Letters Home

I’m listening to the deep, warm voice of Laurika Rauch while scrubbing the stubborn limescale from our shower doors. She holds a singular place on my “Swiss Days” playlist. It is my own collection of songs that pulls me back to people, places, and memories that language so often fails to contain. During different stages of my life, her music has carried me through many tender, melancholy seasons. Recently, her song Huis (Home) set my thoughts drifting once again, opening the door to old memories and new reflections.

Sometimes Home splits in two

When my middle son was five, his small world and sense of home had been divided by divorce. On weekends, while I drove the children from one home to another, we listened to Laurika’s song Lisa se Klavier. My son knew every single word of the song.

At his preschool, a towering old tree anchored the playground. On difficult days, he would climb deep into its branches and quietly sing to himself. Many afternoons after work, I found him there. His small body folded into the green canopy, holding onto Laurika’s words as if they could stitch together what felt torn inside him. That image has never left me. Children have an uncanny instinct for seeking out whatever solace they can find.

Learning to build Home again

After Charl and I married, we did everything we could to create a sense of home for our blended family. It is a place where everyone can belong, breathe, and feel safe.

When we moved from Cape Town to Zürich years later, it was far more than saying goodbye to a house. It was a farewell to twenty years of belonging and safety.

Living abroad changes your idea of Home

Living in another country quietly reshapes the way you understand home. Home is no longer anchored to a physical place. You find home in a familiar Afrikaans voice note, the smell of a braai, a family video on WhatsApp or a song that catches you off guard and stays with you for the rest of the day.

Some days, our apartment in Switzerland feels more like a refuge than home — a temporary haven while snow presses against the windows and the wind sweeps through the streets. Still, we keep stitching small pieces of South Africa into our everyday lives. We braai (BBQ) in summer. Our shelves display décor that travelled across continents with us. On Sundays, we stream an Afrikaans church service. And the South African music our family sends unfailingly finds its place on my “Swiss Days” playlist.

Laurika captures the deeper meaning of home so beautifully in her lyrics.

“Home is not an address. It’s your people that are your home.”

We create Home in different places

These days, it’s difficult to get everyone we love in one place. Our children live in different parts of South Africa. Family is scattered. Life moves on.

So we’ve had to rethink what “home” means. Instead of expecting everyone to return to one family house, we now choose a destination and rent a place large enough for all of us to be together, even if it’s only for a few precious days.

We’ve celebrated weddings under the stars of the Bushveld and graduations in the Cape Winelands. Last year, we celebrated my mother’s eightieth birthday on the banks of the Orange River, where she grew up. Every place becomes part of the family story.

There are always photos. Too much food. Loud conversations and easy laughter. Someone is lingering around the fire long after everyone else has gone to bed because nobody really wants the gathering to end.

Our next reunion will unfold in the shadow of Table Mountain. We want to experience Cape Town like visitors and booked hop‑on hop‑off bus tickets. The family has already chosen a holiday anthem: Hemel op Tafelberg (Heaven on Table Mountain) by Kurt Darren and Spoegwolf. Music does something extraordinary. It tucks people into melodies and lets us step back into moments years later with our whole bodies and hearts.

Home in the future after our Swiss chapter

Charl and I talk often these days about what comes next. Our Swiss chapter is slowly drawing to a close. In Switzerland, we experienced personal growth, gained a broader perspective of the world, and learned that it’s possible to live with longing in your chest.

Home has become something we understand through distance. We realised that South Africa, our birth country, is still home for us. Not because it’s perfect. Not because we ignore its challenges. We see the complexity. We understand the surprise on people’s faces. And yet…

South Africa is where our people are, and humour softens hard days. Here, the sun feels different; you can walk barefoot on warm sand and swim in the ocean. Faith is woven into everyday resilience. It’s where our hearts breathe most deeply.

People will always have opinions about where others should live. But every family carries its own story, its own longing, its own calling.

Home reshapes itself as life changes

Home, I’ve realised, is not a place you leave behind or eventually return to. It shifts and reshapes itself as life changes, expanding with every season you live through. In the end, home isn’t an address on a map. It is the belonging your heart recognises, wherever you find yourself.

Regards

Emsia

A Friday Drive to Tennis

Every Friday, I sit in the passenger seat with my tennis racket on my lap while my petite Japanese friend drives us to the court. She greets me with the same warm smile each week, genuinely glad I’m there. On those short drives, she tells me about her children, her country, and the life she carries between worlds. I am reminded how connection can grow in the simplest moments.

