Ode to My Mother

The Love we forget, the Love we become

My mother passed away this Wednesday morning. A quiet, peaceful passing.

I never thought I’d write about my mother in a newsletter—certainly not in a business setting. But I’ve come to realise that our relationships with our parents shape us far more than we acknowledge—even in business. Reconnecting to what I had forgotten has brought me to a different place in my life, personally and professionally.

Mum had been fading for years—Alzheimer’s stripping away her short-term memory, her body following close behind. But in her forgetting, something surprising happened. She softened. She laughed more. She remembered love.

I find solace in knowing that she is finally reunited with my father, who passed away eight years ago.

A Love that evolves over time

We grow up believing we are independent, but deep down, we carry the love, wounds, and lessons of those who raised us. And sometimes, it takes a lifetime to reconnect with what we have forgotten.

I do not know how a mother’s love for her child feels. I imagine it to be unconditional, boundless, unwavering. But what I have learned is how a son’s love for his mother changes over time.

At our core, we know how to love and connect, but as we grow older, layers of conditioning build up, disconnecting us from that innate ability. We forget.

It took me a lifetime to remember.

Ironically, it was my mother’s Alzheimer’s that led us both back to our inner child—to the joy, curiosity, and wonder we once felt, a space where the world is magical.

Mum and dad on their wedding day 1958.

My Mother’s strength and the Love I longed for

When I was born, my mother didn’t have it easy. She lost her elder sister and father within years of each other. Just after my birth, she lost her mother. My father became gravely ill and could not work for four years. There was no social security in Belgium at the time.

With two young children and no steady income, she had no choice but to survive. She opened a café, working long hours while raising my sister and me. Later, she took a factory job in an electronics company.

Growing up, I didn’t feel her love. I felt her exhaustion, her distance. She had no space to grieve, no time to nurture.

The Love I couldn’t find—and the one I eventually discovered

Children are wise. We sense emotions long before we understand them. I felt my mother’s stress—but I didn’t understand until much later that her anger and frustration were not because of us, but because she could not care for us the way she wanted to.

As a sensitive child, I longed for the love I wasn’t receiving. But in our culture, feelings weren’t expressed—they were buried. I learned to stay inward, to be quiet, to not need too much.

Then, at age 11, a pivotal moment changed everything.

The breaking point: losing trust in my parents

At age 11, I was nearly abused by a priest. I managed to escape, running home terrified.

When I told my mother, her response was simple:
"That’s not possible. Priests don’t do such things."

In that moment, her belief system clashed entirely with my sense of justice. She chose to trust a religion over her own son.

That was the moment I stopped trusting her. I stopped trusting my father. I stopped trusting love.

All my life, I kept searching for that lost love—from my mother, from my father, from the world. Seeking validation, recognition, something to fill the void.

That moment shaped everything: The way I learned to protect myself. The way I disconnected. The way I sought power and success as a shield against what I couldn’t face.

Like so many men, I carried that wound into the world, making decisions from the place where love should have been. Seeking control instead of connection. Validation instead of peace. Building instead of feeling.

But the body keeps score. Unhealed childhood wounds don’t disappear—they drive us. Neuroscience confirms what many of us already know: When early trust is broken, the brain adapts. It becomes wired for hypervigilance, survival, and defense.

The unexpected healing: a Love rediscovered

Years later, when I had my own children, I watched my parents become incredible grandparents—showering my children with the love they had struggled to give me.

For them, it was the best period of their lives. For me, it was bittersweet—I saw the love they were capable of, yet it had not been mine to receive as a child.

But forgiveness arrives when we are ready.

After my father’s passing, I took a sabbatical and studied Socratic Design. Every morning, I sat by the river of a small medieval village in northeast Spain, looking back on my childhood.

It was there, for the first time in my life, that I faced my pain. I realised I had spent my entire life running, chasing a love I simply had to learn to give myself.

The healing had begun.

The most beautiful years with my Mother

When my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, she moved to a care home.

Ironically, in her forgetting, something beautiful happened—she remembered love.

After my heart surgery in 2023, I decided to stay in Belgium. I visited her multiple times a week. We shared moments of presence, eye contact, laughter, and music.

In her final years, she gave me all the love I had always searched for. Or was it me, who simply had never seen it, or wasn’t able to receive her love?

One thing became clear: I no longer needed to search. I had found it.

Mum and me, November 2024

A message to those still carrying unhealed wounds

I share this because I know I am not alone in this story.

Too many men—middle-aged, powerful, successful men—are walking around with unresolved childhood wounds. Instead of healing, they project their pain onto the world, seeking control in a battle they cannot win.

The world we live in today is shaped by traumatised men who have never dared to confront their pain. Men who lead from wounds they refuse to acknowledge.

I was one of them. Until I wasn’t.

Healing is a choice. Love is a practice.

It took me 55 years to stop running. To see my mother, not as the woman who failed me, but as a woman who carried her wounds while raising two children and taking care of a sick husband.

In her forgetting, I found my remembering.

When my mother lost her memory, she stopped carrying the weight of her past. She simply existed. And in that existence, she became love.

For the first time, I stopped needing her to be something different. She had always loved me—she just didn’t know how to show it.

The Key to a Better World

We are all children searching for love.

We spend our lives making decisions from old wounds. The way we lead, the way we seek success, the way we love—it all traces back to the places we were hurt.

And if we don’t heal, we pass it down.

The key to a better world and real systemic change is simple:

It all starts in our heads and hearts.

What if we chose to heal instead of harden? What if we stopped running and sat with the pain, the grief, the longing? What if we stop leading from fear and start leading from love?

It takes a lot of courage to do this, but when we do, an entire new world of magic is opening up to you.

This is why I open space for this work.

Why I do men’s work, host circles, run leadership transformation programs, and why I play music with sound healers on Sundays in churches—places that once excluded me. Because healing isn’t just personal. It changes the way we move through the world.

Just last Sunday, mum and I were together, enjoying each other's company, singing her favourite 50s and 60s songs a local DJ was playing. We sang together, laughed, looked into each other’s eyes, beaming love to each other, and just enjoyed each other’s company.

She swayed, and let the music hold her in ways words never could.

Mother, you will always be with me.

I love you.

With gratitude,

Rudy.

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P.S. A New Chapter in Leadership

In my next edition, I will share details about my new leadership program. If this message resonates, I invite you to join me. Early Bird registration is open. Stay tuned.

You can book a call with me to learn more.

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