The Cult of Normal: On Dutch Modesty, Ritualised Joy, and the Loneliness of Belonging

In honour of me writing on King's Day from Amsterdam today, it’s only fitting I write for my Culture section about the Dutch, people who somehow manage to throw a nationwide party without ever quite losing their composure. (By the way, I love the Dutch, I speak Dutch too, and partying with my Dutch friends all day? Let’s just say it didn’t take much convincing.) The canals are lined with orange-drenched revelry, inflatable crowns bob above crowds, and even the most modest grandparents will consent to a plastic lei for the sake of monarchy. And yet, beneath the temporary madness, there’s something strangely controlled about it all — a kind of structured euphoria, like a rave held in alphabetical order.

King's Day is chaos, but a very tidy kind. The music blares, but the bins are neatly labelled. Children barter over secondhand toys on the pavement like tiny economists. Grown men drink beer from plastic cups, but only within the permitted zones. The entire country turns fluorescent for 24 hours, and then as if on cue returns to greige. It’s not the kind of celebration that spills over. It contains itself. A hangover with civic order. A mess pre-approved by the gemeente.

It’s in this strange pairing of flamboyance with restraint, and of spectacle with subtlety, that Dutch culture begins to reveal itself. There is a duality at play, quiet but constant: humility and pride locked in a truce, collectivism performed without intrusion, joy that never fully unbuttons its shirt. The Dutch will lose themselves in a football match, but apologise profusely if they cheer too loud in a café. They will celebrate their monarch with more colour than any royalist state I’ve seen, and yet recoil at anything that smacks of personal grandeur.

It’s choreography in the kind of cultural poise that refuses the extremes. One foot in tradition, the other in practicality. You learn very quickly here that passion must dress itself in modesty. That even joy, in the Netherlands, must follow the rules.

Doe Maar Gewoon: The Tyranny of the Ordinary

There’s a phrase you hear often in the Netherlands, always offered with a shrug that says both everything and nothing: Doe maar gewoon, dan doe je al gek genoeg. Just act normal — that’s already mad enough. On the surface, it sounds benign. Charming, even. A philosophy of modesty, a cultural embrace of the everyday. But spend enough time here, and you begin to feel its weight. Because beneath that quiet mantra lies something more demanding: a national allergy to standing out.

I remember once wearing nothing outrageous (by my standards. I’m sorry…not really. Being overdressed is in my blood and something I’m proud of) to a dinner in Utrecht. The way people blinked, as if I'd arrived on horseback, wearing sequins and asking for foie gras in a vegan café. The silence was polite, of course. But it was the kind of silence that makes you hyper-aware of your collarbone. One woman looked me up and down and said, “lekker opvallend, hè?” (Pretty striking, isn't it?) in a tone so neutral it hurt more than mockery. It wasn’t an insult, exactly — more a gentle redirection. A cultural tap on the shoulder, reminding me I’d wandered slightly off-script.

The Dutch script, as I’ve come to learn, is rooted in a deep, almost sacred commitment to the unexceptional. Not in a lazy way, quite the opposite. There’s effort in this normalcy. An active discipline in keeping things understated. It’s in the architecture: clean lines, flat roofs, windows undressed like a statement of transparency, but also a kind of emotional nakedness. It’s in the fashion: practical coats, sensible shoes, colours that whisper rather than shout. Dutch style isn’t anti-beauty; it’s beauty made useful. Beauty with a bike lock and a rain poncho.

Even language joins the conspiracy of understatement. Dutch has a remarkable number of words for “fine,” “okay,” and “not bad,” all of which mean roughly the same thing: don’t make a fuss. Say something is “geweldig” (amazing) and you’ll get a raised eyebrow; try “lekker” (tasty/nice/fine/everything) and you’ll fit right in. Enthusiasm is rationed, metered out carefully, so as not to disturb the cultural equilibrium. If the British are emotionally repressed with a smile, the Dutch do it with directness — and a firm belief that feelings, like outfits, should be weather-appropriate.

I’ve learned this the hard way. I once complimented a Dutch acquaintance’s artwork too effusively, telling her it was brilliant, emotional, arresting. She laughed, slightly alarmed, and said, “It’s just a hobby.” Just. The word hung in the air like a curtain drawn across a window. That art was hers, but she’d rather disown its beauty than be seen as someone who believes in her own brilliance. Modesty isn’t a virtue here; it’s a duty.

