Because Sometimes It Takes a Tunisian Fairy Godmother.
Becoming a mum for the first time is like being shoved into a cold pool at midnight.
One minute you’re lounging in the warmth of your old life—sleep, freedom, the ability to finish a hot cup of coffee—and the next, BAM!
You’re up to your ears in nappies, nipple cream, and self-doubt.
Ask any mother and she’ll tell you—even the ones who are all glowy and serene in their Instagram photos.
There are moments (plenty!) when you look at this tiny, adorable creature and think: “What fresh hell is this?”
And then immediately feel guilty for even thinking it, because you do love them more than life itself… but you’d also love to pee alone just once this week.
Let’s not even start with the infamous Mom Brain.
You know the one: where you put your keys in the fridge, your phone in the washing machine, and your dignity somewhere back in labour ward #3.
By the time I had Thom in 1997, most of my friends were seasoned pros, busy with their third or fourth child.
Their memories of that first chaotic year had been conveniently erased by time (and possibly wine).
Meanwhile, I was deep in the fog, completely clueless, constantly terrified I was going to mess up this whole parenting thing forever.
And to make things even more fun, I did it all far from home.
No doting mother nearby. No bestie popping in with a casserole and unsolicited advice.
I gave birth in a foreign country, with no family, no real friends (yet), and no idea what I was doing.
But here’s the thing about Life—it’s sneaky, but it’s kind.
Life doesn’t give you challenges it doesn’t also send help for.
And so, in walked my first real Angel: Coco. Though back then, we knew her as Ansula.
A bold, fierce, warm-hearted Tunisian woman with the kind of energy that makes you feel instantly safe, like a cup of hot tea after a cold day.
We met at a weekend workshop at The Humaniversity and connected right away.
Her story felt like something out of Arabian Nights—escaping an arranged marriage, running off to Paris to follow her dreams.
She was starting a new life in Amsterdam, just like us.
After the workshop, we offered her a spot on our couch until she could get settled. She did.
Then, being the capable powerhouse she is, she found her own place and got on with her life.
We stayed in touch, bumping into each other during workshops, sharing laughs and stories.
And then came Thom. Ten days early. Tiny, wrinkly, perfect—and terrifying.
Yoni was my rock for that first week, holding both Thom and my frayed nerves together.
But then he had to leave for The One Experience—a deep, transformative two-week workshop in Germany.
He had to go. I wanted him to go. But also… PANIC.
How was I going to survive two whole weeks alone with a newborn, in a country I barely knew, with zero clue what I was doing?
Cue entrance of Angel #1. Coco called and said: “I’ll come stay with you.”
I nearly wept. Actually, I did weep.
She came. She helped me bathe Thom without dunking her. She showed me how to change nappies without a crisis.
She helped us get into a rhythm. Most importantly, she gave me the precious gift of sleep.
Just a few uninterrupted hours to breathe and remember that I’m still a human being.
When Yoni came back, she stayed part of our little village. She became our trusted babysitter and friend.
I could finally leave the house or go teach a workshop knowing Thom was in the best possible hands—loving, capable, and warm.
Thom adored her. So did we.
And then… like angels do, she moved on. Her chapter in our lives wrapped up. But the mark she left? Permanent.
And now, as I sit here in 2025, writing this nearly 30 years later, Life has done one of its mysterious little loops—Coco has shown up again.
Out of nowhere. No explanation. But by now, I’ve learned to trust Life’s timing. I don’t need to know why she’s here again. I’m just glad she is.
And yes, she’s still radiant. Still fierce. Still Coco.