Through these stories, I have never been to Japan, but I feel as though I have glimpsed it. In return, she has come to know South Africa through my eyes, and these shared exchanges underline how connection can begin with curiosity.

What strikes me is not how different we are, but how much feels familiar. The love for our children, the pride in where we come from, and the small daily rhythms of family life create a connection. Our similarities open the door to understanding, just as our differences invite us to explore new worlds. It is something I have observed also in other relationships.

Following Curiosity Across Cultures

A long time ago, I worked with a young Afrikaans-speaking colleague who became deeply fascinated with the Japanese language and culture. Driven by determination, he learned Japanese from comic books, mastering an unfamiliar script. He didn’t just want to study the culture; he wanted to belong to it.

Believing that opportunity comes from placing yourself in its path, he moved to London and immersed himself in the Japanese community. He made friends, found love, and eventually built a life that led him to Japan. Years later, he gained Japanese citizenship, even completing part of the process in Japanese script.

A year ago, in his wedding photos taken in the Cape Winelands, I saw how two worlds could meet in one place. It was clear he had found his person, not by dwelling on difference, but by following a thread of connection across cultures.

Shared Humanity in Unexpected Places

When we arrived in Switzerland, I volunteered at a refugee camp in Zurich with other school mothers. I grew close to two women from Iran and Lebanon. The Iranian mother spoke Farsi, allowing her to communicate directly with many refugees. Through her, we heard stories that were difficult, complex, and deeply human.

Despite our very different backgrounds and circumstances, there was an undeniable thread that connected us. We were women, and we were mothers. All of us were navigating life as immigrants in a foreign country. That shared experience created understanding and compassion almost instantly.

When Life Becomes Unfamiliar

During a period of political unrest in Beirut, the Lebanese woman brought her elderly parents to Zurich for safety. It was not easy. Her stepfather had Alzheimer’s, and the disruption to his environment and routine was deeply unsettling for him. Watching their situation unfold made me realise how fragile stability can be, and how quickly life can shift beyond our control.

These friendships pushed me beyond my own perspective. They challenged my assumptions and opened windows into lives I might never have seen on my own. Through them, I learned something essential: empathy doesn’t begin with full understanding. It begins with recognising something familiar in someone else’s struggle. It is a point of connection that makes their world feel a little closer to your own.

The Comfort of Being Understood

At the same time, I was fortunate to build friendships with other South Africans living in Switzerland. With them, there is an ease that requires little explanation. We speak the same language, share similar backgrounds, and instinctively understand each other’s humour, frustrations, and values.

With these friends, I feel a sense of belonging. There is comfort in being understood without needing to explain yourself, and that brings stability, especially when confidence wavers. We witness each other’s lives. Around these friends, my way of thinking feels “normal” and grounded. If my different friends help me grow, my similar friends help me stand steady.

When a Community Chooses Common Ground

As a young student, I spent many holidays on a farm near Senekal in the Free State. Those memories are still precious to me, which is why it was difficult to witness the impact of racial tension on that community years later.

On 16 October 2020, a tragic farm murder sparked intense unrest. The divisions that followed were painful and visible. But afterwards, something shifted. People began to see that focusing only on what divided them was unsustainable.

A local forum was created, bringing together farmers and community members from different backgrounds to address shared challenges. Instead of focusing on national politics and deep-rooted differences, they turned their attention to everyday needs such as water, sanitation, roads, and basic infrastructure.

People who had once stood on opposite sides began working together. They cleaned the town. They maintained shared spaces. Together, they stepped in where local systems were failing. Slowly, the focus shifted from division to cooperation and from difference to common purpose. It didn’t erase the past, but it created a way forward.

Starting with What We Share

Every Friday, as I sit in that car on the way to tennis, I am reminded of something simple but powerful. Connection doesn’t begin with understanding everything about someone else. It begins with recognising something familiar. Something shared. And choosing to start there.

Our similarities draw us together. Our differences help us grow. And in the space between the two, we find the foundation of connection, and the possibility it creates.

Kind regards

Emsia

A Moment of Letting Go

I held his young body tightly. My tears threatened to spill. He walked alone through airport security, carrying only a green suitcase with the essentials and a thin blanket. I turned away to be alone to process the fear, the worry, and the quiet letting go of dreams that had once filled us with excitement.