And yet, I don’t say all this with scorn. There’s a certain comfort in it, too. A safety in knowing the rules. In a world that’s constantly pushing us to market ourselves, the Dutch refusal to self-aggrandise feels oddly refreshing. There’s no clamour here for validation. No one is trying to be a brand. It’s all a bit quieter, and that quiet can be soothing. Until, of course, you feel something loud.

That’s when you feel it most: the tyranny of the ordinary. When you laugh too hard, or speak too quickly, or dress with a little too much joy — and realise you've broken the unspoken pact. Because here, normal isn’t just a baseline; it’s a ceiling. A glass one, smooth and invisible, just low enough to bump your head against when you try to rise. And the bump is never violent, just gently humiliating.

Still, there’s a strange sort of poetry in it. A culture that believes so deeply in the collective that it frowns on anyone trying to glow alone. A society where being ‘just normal’ isn’t mediocrity, it’s moral. But sometimes, in my more dramatic moods (usually after three stroopwafels and a failed attempt to emote in a group setting), I wonder what we lose when we prize sameness this devoutly. What happens to the spark when it’s always asked to dim? What do we become when we’re so afraid to stand out that we disappear into each other?

And yet, we all queue for patat met, say “gezellig” ten times a day, and nod politely at people in the supermarket as if we’ve all just agreed to keep the volume of our lives at a tasteful level 3. There’s beauty in it. But make no mistake — it is a beauty that doesn’t want to be admired.

Polished Directness: Brutal Honesty with a Neat Edge

There’s a peculiar Dutch superpower that leaves most outsiders somewhere between disarmed and mildly traumatised. It’s the ability to tell you the absolute truth, and somehow deliver it with such calm efficiency that you almost thank them for it. Dutch directness is not loud. It is not cruel. It is not even really confrontational. It’s just… there. Standing in the room like a glass of still water that, upon drinking, turns out to be vodka.

The first time I encountered it was during a lunch in The Hague. I had been talking, probably too enthusiastically, about some philosophical idea I’d been writing about. I remember feeling quite elated by the conversation — until my friend, a born-and-bred Amsterdammer, tilted her head slightly and said, “But you’ve said that already, haven’t you?” Not rudely. Not unkindly. Just… factually. As if she were pointing out that I’d left the door open or had spinach in my teeth. It was not meant to wound. But it landed like a small intellectual guillotine. Efficient, bloodless, final. I loved it.

The thing about Dutch honesty is that it’s not out to challenge your character. It’s not performative, and it’s never done to score points. In fact, quite the opposite: there’s something disarmingly democratic about it. Truth is considered a basic courtesy, like turning up on time or paying your half of the bill. To withhold it would be the real insult. “Why would I lie to you?” they ask, genuinely confused, when you bristle at the bluntness. And in that moment, you realise it’s not the truth that hurts — it’s the shock of hearing it in daylight, without the usual packaging.

This national bluntness extends far beyond casual conversation. In the workplace, it becomes an architectural principle. Meetings are not meandering thought-clouds. They’re blueprints for action. People say what they think. You are expected to do the same. There is no theatre of passive aggression, no drawn-out pleasantries or elaborate political tap-dances. If your idea is weak, someone will say so plainly, calmly, and probably with a bullet-pointed rationale. I once presented a draft project to a Dutch client, who looked at it, nodded, and said, “No, this doesn’t work, let’s try again.” It was... oddly refreshing. And mildly terrifying. Again, I loved it.

There’s an efficiency to all of this that the Dutch are deeply proud of. Conversations, like bicycles, are expected to move forward quickly, take the straightest route, and not wobble too much. Small talk exists, but only in appropriate doses. If you attempt to explain something already clear, you will be interrupted not rudely, but economically. Time, here, is not to be wasted on emotional embroidery.

But where it gets funny is when this honesty meets politeness. The Dutch don’t abandon social grace. They just fuse it, somehow, with their uncompromising need for truth. You’ll hear things like “That shirt is really… interesting on you” or “You look tired, are you sleeping enough?” delivered with a warm tone and a smile so gentle it feels like you’re being complimented. It’s only five seconds later, in the quiet of your own thoughts, that the penny drops. You’ve just been softly slapped.

