How Suikerbekkie Began: Finding Strength in Creativity

Walking away from something you built from the ground up can shake the foundation of who you are. When I stepped away from the business I had dedicated decades to — a company that carried my ideas, my designs, and years of training others — it felt like a collapse. Not a sudden fall, but a slow, heavy unraveling.

I didn’t leave on my own terms. And that, more than anything, was what broke me. The grief wasn’t a week or a month of sadness. It was a long, hollow period of adjustment — waking up without the rhythm that had structured my life for so many years. I wasn’t only saying goodbye to work. I was saying goodbye to people, routines, and a version of myself that I had spent years shaping.

I had been living in Belgium for some time already, married and settled, but my creative and professional roots had remained in South Africa. I always had one foot there and one here. That balance kept me grounded. Losing my business meant losing the bridge that connected those two worlds. Suddenly, my attention was forced entirely onto Belgium — a place I loved in many ways, yet where I never felt fully seen for what I could bring to the table.

It’s difficult to explain the sense of dislocation that follows when your skills and experience are no longer recognized. You know what you’re capable of, yet the world around you doesn’t reflect it back. Many South Africans living in Europe will understand this tension. We come from a culture that values resourcefulness and drive. We are trained to think broadly, act quickly, and find solutions. Our education and work ethic prepare us to do a lot with little, to take ownership, to make things happen.

In Belgium, I found a different rhythm — slower, more contained, more rule-bound. I respected that. But it also meant that my way of working was often misunderstood. I was seen as too direct, too confident, too eager. My Dutch was never perfect enough. Others were given grace for the same imperfections, yet I was quietly discounted, never fully considered for what I could offer. There’s also an unspoken belief here that South African experience and training don’t measure up — as if our standards are somehow lesser, even when our skill sets often exceed expectations.

It’s a strange kind of invisibility when your capability is met with quiet dismissal. You start to wonder if the years of experience you carry mean anything at all in this new context.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough, another realization hit me.I had crossed an invisible line — one that so many women in their fifties eventually face. Age.

I hadn’t considered it before. In South Africa, I never had to. I was respected for what I could deliver. Clients valued experience. My reputation opened doors. But here, I found myself being measured by a different standard — one that quietly, almost politely, implies that your time has passed. It’s jarring, because inside, you feel more capable than ever. You’ve gathered decades of lessons, hard-won insights, and the calm that only experience brings. Yet to others, those qualities are invisible, overshadowed by a number.

For a while, I let the weight of that loss and rejection press down. I withdrew, reflected, and tried to make sense of what to do next. There’s a kind of silence that follows deep change — an uncomfortable one at first. But with time, it becomes space. Space to think, to breathe, and to imagine again.

During that quiet, I kept one habit that helped me feel connected: scrolling through creative work online. I had always been responsible for content creation in my previous business — social media, website design, photography — and that part of me never switched off. I followed designers, bakers, stylists, and creators. I admired their precision and artistry, especially those who made desserts and sweets look like pieces of art.

It reminded me of something deeply rooted in the women I grew up around. In the Afrikaans communities I knew, especially after apartheid, when jobs were scarce and households struggled, it was often the women who held everything together. They baked. They cooked. They started small home industries and sold their creations at local markets. They kept families afloat and, in many cases, put their children through university — quietly building a culture of resilience through skill and creativity.

That memory — combined with my love of beautiful, well-made things — stirred something in me.

I thought of those women, sleeves rolled up, turning their kitchens into workshops of determination and grace. If they could build from scratch when times were hard, then surely I could too.

And so, Suikerbekkie began. Not as a business idea at first, but as a way to steady myself and channel that restless creative energy. I needed to make something tangible again — something that combined beauty, flavor, and a sense of purpose. I started experimenting, learning, and testing ideas, letting the process itself rebuild my confidence. Baking became a language — one that soothed me and sparked a curiosity to learn new things again. After years of feeling like an expert in my field, it felt both humbling and invigorating to start from scratch in something entirely new — to be a beginner again.

Over time, I realized I didn’t need to choose between my passions. My background in event design, my love for florals, my eye for styling, and my fascination with flavor could all live together under one name. Suikerbekkie became the bridge that helped me rebuild — not toward the past, but toward a new, more complete version of myself.

My kitchen may be small, but it feels alive. There’s the smell of butter and lemon, the clatter of trays, and usually one of my children wandering through asking what’s ready to eat. I start early, with coffee and quiet, watching the sun rise from the east. On colder mornings, I feel grateful for warmth and for a husband who, even though he doesn’t fully understand my need to create or my drive to build something of my own, still stands beside me quietly. He is my calm in the chaos — the rock who lets me muddle on, even when I’ve earned my nickname “the Angry Baker” for swearing my way through another batch that refuses to behave.

This blog is part of that next chapter. It’s where I’ll share the stories, lessons, and inspiration that come from building a creative life from scratch — from baking to gifting, styling to storytelling. It’s also where I hope to connect with others who have had to start over, who know what it means to rebuild identity and direction piece by piece.

If there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that reinvention is not a weakness. It’s a sign of life. Suikerbekkie is my way of standing up again — with flour on my hands, a plan in my head, and an unshakable belief that beauty, kindness, and creativity will always find their way back.