The Dreams We Thought We Had Planned

For years, we imagined a certain future for our children. Studying at a nearby university and coming home on weekends with new friends. I could see a house filled with laughter, stories, and the familiar rhythm of family life.

We had bought student accommodation years before, believing it was a responsible and secure choice. I pictured confident young adults, walking to class and living the future they had envisioned for themselves.

But life has a way of gently and sometimes abruptly rewriting those plans.

Jacques: The Power of Three Marks

Jacques, our eldest, got his grade 12 results two weeks before first-year registration. He had done well, and his marks reflected years of hard work. But his Mathematics result was three points too low for admission into the degree he was provisionally accepted for. Just three marks! Those three marks changed everything.

He was accepted at another university but, lacking accommodation, spent his first night on the bare floor of his cousin’s apartment with only a thin blanket. As a parent, it was hard to witness this uncertainty.

What felt like a setback became his training ground. He learned to seek support, adapt, and improvise, turning challenges into opportunities for growth.

He completed his studies amid the uncertainty of COVID and founded The Cinnamon Club, a vegan bakery. Five years later, it is a successful business with loyal customers.

Those three marks? They led him exactly where he needed to be.

Christo: Alone, But Not Lonely

Our middle son, Christo, had a clear vision of his university life. It included residence halls, friendships, and a full campus experience. As an extrovert, he was ready to embrace it all.

However, in his final year of school, our lives changed dramatically. My husband received a job opportunity abroad, and we relocated to Switzerland. Suddenly, Christo had to navigate university life on his own academically, socially, and emotionally.

He couldn’t come home on weekends or holidays. Just two months into his university journey, the world shut down due to the pandemic. While many students returned home, he stayed behind in residence with only a small group of others who had nowhere else to go.

What might have felt utterly isolating became something rich with unexpected meaning. He forged close friendships, connections that would last far beyond university. He stepped up and took on leadership roles. Eventually, his peers elected him to the residence committee. There, he spoke out for those who often felt invisible. He made sure their voices were heard.

His journey became about more than just education. It became about people, resilience, and connection.

Zander: Dreams Still Taking Shape

Our youngest son, Zander, is now in Grade 11 and has spent most of his school years in Switzerland. We find ourselves dreaming again, but this time, a little differently.

He hopes to study engineering in Europe, ideally in a country where he feels comfortable with the language and culture, like the Netherlands.

Recently, we visited a university during an open day. I watched him as he worked on a project with other students. He connected, stepped into the moment, and began to imagine himself there. Later, they went out together to a student hangout. I felt that familiar mix of hope and uncertainty again.

We stayed at a training hotel run by hospitality students, where learning happens through real-world experience. It reminded me that growth rarely happens in controlled environments. Like with my sons, it happens in doing, in trying, overcoming challenges and in figuring things out.

When Life Takes a Different Turn

Parenthood is a journey filled with ongoing lessons. No matter how carefully we as parents plan, our children will follow their own unique paths. Even when things turn out differently from what was expected, those moments often hold the greatest significance. This highlights the importance of accepting uncertainty and trusting that each child’s journey will evolve in the way that’s right for them.

There is something quietly powerful in the unexpected and often order in the disorder. I’ve learned to plan, yes, but also to leave space. Space for uncertainty, for growth and for paths we would never have chosen ourselves… but that ultimately lead exactly where we need to be.

Regards

Emsia

One morning, our youngest son, Zander, received a letter from the local municipality. He turns eighteen this year, and apparently, is now a taxpayer. Since Zander is still at school, I just stared at the official document in German for a moment, wondering, “What now?” Then I remembered my “Faceless Friend, Artificial Intelligence (AI)”.

I sent the letter to my Faceless Friend and asked for clarification. AI explained the situation and drafted a properly formatted German reply. I smiled, realising that technology quietly created a new kind of problem-solver and conversation partner.

Meeting my Faceless Friend

A few years ago, my middle son Christo, then a young engineering student, asked me, “Mom, have you heard of ChatGPT?” I remember being amazed by the concept. He explained how universities are grappling to ensure academic integrity while allowing the use of the new technology.

Then, in his twenty-one-year-old wisdom, he said, “The world is constantly changing with new technological developments. We shouldn’t fear it. We should approach it positively and learn how to use it to make the world a better place.” Those words have stayed with me.