And yet, it’s rarely malicious. There is, believe it or not, tenderness in this directness. A belief that honesty is a form of respect. That telling you your cooking is bland or that your argument doesn’t hold water is, in fact, a sign of trust. If they didn’t care, they’d simply nod and move on. The honesty, then, becomes a strange form of intimacy — the kind that says, “I think you’re grown-up enough to handle the truth, so I won’t waste either of our time pretending.”

Still, for someone like me, raised by Asian parents where honesty is also prized, but often laced with familial duty or strategically timed silence, the Dutch way feels oddly familiar, yet jarringly exposed. There’s a shared bluntness, a mutual belief in not mincing words, but where my upbringing wrapped that truth in layers of care or expectation, the Dutch deliver it raw, room temperature, and without ceremonial pause. It’s like being rinsed in cold water — clean, yes, bracing, even, but with none of the preamble. You’re left alert, blinking, unsure whether to thank them or quietly retreat.

Over time, though, you adapt. You learn to read the nuance not in what is said, but in what isn’t softened. You begin to appreciate the gift of not having to decode layers of implication. There is freedom in not having to guess whether someone means what they say. They do. Always. You also learn to return the favour gently, but firmly. Because in this landscape of clean lines and honest sentences, being vague is not kindness. It’s considered inefficient.

And in the end, there’s something enviable about that. In a world full of smoke and mirrors, the Dutch offer you a mirror without smoke. Just be prepared for what you’ll see in it. And maybe wear a more flattering shirt next time.

Orange Nation: A Temporary Permission to Feel

There’s a strange, paradoxical beauty to be found in the Dutch national celebrations. The country, so often a model of measured restraint, becomes a canvas for an explosion of colour and noise. King’s Day is the most glaring example of this, a day when the entire nation dons orange as though some primal switch flips. 

Suddenly, the quiet, emotionally cool Dutch are unrecognisable, joyfully shouting into the wind, their voices echoing across canals and cobblestone streets. But there’s something surreal about it. These are not the boisterous displays of excitement you might expect from a culture known for its composed neutrality. No, this is a temporary permission to feel, a break from the strictures of the everyday.

King’s Day — or Koningsdag, if you want to get into the full Dutch rhythm of it — is a communal exhalation. It is as if the nation collectively breathes in for the entire year, holding in the emotional temperature until this one moment when it can all burst forth in an orange-coated flood. It’s an annual catharsis that’s curiously controlled, like the carefully planned riot of a professional dancer who knows exactly when to release the tension in their body. The streets are awash with neon hues, music blaring from every corner, children selling secondhand goods in street markets with the sort of entrepreneurial energy that seems to defy the usual calm. The Dutch, so famous for their emotional restraint, seem possessed by a kind of temporary madness. It’s bewildering, even for someone like me, who was raised in the heart of cultures that value collective celebration.

Yet, it’s also telling. When these moments of joy explode from the Dutch, they are not like the cathartic, loud celebrations you’d find elsewhere, in countries where passion is woven into the fabric of everyday life. The Dutch know the boundaries of their permission. They understand that the chaos has to be contained, even in the wildest moment of celebration. There’s a brief feeling of liberation, but just as quickly, the veneer of order returns. The royal family, for example, may stand as the symbolic focal point of King’s Day, but the joy also speaks to something deeper: the acknowledgment of a shared national identity, one that unites the seemingly disparate threads of a very complex culture. The Dutch may not express their emotions in ordinary moments, but they know how to embrace the unity of the collective when it’s needed.

The strangest part, for me, is the fleeting nature of it all. To watch a culture so seemingly steadfast in its calm embrace chaos, only for it to be carefully folded back up at the end of the day, feels like witnessing a controlled demolition. The joy is as regulated as the quiet. This fleeting explosion is never a rebellion, but rather a reminder of what the Dutch value most: balance. That they give themselves over to it only once in a while, gives even more weight to the act. For me, it’s the most paradoxical moment of Dutch life — a culture that measures every gesture, every expression, suddenly dissolving in a public outburst. In the end, the Orange Nation doesn’t just celebrate the monarchy on King’s Day; it celebrates the beautiful complexity of their own contradiction.

