without why

I wasn’t a problem child. Nor a prodigy. I fit in everywhere just enough not to stand out — except for my height. Two meters. That made me visible, even when I preferred not to be. I learned early on how to take up space without drawing attention. Speak quietly. Bend. Don’t decide too quickly.

At school, I was the life of the party. Making jokes to hide the fact that I often found the material complicated. I didn’t think about what would be useful later. The goal was simple: get the highest possible diploma. HAVO turned out to be the maximum achievable. Further study didn’t feel necessary. In a company, I would naturally work my way up.

That didn’t happen.

Who was I? What did I actually want? Those are not questions an organization is waiting for. So came Plan B. Work, earn money, and maybe one day start something for myself. The people around me understood that.

There was always something I was working on. An idea. A plan. Something that sounded logical when I explained it. That was seen as ambition. Sometimes as intelligence. I let that image persist. It helped conversations move forward. It bought me time.

What it didn’t give me, was direction.

I used to have a friend who was very much like me. We were broadly interested, played longer than others, preferred building things over dealing with what was expected. While he was mainly focused on computers, I did everything.

After high school, our paths diverged. He built a company. It grew. Eventually, it became big — bigger than I had ever imagined. I only thought that was a good thing. Sincerely.

Because if he could do it, I should be able to succeed too. After all, we were like two peas in a pod.

I didn’t see it as a warning. I saw it as confirmation.

I started all sorts of things, but nothing truly became mine. Not because I lacked effort, but because I always saw a better possibility. Something that might fit better. Something that had to become clearer first.

I was good at explaining why it wasn’t the right moment yet. As long as I kept multiple options open, I never had to fully choose anything.

Money was never the starting point. Not because it was there, but because I avoided truly looking at it.

I had no buffer. No period where everything finally clicked. No phase where I thought: now I stand firm.

There were jobs, projects, ideas — but rarely something that lasted. People often thought I knew what I was doing. Sometimes, I thought so myself.

That pattern wasn’t limited to work or direction. Even outside that context, I rarely stayed in one place for long. Attention felt pleasant, without anything having to be fixed.

But I was a difficult partner. I didn’t know if I was on my way to something great, or simply never really stayed anywhere. I didn’t ask myself that question.

In hindsight, I see a pattern I didn’t want to name then. I rarely chose wrong, but I also rarely chose definitively.

Everything remained open. Everything remained possible. That felt like freedom. It was mostly procrastination.

Around my fortieth, that was no longer an option.

Not because I failed, but because there was nothing to fall back on. No savings. No safety net. No alternative that was obviously better.

What I had was experience. Insight. And the realization that continuing as I was, was no longer a plan.

That is the point where this story begins. Not with ambition, but with necessity.