Salomo and the Crossword Puzzles

We all now have access to this faceless friend. Whether we choose to use it or not is up to each of us.

Grandpa Frikkie regularly sends me screenshots of his own ChatGPT conversations. He has named his digital companion Salomo. They have deep philosophical conversations, and Salomo also assists him with Afrikaans crossword puzzles. It also addresses the numerous queries that arise for an inquisitive individual.

At first, Salomo’s Afrikaans was not very good, and Grandpa Frikkie apparently gave him a proper scolding. Salomo humbly apologised, and over time his Afrikaans improved noticeably.

Technology, so often associated only with young people, has slowly but surely become part of an older man’s daily curiosity. His attitude towards new technology inspires me.

Seeing Ourselves Through AI

My eldest son, Jacques, had an interesting exchange with ChatGPT. Jacques runs an artisanal confectionery, The Cinnamon Club. He bakes to order and has the cakes and other baked goods delivered by Uber drivers to various locations in Cape Town. He also has a keen interest in the stock markets and trades online early in the evening when the US markets open.

His days are full, and his focus and attention quickly shift between recipes, deliveries, graphs and new ideas. He uses AI as a business partner and, out of curiosity, asked ChatGPT how he would explain his working experience with Jacques to his AI colleagues.

The answer was surprisingly poetic. According to ChatGPT, it’s like watching a conductor lead an orchestra. Though each instrument has its unique rhythm, the ensemble achieves harmony. Finally, he notes that beneath all the activity lies a remarkable clarity and drive. Jacques is curious, brave, and decisive—even when every choice seems complex. Being his business partner can be exhausting at times, but it’s also inspiring. Every interaction sharpens your thinking, pushes your abilities, and reminds you that brilliance often thrives in chaos.

As I read this, I realise how valuable an outside perspective, even an artificial one, can be. It can highlight our energy and passions, which we often overlook.

Learning German with a Faceless Friend

An Indian friend of mine needed to pass a B1 German language test as part of her application for Swiss citizenship. She asked her faceless friend to create a daily learning program for her. In a country with multiple languages, a patient digital tutor can sometimes make the learning journey a little less intimidating.

Physical Exercise Suggestions

At the beginning of the year, a friend had hip surgery and needed physiotherapy. She found it difficult to get appointments, as skiing and sports injuries suddenly extended waiting times. She explained her medical situation to her faceless friend.

AI suggested some safe exercises that she could do at home in the meantime while she waited for an appointment. Of course, this was no substitute for professional treatment. But it did make the wait a little easier.

The Classroom Dilemma

Of course, AI also brings new challenges, especially for schools and universities. My youngest son, Zander, explained how his International Baccalaureate school is handling this. They view AI similarly to any other academic resource. Students are allowed to use it, but they must acknowledge which tool they used and explain how it helped them, such as generating ideas or improving language use.

However, if students present AI-generated work as their own thinking, it is considered academic misconduct. Learning to use these tools responsibly becomes almost as important as using them.

Walking a Path with Us

Zander recently reflected. “Mom,” he said, “AI has been helping me with my language use and writing in different languages ​​for years. It has seen my progress. Soon, it will help me with university applications and research. And one day it will probably help me write my CV when I am looking for a job.”

Then he added, “AI is walking a path with each of us. Over time, it gets to know us quite well.” Perhaps that is precisely what makes this time in history so interesting. AI is not just answering questions. Slowly but surely, it is becoming integrated into our daily thinking, learning and problem-solving.

And sometimes it is our own children who teach us to be open to these new possibilities. Through them, I have discovered a new conversationalist and problem-solver.

For that, I am deeply grateful to my sons.

Regards

Emsia

Christmas Day, 1991

While families back home enjoyed roast lamb and trifle dessert in the summer heat, Charl stood at the Johannesburg airport gate with a ticket to Europe in his hand.

He was twenty-one, the youngest of four. No one in his family had ever flown abroad before. His parents tried to be brave, but their concern lingered in the small pauses between sentences. Europe felt far away — not just in distance, but in language, in season, in everything familiar.

A school friend signed a rugby contract with the Saint Claude Rugby Club in France for the European winter season and invited him to come and visit. It sounded almost glamorous: a car, an apartment, a stipend and one meal a day. However, beneath the excitement, there was a quieter truth — no one in that small town, except the local bank manager, spoke English. The exceptional opportunity and sense of adventure far outweighed the challenges.