Football, too, fits into this same tapestry of collective emotion. A match, especially if it involves the national team, is another space where the Dutch seem to briefly forget their emotional coolness. Watching the team play is like watching a dam break. Emotions flood, louder and more intense than anything you might witness in the quiet humdrum of daily life. I’ve found myself caught up in this fever, swept along in the surge of energy when the crowd roars in collective triumph or collective despair. It’s a momentary departure from the norm, but in its intensity, it reveals something about the Dutch psyche: they only seem to allow themselves to feel fully when the collective stakes are at their highest.

It’s a form of permission, a collective release valve for a society that otherwise demands emotional precision. I’ve often wondered why they hold back the rest of the year, why there is so much effort put into maintaining control when it’s so clearly capable of breaking free, if only for brief moments. But perhaps that’s what makes these national rituals so valuable. They are more than just scheduled events in the calendar; they are the pause that sustains the rest of the year’s quietude. And that brief space of permission, those few moments of loudness, might be what the Dutch are truly celebrating. Not the pomp of the monarchy, not the elation of the football team, but the joy of being allowed to feel, if only for a moment, without the usual reservation.

Gezellig, But Guarded

Gezelligheid. The word dances on the tongue with a kind of warmth that promises comfort, a kind of inviting embrace. It implies cosiness, the snugness of a shared space, the ease of friendly conversation, the soft glow of a room filled with good company. It’s the air of a café on a rainy afternoon, where people are gathered in a circle, cups of coffee steaming gently in front of them. It’s the sound of laughter that spills over the edges of a family dinner table, the warmth of a home lit softly by candlelight. To the outsider, it seems like the very essence of Dutch social life — a kind of effortless, universal inclusivity.

The thing about gezelligheid is that, like the most beautiful pieces of language, it’s almost impossible to fully translate.There’s a peculiar sort of intimacy to gezelligheid that can feel all-encompassing — the low hum of chatter at a café, the soft lighting in a living room, the gentle clink of glasses during a shared meal. These are the moments that feel warm, that make you feel like you are part of something. Yet, despite its surface-level warmth, there’s an undercurrent of something else: a subtle exclusion. The very thing that makes a space gezellig is the very thing that can make you feel like an outsider. For all the laughter and the easy camaraderie, there’s an almost invisible line that separates the ‘insiders’ from the ‘newcomers.’ It’s as though a shared history, a set of unspoken codes, binds the group together in ways that don’t always leave room for someone still trying to understand the rhythms of Dutch conversation, or worse, someone who can’t navigate the delicate dance of silence and word in the way the Dutch do so effortlessly. In a way, gezelligheid is the Dutch answer to the human need for belonging, but like most things Dutch, it’s not without its boundaries.

I’ve felt this quiet alienation at times. The first time I sat down to a dinner with a group of Dutch friends. I quickly realised that their easy familiarity with each other, their ability to slip into comfortable silences, made me feel like I had missed a memo. The conversation flowed like water over smooth stones, interspersed with laughter and the occasional thoughtful pause, but I felt like I was perched on the edge of it all. I smiled, I nodded, but there was an undercurrent of not quite knowing when to speak, when to interrupt, when to offer an opinion. The gezelligheid was palpable — it was in the shared glances, the little inside jokes that seemed to have been born long before I arrived, but I wasn’t quite inside it. I was a guest, an outsider, trying to read a language of camaraderie I hadn’t yet mastered.

What I realised then, is that gezelligheid doesn’t just happen. It’s built over time, formed in the cracks of shared experiences, in moments of vulnerability that are rarely offered to strangers. It’s not that the Dutch are unfriendly; they’re not. But their friendliness has a guard around it, a protection that only those who have crossed a certain threshold can fully experience. This is what makes it so powerful, and in some ways, so elusive. Gezelligheid is an invitation, yes, but not always an inclusive one. It’s a club, one whose doors open only for those who understand the rules of conduct — those who know how to be still in silence, how to share a laugh without needing to dominate the conversation, how to acknowledge each other with gestures that are almost imperceptible to the uninitiated.

