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When Plans Fall Apart—and That’s the Best Thing That Could Happen

I was headed to a regular, no-frills blockchain conference. Tickets to Tallinn—booked. Slides—polished. Pitch—rehearsed. Even the startup T-shirt was freshly washed for the first time in months.

But that morning, everything went off-script. Alarm didn’t go off. Elevator broke. The taxi got stuck in traffic. And there I was, suitcase in hand, staring at a closed check-in counter, feeling like an idiot. The only thought in my head: “That’s it—no conference, no investors, no rooftop coworking coffee.”

A Coffee Instead of a Conference

And then something strange happened: I didn’t rebook. I didn’t text frantic apologies. I just walked into the nearest café and thought: what if… I didn’t go back?

That’s how my first plan-free, open-ended world trip began. I just followed the warmth, low prices, and decent Wi-Fi.

Wine, Khachapuri, and the Art of Doing Nothing (Temporarily)

First stop: Georgia. I drank wine, ate khachapuri, and told myself this was a short break. Just a week or two. Then came Japan, Singapore, Colombia. A “week” turned into nine months.

The Suitcase Full of Slides—and a Life Left Behind

I carried the same suitcase everywhere—with a folder of printed slides from the talk. Just in case I needed to remember the idea. I opened it once in Mumbai, again in Sydney. Then closed it. Life kept distracting me.

From Freedom to Fake Structure: Addicted to Planning

At first, I wanted to feel free—no deadlines, no meetings, no hustle. But I quickly realized I was uncomfortable without a schedule. So I started building one from scratch. In Quito, I gave myself a Spanish sprint. In Lima, I researched scooter rentals. In Goa, I woke at 6 a.m. to structure my trip in Notion. Ridiculous? Yes. But I was obsessing even over rest.

Same Hustle, New Time Zones

I carried old code. As if I was still playing the same game—just from a different time zone. Every new place, first thing I did was look for a place to work. Coworking, coffee, Zoom sessions. Told myself I was just remote. Truth was, I was scared to stop. To really stop—and ask, “Who am I without this endless hustle?”

The Turning Point: A Village in Chile, No Laptop

The peak came in a remote Chilean village. Someone stole my laptop. My mission control—gone. I sat wrapped in a blanket, staring out the window, trying to remember why I even started traveling. When did this stop being joy and turn into just moving the same story around new backdrops?

The Journey Ends Where It Matters Most

I opened the suitcase—and there it was, like a scene from a movie: the startup T-shirt. Clean, folded, never worn. A little artifact from my old self. Funny, sweet, completely out of place.

That’s how I’d been carrying my old self this whole time. With all the same goals, worries, drive to “achieve.” I realized it doesn’t matter if you’re on a call with investors or in a tent on a beach—if you don’t shift internally, you're just dragging the same baggage across different countries.

The world trip didn’t end in Bali, or LA, or under the Eiffel Tower. It ended inside. The first time I allowed myself to just do nothing. No plans. No purpose. Just… be.

And that folder with the slides? Still in the suitcase. But now it’s a reminder that I can choose to be someone else—whenever I want.

A Café, a Coffee, and That Feeling of Stuck

Late '90s. Autumn. I’m sitting in some depressing café with plastic chairs, sipping an Americano and nibbling a cheesecake—because that’s all I can afford, and the coffee is non-negotiable.

It was that kind of time—when life felt like it was buffering. No clear plan. Work was annoying. The city weighed on me. I felt like I was stuck between “still young” and “why hasn’t anything worked out yet?”

The Startup Table and the Forgotten Card

In the corner, a lively group. One guy pulls out a laptop! Shows something to the others. I catch a few words—startup, demo, pitch, angel investors. These words sounded like a spaceship to me at the time. I wasn’t from that world. I was from the world where PowerPoint took 20 minutes to load, and “project” usually meant something my boss made up again.

A few minutes later, they leave. But one of them forgets his business card on the table.

The Email That Wasn’t a Resume

I hesitate for a second. Then I take it. Then I sit there another 15 minutes, just turning it in my fingers.
Then I write an email:

“Hey. I overheard you. I can do this, I’m curious about that, I know a bit of this. If you need someone—I’m around.”
And I hit send.

It wasn’t a resume. It was a jump.
One of those jumps that begins with: “Well… why the hell not?”

A Different Life from One Message

Three days later, they replied.
A week later, I was in their new office talking marketing and building presentations that actually loaded.
Another week later, I got paid—not for hours worked, but for results delivered. A first.

I still think about that café sometimes. About that business card. About how everything would’ve gone a different way if I’d just finished my coffee and walked home.

Sometimes fate hands you a business card.
More often, you just have to ask yourself:
Why the hell not?
And jump.

Fatherhood Means Showing Up—Always

Being a father means you can’t remember the last time you slept well, but you can instantly tell the difference between “I’m crying because I fell” and “I’m crying because the juice was in the wrong cup.”

It means you’ve become an expert on strollers, thermometers, cartoons, and toddler mood swings—
even though you once dreamed of being a rock star. Or at least sleeping in until 9.

I’ve got four of them. Yes, on purpose. No, I’m not crazy. Well, not completely.

Every Day Teaches You Something New

Every single day, I learn something new about myself.
Like the fact that I can read the same book out loud 12 times in a row.

Or that I’m capable of not murdering someone who wakes me up at 5:40 AM with, “What if a zebra had a cucumber for a tail?”

That I can love these tiny humans beyond reason— and still daydream about just 15 minutes alone in my forest cave.

Being a Dad Isn’t a Title—It’s Presence

A dad isn’t a “hero,” or a “provider,” or the “head of the family.”
A dad is someone who’s there. Every day. Sometimes in slippers. Sometimes hanging by a thread.
But there.

So here’s to every father who’s holding it together.
Who didn’t run. Who isn’t performing for social media.
Even if it feels like everything is held together by duct tape and caffeine.

Happy Father’s Day.