Ambitions for the next five years? Gemma needs a moment to think. Luckily, on the way she’s handed something very concrete: a freshly baked loaf of bread.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” The woman with the notepad looks at me expectantly. The camera is rolling. It’s an interview for the Ignite Award, for which Stichting FRIDA has been nominated. I feel the cameraman’s gaze through the lens. My throat is dry. I don’t even know what I’ll have for breakfast tomorrow, let alone what I’ll be doing with my life in five years. The tukker in me doesn’t really like these kinds of grand predictions anyway. But one thing I do know: what I’ve started must grow. From a snowflake into a snowball. An avalanche also begins with just a few crystals finding their way down. Those first crystals are already moving. The ice is beginning to shift.
FRIDA is now sixteen months old. I started with an old counter and a big dose of courage. What I didn’t have was a blueprint. But sometimes that’s exactly the strength: just start, dive in, and learn to swim along the way. And now here I stand. FRIDA is among the twelve best social enterprises in the Netherlands. As the founder of FRIDA, I get to take part in the training program that comes with this nomination. Depending on how I make it through the interviews, business plans, and pitches, I might just become one of the winners. But this is only the first round.
A week later, I lock myself away in my little office. I make a strict deal with myself: I won’t come out until my five-year plan is on paper. My son quietly sneaks in and curls up on the white carpet. I try to ignore him—I have a business plan to write, after all. Suddenly he says, “Check FRIDA’s security camera. I think something’s up.” Reluctantly, I open the app. On the screen I see my colleague Sky. Her face is hidden behind a sheet of paper that reads: SOS. Come to FRIDA now! “What is this? A joke?” I ask. “No idea, Mom,” my son shrugs. “But you should go.”
Moments later we’re both on our bikes heading to FRIDA. At the shop door my son calls out: “Don’t peek inside!” He guides me in with my eyes closed. Then I hear a familiar tune: staff and visitors singing “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs. It’s a surprise party for me. I’m stunned. They send me on a little treasure hunt for gifts hidden among the books. Sky hands me her present: a homemade sourdough loaf. Around me, colleagues and visitors are smiling and laughing. In that moment I feel it more strongly than ever: this is FRIDA. This is the place where people come together, where community is created. I wish every city in the Netherlands had a FRIDA.
Back home, the business plan practically writes itself. The words flow straight from my fingertips. FRIDA Enschede is only the beginning.
Within five years we’ll open four new branches, one in each university city outside the Randstad. Because what once started as a small snowflake is now becoming a snowball that no one can stop. Now I know exactly where I’ll be in five years—and what I’ll eat for breakfast tomorrow: Sky’s homemade bread.
this column was first published in the Dutch newspaper Tubantia on September 18, 2025 in Dutch. This is the English translation. Please visit the website of Tubantia for the original Dutch version (link here).