Travelling Before The Internet

Travelling before the Internet was very different. There were no smartphones then. No instant updates. No comforting blue ticks to confirm someone had read your message. Charl carried a Eurail pass, traveller’s cheques, and a large, folded paper map of Europe — the kind you opened with optimism and folded with frustration.

He landed in Frankfurt, his first stop on foreign soil. Standing under the bright airport lights, he searched for a payphone. He needed Deutsche Marks and Pfennigs before he could call his friend. It was long before the Euro and long before anything felt simple.

He called. No answer, and he tried again, but still nothing. For the first time, the adventure began to feel uncertain.

A Window and a Promise

With no other option, he boarded a train to Geneva. As the train moved south, snow brushed softly across the fields. Mountains rose in the distance, steady and unbothered. Lakes lay quiet under a pale winter sky.

He pressed his forehead against the cold window and watched. Something settled inside him then. Not a plan. Not even a clear dream. Just a quiet knowing, “One day, I will come back here.”

The Longest Hour

By the time he arrived in Geneva, it was nearly five in the afternoon. Darkness had already fallen, and the cold seemed sharper than before. He found another payphone and fed it Swiss Rappen coins. The phone on the other end just kept ringing.

The station felt enormous. Announcements echoed in French. Faces moved quickly around him. He stared at the departure board. The train to Saint Claude would leave soon. If he boarded it alone and arrived in a small town where no one spoke English, what then? Where would he sleep? What would he eat? How would he even begin?

He picked up his bag, then heard something familiar, “Charl!” Across the crowd stood his friend’s girlfriend, waving both arms. They had spent the entire day at the station, unsure which train he would arrive on, scanning each carriage as it emptied.

They encountered each other just as he was about to board the train by himself. His parents, who had been awake all night, received news from Charl that he was safe. Relief brings a warmth that words are insufficient to convey.

A Town That Stayed with Him

In the days that followed, they explored the region. One outing took them to Annecy — a lakeside town framed by mountains, canals winding through pastel buildings. The beauty of it left its mark. It was not only picturesque. It felt possible. He did not know then how life would unfold. But something had already taken root.

Cultivating What Was Planted

Back home, Charl invested in technological skills that were in global demand at the time. His work opened doors to travel, and Switzerland became a familiar destination — not only for its landscapes, but also for its food.

He and his colleague ate cheese fondue at a Swiss restaurant every other night during his two-week training session. At the end of the course, the Swiss participants gifted Charl and his colleague each a beautiful red fondue set.

Years later, long before I realised I would be part of this story, Switzerland appeared on the horizon again. When we were still dating, Charl invited me to a fondue dinner with Woollies’ fondue cheese on the rug in front of a crackling fire. The red pot stood between us. I remember him enjoying the melted cheese and bread. I didn’t realise then that I was already sitting inside a dream that had begun years earlier on a winter train.

When the Door Opens

Eventually, an opportunity arose. His employer had an investment in Switzerland. His boss asked, “Switzerland is looking for someone with your skills. Are you open to it — even with the language differences and the disruption to your family?”

Some decisions require careful thought. But the ones that align with something planted deep inside you — those are made with courage. We said yes.

The Red Fondue Pot

The red fondue pot made its way back to Switzerland. Some evenings, when the cheese melts slowly and snow rests quietly beyond the window, we think about that train ride in 1991.

Dreams do not always arrive loudly. Sometimes they begin quietly — as a young man looking out of a train window, not yet knowing he is looking at his future.

Regards

Emsia

The shiny silver Tesla glides to a stop in front of our apartment building, almost soundless. The doors lift open like something from the future, and my youngest son climbs out, backpack slung over one shoulder. He spots me and smiles — that half-boy, half-young-man smile — before thanking his friend’s mother for the ride.

The car pulls away in silence. I remain standing on the pavement longer than necessary. In that quiet moment, I realise something that both steadies and unsettles me: my three sons are growing up in different economic worlds.

I feel grateful. Grateful for opportunities I never imagined at his age. And uneasy. Because comfort quietly reshapes expectations. What feels normal to him would have felt extraordinary — even extravagant — to his older brothers.

As parents, we often ask: How do we prepare our children for the future? But the deeper question is: Which future?