And yet, there’s something about this quiet, guarded hospitality that resonates deeply. When you do find your place in a group, when you’ve been accepted into the fold, the sense of belonging that comes with it is unspoken but powerful. There’s no need for overt declarations of affection, no loud proclamations of friendship. Instead, it’s the subtlety of a shared space, a mutual respect for silence as much as for speech, that creates the bond. It’s the shared moment of pouring the wine, of making sure everyone’s glass is full, of asking if someone wants to switch seats so they can see the sunset just a little better.

But, like all things in Dutch society, gezelligheid has a fine line. It’s not about loud, boisterous celebrations or grand displays of emotion. It’s about quietude, restraint, and the delicate balance between being with others and being left alone. For those who’ve been around long enough, for those who have mastered the art of gezelligheid, there’s an easy familiarity that comes with it. But for the newcomer, for the one who hasn’t yet learned the unspoken rules of this subtle social dance, gezelligheid can feel elusive, even frustrating.

In many ways, this encapsulates the Dutch way of living. It’s a society where emotional distance and warmth exist simultaneously, like two sides of the same coin. In a world where silence can be as meaningful as conversation, where your presence can be felt without needing to speak, gezelligheid is both an invitation and a reminder. It’s a space that feels comfortable because it is familiar, and yet it remains carefully curated, shaped by the unspoken boundaries that make it what it is. Perhaps that’s the real genius of gezelligheid — it’s not just about being together. It’s about knowing how to be together, how to balance closeness with the respect of space.

Samenleving: The Social Contract Without the Clinginess

Samenleving. The Dutch concept of society. A quietly profound way of living that doesn’t necessarily prize emotional closeness, but instead, depends on an unspoken, almost contractual understanding between individuals and the collective. At the heart of this social contract lies a faith in structure, not sentiment. A faith that extends beyond the personal to the public realm — in how the Dutch engage with social housing, healthcare, and taxes. These systems are not rooted in the tight-knit camaraderie you might find in Southern Europe, nor in the cold, bureaucratic distance one might expect from Nordic countries. Instead, there’s something inherently Dutch about the way a community operates — it’s reliable, dependable, and surprisingly restrained. It’s as though society is held together not by overt emotional bonds, but by an invisible thread of mutual respect and shared responsibility.

From an outsider’s perspective, it might seem as if the Dutch are a nation of social engineers, as if their vision of community was developed in a laboratory rather than on the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. It’s not that the Dutch lack empathy, it’s just that their expression of it doesn’t involve grand gestures or loud declarations of togetherness. Rather, it’s in the quietly efficient way they handle communal affairs that you see the strength of their social fabric. The public services here, such as the health system, the housing, and the public transport, all function with a kind of precision that in other countries might be misconstrued as impersonal. But for the Dutch, these structures aren’t just services; they are an extension of the same value system that prioritises dependability over emotional entanglements.

For instance, there’s an undeniable pragmatism to the Dutch approach to housing. It isn’t about personal enrichment or extravagant luxury; it’s about ensuring that everyone has a roof over their head. The system is robust, but not driven by excess or ostentation. It’s an embodiment of that Dutch sense of fairness — that no one should be left behind. And yet, even in this generosity, there is no expectation of deep emotional engagement. The idea is not to provide a space for personal expression or warmth but rather a reliable, functional base from which life can unfold. You won’t see much in the way of sentimental attachment to your home, especially in social housing. It’s a place to live, a place to rest, but not to pour out your soul. The focus is on efficiency, structure, and above all, balance. People’s homes are their own, but the underlying assumption is that what matters more than self-expression is the collective stability of the system.

The same can be said of Dutch healthcare. Unlike the chaos of American private healthcare, or the idealism of a more centralised system, the Dutch approach to healthcare is rooted in a firm belief in individual responsibility and communal well-being. It’s a system that works because, like the housing system, it’s built on reliability and shared contribution rather than emotional engagement. The Dutch don’t necessarily express joy in their healthcare system, there’s no grand celebration of being well or healthy, but they do expect it to function, without fail. There’s a quiet trust in the system, and in each other, that the resources are there when needed, but that there is also an expectation of contributing to the system. It’s a contract, not a gift, and it works because the Dutch value dependability over sentimentality. You may not know your doctor on a personal level, but you know they’ll be there when you need them, and that is what matters.

