I was born in the late 1980s and grew up in Romania during the post-communist 1990s. Like many boys of that time, I was encouraged to be strong, self-reliant, and emotionally contained. Expressions such as “boys don’t cry” or “you need to be tough” were common, and sensitivity was rarely welcomed.

From an early age, I struggled to find my place. I was restless, energetic, and often misunderstood — traits that were seen as misbehaviour rather than difference. Although I grew up in a loving family, I frequently felt compared to my older brother and learned, quietly, that being myself was somehow not enough.

Over time, I learned to wear a mask. I became independent, resilient, and outwardly confident, while pushing down much of what I felt inside. That persona was well received by others, and slowly I lost touch with who I truly was. Looking back, I can see how my body expressed what I couldn’t — through constant accidents, injuries, and moments that felt like my inner world asking to be noticed.

In my teenage years and early adulthood, I lived very socially. I was outgoing, popular, and always surrounded by people. Beneath that, however, I was searching for freedom — moments where I could step outside the identity I had built. I followed the expected path, completing my studies in civil engineering, not because it felt aligned, but because I knew I could succeed if I focused.

Community has always mattered deeply to me. I grew up watching my father bring people together, creating connection and warmth wherever he went. He was my hero, and in many ways I was becoming him — until his sudden illness changed everything.

Shortly after I began my professional life, my father was diagnosed with an advanced brain tumour. The months that followed reshaped me entirely. Witnessing his decline, and later his passing, left a deep mark. During that time, I coped in ways that numbed the pain rather than healed it, while also staying present for my family as best I could.

After his death, something inside me broke open. I no longer wanted to live behind a mask. I wanted honesty, freedom, and truth — even if I didn’t yet know what that meant.

Around that time, I met the woman who would later become my wife. Our connection showed me a different way of being — one rooted in openness, imagination, and tenderness. Although life took us on separate paths for a while, that connection planted a seed I couldn’t ignore.

In the years that followed, I began stepping away from old patterns. I moved out, spent more time alone, and started questioning who I was beneath everything I had built. A pivotal moment came during a visit to New York, where a simple moment of stillness and perspective on top of Empire State Building made something clear: if I wanted to truly find myself, I needed to change my environment.

Soon after, I moved to the UK. My first years were challenging and humbling. I worked physical jobs, rebuilt my life from the ground up, and spent a great deal of time in reflection. Slowly, I found stability, opportunity, and eventually returned to working on high-rise construction projects — what I once believed was my purpose.

Life continued to unfold. My wife and I reunited, married, and later moved to Manchester to build our family life together. Our daughter was born, and with her came a deeper sense of responsibility, love, and meaning. Professionally, I achieved what I had once set out to do, progressing into management and external success.