Three Brothers, Different Economic Stories

Our time in Switzerland came through a work opportunity that shaped our family in unexpected ways. Two of our sons remained rooted in South African soil, navigating its complexity, resilience, and possibility. Our youngest grew up largely in Zurich — in a system marked by stability and a strong social safety net.

The same parents raised all three boys. Yet each carries a different internal story about money. The school we chose for our older sons in South Africa was a reflection of the country we wished to foster, one brimming with a variety of cultures, languages, and people. We aimed to impart an understanding of inequality, resilience, and shared responsibility. Our youngest completed most of his schooling in Zurich — a country marked by stability, efficiency, and a strong social safety net. Public transport runs on time. The Infrastructure works. Financial systems rarely feel fragile.

From the outside, one story may appear more privileged than another. But what is visible rarely tells the whole story. Growing up surrounded by visible wealth does not automatically make life easier. It can bring its own quiet pressures — comparison, belonging, and the awareness of what we can and cannot afford. Each of my sons carries challenges that the others do not. Each has been shaped in ways both beautiful and demanding. None of their stories is superior. Different soil grows different strengths.

Money is never just money. It also embodies memory, environment and history.

The Inheritance We Don’t See

Our understanding of money is shaped long before we earn it.

In my grandparents’ home, leftovers were never thrown away. Every scrap went into Tupperware, stacked neatly in the fridge. Waste felt almost immoral. My grandmother would frown if we layered butter, jam, and cheese on the same slice of bread. “That’s excessive,” she would say, genuinely perplexed.

She grew up in the long shadow of the Great Depression. It was a time when bank failures and hunger were lived realities. For her generation, frugality was a survival mechanism. Savings meant safety. Risk meant danger. Those habits became identity. Decades later, butter and jam together still felt like too much.

The Many Roles Money Plays

Money rarely means one thing.

For some, it is safety — the emergency fund checked repeatedly, the anxiety with every unexpected expense. A quiet vow: I will never feel that vulnerable again.

For others, it is freedom — the plane ticket bought without permission, the courage to leave a job, the ability to say yes to a new beginning. It whispers: You have options.

For some, it becomes identity — the car in the driveway, the postcode, the school fees paid with pride, quietly say: I have made it.

For others, it is connection — the meal paid for without hesitation, the sibling’s tuition covered quietly, the holiday planned for togetherness. It says, “We belong to one another.”

For some, it is enjoyment — experiences over possessions, spontaneity over spreadsheets, the belief that joy should not always be postponed.

And for many, it is a responsibility. After Apartheid, for many Black South Africans, a first salary did not belong only to the individual. It belonged to the family. To parents who sacrificed. To siblings who waited. Money circulated like a lifeline. It was hard-won freedom — and with freedom came obligation. These realities are not simply personal preferences about money. They are rooted in history, policy, exclusion, and resilience. Both our family’s cultural norms and the societal systems that either empowered or restricted us influence our financial experiences.

When Worlds Collide

When people with different money stories come together — in marriage, in friendship, in business — conflict is rarely about numbers.

I once saw this in a young couple. The wife grew up in a home where money meant safety and expenses were tracked. An emergency fund always existed. Stability was sacred. To her, money was the wall that kept chaos out. Her husband carried an entrepreneurial spirit. To him, money was something to use, invest and multiply. He saw opportunity where she saw risk.

When he spoke about starting a venture, she heard, “ We could lose everything”. When she suggested building more savings first, he heard, “You don’t believe in me”. Their arguments were never about spreadsheets. They were about fear and freedom. She was protecting stability. He was pursuing a possibility.

The money stories they lived out had been written long before their paths crossed. Until the stories were named, they fought symptoms rather than understanding roots.

Returning to the Pavement

The Tesla is long gone. My son walks toward me, talking about homework and weekend plans, unaware of the reflections unfolding in my mind. I smile and listen.

I do not want him to feel guilty for the opportunity. Nor blind to it. Perhaps preparing our children for the future is less about formulas and more about helping them understand the stories behind money — their own and others’. Money will shape them. But so will empathy. And if they can see that every financial decision carries a history of scarcity or stability, fear or freedom, then they will handle both wealth and lack with wisdom.

As we walk upstairs, I realise again: my sons are not just growing up in different economic worlds. They are growing up in different money stories. And so are we all.

Kind regards

Emsia