Taxes, too, operate in much the same way. Rather than viewing taxes as an imposition, the Dutch view them as a part of their civic duty — another cog in the machine that ensures everyone has what they need to live their lives without being overly dependent on others. Taxes aren’t a source of resentment but of acceptance. In the Dutch mind, contributing to society is not just a responsibility; it’s a shared privilege. This isn’t the kind of collective that thrives on closeness or even gratitude; it’s a collective that thrives on balance, efficiency, and shared purpose. The system is not about uplifting individuals but about making sure that everyone has the same basic foundation from which they can move forward. It’s an exchange, not a relationship, and therein lies its beauty.

At the same time, this social contract doesn’t come with emotional strings attached. There’s no expectation that you should feel a personal connection to the healthcare worker who helps you, or to the tax authority that takes a portion of your income. There’s no need for small talk or emotional expressions. Instead, there’s a tacit agreement that everyone plays their part, and in return, everyone gets what they need to function. It’s a level of trust that doesn’t rely on emotional warmth but on the satisfaction of the system itself. And though this might sound cold, there’s something deeply human about it. After all, what is a social contract if not an understanding that we are all in this together, even when we don’t need to speak about it?

In this way, Dutch society is not about bonding over shared experiences or a common sense of history, it’s about creating a system in which each individual’s needs are met without the need for constant negotiation, for emotional labour. It’s as though the Dutch have taken the best parts of individualism and collectivism and fused them into a pragmatic, yet highly effective, system of governance. The country’s social structure may lack the emotional intensity of other cultures, but in its stead, it offers something equally important: reliability. There is no grand sense of emotional intimacy, no overt expression of solidarity, but there is an unwavering sense of dependability. In the Dutch world, community isn’t about feeling; it’s about structure, responsibility, and shared purpose. It’s a social contract without the clinginess, a system that doesn’t require emotional investment to work. It works simply because it is built to, and everyone plays their part. It’s a quiet yet profound manifestation of what it means to live together in a society — not through sentiment, but through dependability.

The Loneliness of Belonging

In the Netherlands, community thrives on the same codes that prize fairness and efficiency, but lurking quietly beneath the surface is a shadow that often goes unnoticed: the loneliness of belonging. It’s a loneliness that isn’t tragic, nor does it arrive with the drama of great loss. Instead, it’s more akin to the subtle, almost imperceptible shift between silence and stillness. Silence, after all, is something we feel. Stillness, however, is something we notice in hindsight, when the movement of time has slowed enough to allow it to seep into the edges of our lives. This kind of loneliness is not born from a lack of people; it exists within the spaces between us, in the moments where we quietly acknowledge that even in a society that celebrates fairness, something fundamental is always left unsaid.

The Dutch way of life, with its steadfast commitment to individual responsibility and collective function, often creates a deep sense of belonging. There is comfort in knowing that everyone plays their part, that systems are in place to ensure fairness and support, but the very strength of these systems can also breed a sense of emotional distance. It’s a community where people know where they belong, but perhaps don’t always know who they are in relation to one another. The formality of social structures or the "gezelligheid" of shared dinners or family gatherings might offer warmth, but it’s a warmth that feels more like a layer of insulation than a flame. The room may be warm, but the people inside are often not as close as we might imagine. The gap between their presence and their connection can be quietly unsettling.

Language plays a role in this emotional distance, too. Dutch is a language that prioritises precision, efficiency, and directness. It is a language that values clear meaning over ornate expression, often leaving the softer edges of human emotion untouched. In a culture that prizes understatement, where the effort to articulate deeper feelings can feel excessive, there exists a kind of emotional minimalism. Conversations don’t dwell on the complexities of how people feel, but instead, focus on what needs to be done. There’s a beauty in this simplicity, a practicality that makes life easier, but there’s also something unsettling in the unspoken understanding that emotional expression is something you do when absolutely necessary. If you need to share something deeper, it’s either with a trusted few or in a moment of rare vulnerability. But it is precisely in those quiet, unspoken spaces that loneliness finds its roots.

