Max was a wonderful boy. Funny, bright, full of energy. Always busy with a thousand things at once: surfing, snowboarding, and playing guitar.

Whatever he did, he did it with enthusiasm.

He was in the final months of his bachelor’s in civil engineering in Delft, getting ready to start his master’s in Amsterdam.

He was excited. He was ready.

In the week before May 11, 2020, Max kept a close eye on the weather forecasts. It was going to be perfect surfing weather. Maybe a little rough, but Max wasn’t the type to back out easily.

In the end, only he and his friend Mathijs decided to go.

“We’ll just see,” Max had written. “If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just chill on the beach. Also good.”

That was Max.

That evening, they entered the water at Scheveningen, together with a group of bodysurfers.

Then the wind shifted. A thick layer of sea foam, whipped up by the storm, covered the water. They didn’t stand a chance.

Five young surfers died that night. One of them was Max. The rescue operation quickly turned into a recovery mission.

Surviving Grief Through Words

Meanwhile, I was at home, enjoying a glass of wine with a friend.

At 2:15 am, the police rang my doorbell. “We believe your son Max is missing.”

What kind of nonsense is that? Missing? How long do you have to be gone before someone reports you missing? I had just spoken to him the day before.

In those few seconds, my world collapsed. I didn’t want to live.

But I had to. I had a 7-year-old daughter, Ivy. She had a right to a mother. A good mother. But the mother she had known vanished with Max.

Grief wasn’t something to process. It was something to survive.

A few weeks later, I began writing letters to Ivy. I wanted her to know her brother. I wanted her to understand why I couldn’t be the same mother anymore.

Those letters turned into a book.

It wasn’t written years later, with distance and wisdom. I wrote in the moment. It is raw and real, not always polite. It shows what losing a child does to a mother.

“Max” is structured like a baby’s first year: counted in days, weeks, and months.

It begins the moment the police ring the doorbell. What follows is an unfiltered account of the first year after my son’s death.

From the unbearable shock to the long, silent ache of a future that no longer exists.

Rather than offering advice, the book offers something else: truth. A mother’s truth.

Readers in the Netherlands have called it “A lifeline,” “A wave of recognition,” and “The only book that put my grief into words.”

The Dutch edition became a national bestseller.

It helped grieving parents feel less alone. Not because it gave answers, but because it didn’t pretend to have them.

The English edition is now available, both as an e-book and a paperback.

All proceeds go to the Royal Netherlands Sea Rescue Institution (KNRM), the organization that searched for Max that night.

The KNRM is made up entirely of volunteers – people who risk their own lives to save others.

And when there is nothing left to save, they still go out, simply to bring a body home because they understand what it means for a mother to want her child back.

The Dutch edition of the book raised over €60,000, all of which was donated to the KNRM.

With this new English edition, I hope to continue that support.

“Max: A Mother’s First Year of Raw Grief” is available on Amazon. All proceeds go to KNRM.

“Max: A Mother’s First Year of Raw Grief”: Book Fragments

“I sit down at the kitchen table, dial the number, and when someone picks up the phone, I introduce myself as Max’s mother.”

“The detective begins to explain right away. Several surfers have died in the storm last night. Two were pulled from the water; three are still missing.”

“I ask him if he is sure that Max is one of the surfers. He is sure. His car was found nearby. His phone was still in the car. Friends have confirmed that he went surfing there.”

“I shouldn’t hold out any hope. And all hope is gone.”

“Finally, we are allowed to go to him. We walk back to the KNRM storage facility. There are things everywhere, and in the middle stands a tent. They tell us that Pim is inside. On the side, there are screens, and behind those screens lies Max.”

“I walk ahead, around the screens, holding my breath. And there he is, lying on a concrete floor, the imprint of his wetsuit still visible on his face, with a few towels covering his naked body. I kneel next to him, stroke his hair, and kiss his cold forehead.”

“Mama is here now, my boy, and I will take good care of you.”

“The wind had nothing to do with it, at least, not in relation to the big waves. That’s exactly why surfers head out. Without wind and waves, there’s not much to surf.”

“Just one hundred yards further along the beach, people were out on the waves until late that same night. No problems. Lots of wind, big waves – that’s what it’s all about.”

“But the combination of wind and foam, that’s where death lurked, unseen.”

“The sea is calm – so this is what May 11 could look like, too. Here and there, groups of young people stand with bowed heads.”

“It’s clear why they’re here today. At various spots, five roses are placed in the sand. A beautiful gesture, I think. I stare at the gently rippling sea and try to imagine what it must have been like a year ago.”

“Max and Mathijs, laughing by the waterline. Some encouraging words exchanged. Together, they go into the sea. Laughing, shouting. Catching a few good waves.”

“And then, suddenly, everything goes wrong. An avalanche of foam. Disbelief? Panic? Suffocation? Resignation?”

“I don’t know the last part, and I never will. All I can do is hope it was quick.”

“Now I sit here at the spot where Max was found, where he washed ashore when the sea receded. Tears flow, but there aren’t enough of them. I can’t reach my feelings. There’s so much grief inside me, but here, I just can’t let it out.”

“I’ve received many questions about how I feel about the sea now. Do I still dare to enter the water?”

“In the early years, I couldn’t. But I’ve found peace in the thought that the sea was the last to hold Max. That brings me comfort.”

Words by Marjolein Hartman | Entrepreneur, Author, and Speaker