he was. He fell in love with Michael just as quickly as I did, and the two of them formed a bond I couldn’t compete with. Fynn was always my dog, but what they shared was something special.

love at first sight 

with the vets dogs at Thrums Vets

`

Hearing Michaels car and waiting for him to come home

the lads

At first not that impressed with Scottish weather!

Fynn always good with kids, running with Ruby

Michael was convinced that since Fynn was part husky, he should howl. After two years of being almost silent—and two solid weeks of Michael howling at him—Fynn finally joined in. From then on, he howled at every ambulance, every police car, whenever Michael encouraged it, and showed a particular love for Taylor Swift by breaking into a howl every time Shake It Off came on the radio. Fynn was clever, often pretending he hadn’t been fed and successfully getting double breakfasts from both Michael and me. 

He also had his own way of testing people—like my friend Morna, who discovered this firsthand while looking after him for me, when Fynn decided to swim across a river to go and say hello to the neighbouring sheep. Yet somehow, he still managed to charm everyone involved. The farmer, who had every right to be furious—or worse—simply laughed and said, “I quite like this dog.” Fynn was such an endearing thief, and we often joked, “You can take the dog out of Western Sydney, but you can’t take Western Sydney out of the dog

 

.”

adventures with Fynn

Fynn joined us in the Scottish mountains, where we lost him a few times chasing deer—ending his off-lead adventures. He accompanied Michael on many Munros and me on my daily runs. He spent nights in front of fires in Scottish bothies and weekends sleeping in the van with us. Fynn was never alone, and even then I watched him grow happier and happier. As he began to age, we decided to bring little baby Mac into his life. Mac was a terror; Fynn was endlessly patient. We often discovered cuts and grazes hidden deep in Fynn’s thick coat from Mac’s sharp puppy teeth, yet Fynn never hurt him. He raised Mac, and I truly believe Mac is the wonderful dog he is because of Fynn.

the best big brother Mac could wish for

Fynn was incredibly sensitive and had no respect for personal space when he sensed sadness—pressing his beautiful big head as close as possible, his soft coat soaking up tears. Wherever I went, he went, stealing hearts along the way. Not always the easiest dog, but one with the biggest heart.

Fynn comforting me when I was battling a persistent pain flare up

When I decided to move to France, leaving him behind was incredibly hard. But Fynn was an old man by then, a little grumpier in his later years, and I knew taking him away from Michael would do more harm than good. Keeping him with Michael was the least selfish choice I could make. Even without him by my side every day, he never left my heart. I knew he was deeply loved and well cared for, and I would see him whenever I returned to Scotland.

I didn’t expect Fynn’s passing to affect me like this—to move from one tearful moment to the next, to want nothing more than one last cuddle, to hold fourteen years of memories in my heart and thank him for all the joy he gave me.

To say it in Michael’s words:
What a legend.

Sleep tight my beautiful big boy

first snow for Fynn

A bothy moment

Fynn's first swim