Friendship in the Netherlands often emerges through shared purpose rather than shared sentiment. The Dutch don’t burden one another with emotional weight, and that’s a gift in many ways. No one expects constant validation, no one needs to be constantly reassured that they are loved or cared for. But, in its place, there’s a quiet emptiness — not of neglect, but of absence. It’s the absence of those small, unspoken rituals of care that can make us feel truly seen. It’s the absence of the over-expressive warmth that can sometimes be the hallmark of relationships in more demonstrative cultures. In the Netherlands, friendship is less about depth and more about mutual respect and a quiet understanding. And while there’s something noble in this, there’s also something lonely about it. You can be surrounded by people, embedded in a system that values connection, and yet still feel like you’re an outsider, watching as others engage with the structures of community without ever quite entering into the centre of them.

This emotional distance often feels like a personal failing rather than a cultural norm. In a society that values stoicism and self-sufficiency, the soft edges of one’s emotions — the yearning for connection, the desire for deeper emotional engagement can feel misplaced. It can make one feel “too much,” too soft in a culture that prizes resilience over vulnerability. For someone like me, raised in a household where emotional expression was often reserved for the most intimate of moments, there’s a certain dissonance. The Dutch directness, while refreshing in many ways, can feel jarring in its bluntness. But it’s also a reflection of a culture that refuses to overcomplicate the human experience. In a world where people are expected to hold their own, the soft vulnerability that many cultures nurture can seem unwarranted or out of place.

And yet, this emotional distance does not equate to coldness. Rather, it’s a reflection of a national temperament that seeks to guard its internal life with precision. The Dutch may be more reserved than, say, their Mediterranean counterparts, but their form of warmth is found in the structure of their society, not in their social interactions. You may never hear a Dutch person express love overtly, but you will experience it in the efficiency of a public system that works, in the space that’s quietly made for everyone, in the absence of emotional fuss. This is a community that shows up in the ways that matter most. But it’s also a community that, while reliable, can leave you wishing for a little more. A little more softness. A little more room for emotional ebb and flow. A little more connection.

In the end, the loneliness of belonging is not about being alone. It’s about the quiet, pervasive sense of not quite being seen, not quite being known, even as you stand shoulder to shoulder with others. The Dutch way of life is not about intimacy but about functionality, and in that functionality, the human desire for emotional depth can sometimes get lost in the cracks. It’s a loneliness that doesn’t scream for attention, but instead hums quietly beneath the surface, a reminder that even in the most well-organised of societies, something is always left unsaid.

Between Canals and Curtainless Windows

The walk along the canals in Amsterdam feels like a quiet performance. The streets are neatly composed, like a set stage, where each house is framed perfectly by the water’s edge, its façade crisp and clean, as though just emerged from an artist’s easel. It’s the kind of beauty that makes you pause, not because it asks for your attention, but because it is so unassumingly composed that you can’t help but notice how effortlessly it pulls you in. Yet, despite the perfectly aligned windows and the neatly manicured gardens, there’s a peculiar sense of not quite being allowed in… not truly.

Each house reveals itself in ways that feel oddly impersonal, as if its invitation to observe was given only because it was required by a cultural rule, not because of an actual desire to connect. The windows, those clear portals into the personal, do not offer the warmth of familiarity. Instead, they hold the feeling of something between a glimpse and a glimpse denied. Inside, I see the soft glow of lighting, the polished corners of living rooms, the orderly arrangement of furniture, all carefully curated but untouched by anything raw. There’s a level of openness, of transparency, but it’s an openness that sits behind a door locked with politeness.

In the Netherlands, openness is a practice. A mantra. The Dutch love their transparency — their homes are open, their rules clear, their systems efficient. Yet there’s something about this openness that has the effect of creating distance rather than connection. It’s not so much the lack of privacy, but the presence of it in a very public form. The world outside can see everything you own, but none of it is yours to give. The curtains are often wide open, yes, but the rooms remain as tidy as a postcard — perfect, poised, but utterly distant. There’s a certain coldness to this domestic transparency. It's as though the home, though not hidden, is somehow guarded. The walls of the house might be invisible, but the emotions that live inside them are held firmly in place.

The gardens, too, fit this strange, delicate choreography of public privacy. There is no wildness here, no unkempt edges or flowers spilling over fences. The lawns are manicured to the millimetre, the hedges clipped into neat formations, and the flowers arranged with geometric precision. Everything is in its place. And yet, despite the beauty of this outward display, there is something restrained in the air. The gardens may be for viewing, but they are never for exploring. It’s as though the wildness of nature has been tamed into polite submission. You can walk past, you can admire the form of it all, but you can never touch. And this, in a strange way, mirrors the emotional landscape of Dutch society: you may witness it, you may walk beside it, but to truly enter into it requires permission that may never come.

It is this same tension between being visible and being unreachable that defines Dutch privacy. The transparency of the windows, the neatness of the gardens, even the public manners all point to a culture that seems to offer itself freely, but only on its own terms. The Dutch, like their homes, are curated to perfection — composed, elegant, and entirely in control of what they reveal and when. The personal becomes something that is shared, but not something you are allowed to touch.

It’s a delicate balance, this offering of openness without warmth. One could almost call it a form of emotional architecture, a precise crafting of how much can be seen, but never touched. The windows are wide open, the view through them flawless, but the invitation is not one to enter. It’s a space where privacy is both visible and veiled, a paradox where the absence of curtains is not an invitation but a boundary. It says, “Here, I am. But this part of me is not for you.” And somehow, in its disarming simplicity, it makes you acutely aware of the gap between what is shared and what is hidden.

In a way, this openness becomes a kind of performance, one that is not staged for anyone but itself. Dutch culture, in its insistence on privacy within transparency, places the emotional landscape at a distance. It’s not about secrecy, nor is it about hiding, it’s about a controlled release of the self. Like the canals that wind through the city, the Dutch have mastered the art of letting things flow in front of you, while ensuring that nothing truly touches you. You can look, you can admire, but you cannot enter. The homes along the canals are not just buildings; they are metaphors for a way of living, a way of being: visible, yet always just out of reach.

Walking past these quiet facades, I can’t help but feel like a visitor in a place that invites me in without ever truly offering a seat at the table. It’s a strange dissonance, this feeling of being part of something and yet so far removed from it. The streets, the houses, the gardens — all of them exist in this paradox. They offer up their beauty, their design, their rhythm to the world, but never ask for anything in return. It’s a kind of loneliness, wrapped in clarity. And in this, I find a strange beauty — the kind of beauty that is seen, acknowledged, but never touched.

The Dutch way is an invitation without the comfort of closeness. It’s a culture that allows you to stand on the outside and look in but doesn’t make it easy to cross the threshold. It’s openness, yes. But it’s also an emotional distance that, like the perfectly polished windows of a Dutch home, leaves you wondering what is truly behind them.

What the Dutch Teach Us (And What They Risk Losing)

What the Dutch teach us is no small thing. There’s a profound grace in a culture that does not obsess over attention. In a world increasingly addicted to spectacle, the Dutch offer a counterpoint: systems that work, streets that run on trust, neighbours who do not meddle but will always lend a hand when the roof starts leaking. Their society is designed with a kind of quiet intelligence — functional, fair, unflashy, and underneath that, a commitment to decency that doesn’t need applause to feel real. There’s dignity in the way the Dutch move through life without asking to be exceptional. And there’s emotional wisdom, too, in the ability to feel without flailing, to disagree without drama, to contribute without carving one’s name into the result.

But what happens when the celebration of normalcy becomes a kind of ceiling? When humility hardens into cultural orthodoxy? The risk is not flamboyance or chaos, those rarely survive in such neat soil. The risk is that in protecting modesty, you forget the value of intensity. Passion, ambition, eccentricity — these are not flaws in a healthy society. They’re the oxygen that lets it grow. And “doe maar gewoon,” while noble in spirit, can become a softly-spoken gatekeeper — keeping out not danger, but depth. Not disorder, but the kind of difference that pushes culture forward.

It’s a beautiful thing, to belong somewhere that runs smoothly where you don’t have to shout to be heard, or constantly sell your worth. But even beauty needs movement, or it begins to decay under its own stillness. So the question remains, not just for the Dutch, but for anyone living inside a culture of quiet competence: is there room here within the calm, the correctness, the curated windows, and silent dinners for those who burn a little louder? Is there space, inside the Dutch normal, for being a little extraordinary?

S xoxo

Written in Amsterdam, Netherlands

26th April 2025