A couple of years ago, my wife and I were visiting friends in Zagorje. Their home sits in the hills, surrounded by green, quiet, and air that feels like medicine. We ate slow, delicious food. Vinyl records spun on the player. Conversations drifted easily, without urgency and, for a moment, I felt like I had stepped into my ideal soulscape: slow, deliberate, and free.
Then the phone rang.
It was my best friend and work partner Borna. He pitched me an idea: setting up a new company, applying for EU funds, diving into another round of tenders and projects.
I had just left the photo-video work that I had poured my heart and soul into but couldn’t make it work financially, behind and Borna was offering safety, a new pivot. Still, in my gut, it felt like a threat. My old wiring lit up instantly: responsibility means risk, complexity, and collapse.
Responsibility means risk, complexity, and collapse.
I can still remember the tug-of-war inside me. On one side: trust and loyalty to my closest friend, someone I’d follow anywhere. On the other: my anxious instinct to retreat, to protect myself, to shrink away from more responsibility. That instinct wasn’t random; it was built from years of being overwhelmed, of chasing projects that fizzled, of feeling like the ground was always shifting and from all the instabilities I carried from my early childhood.
At that moment, I desperately wanted the quiet, consultant-style life our friends lived: food and drink workshops they organized, great music, endless walks in the woods. Not another company. Not another wave of unknowns.
And yet, I said yes.
What Followed
Fast forward to today. That single “yes” became the doorway to everything that followed:
- We won EU funding for a project.
- We built other gigs that are now supporting us.
- My wife and I bought land and started planning our house.
- I’m raising a daughter I never thought I’d have, in a life I once thought was impossible.
The fear that once felt like a stop sign turned out to be nothing more than the threshold. Walking through it didn’t crush me—it expanded me.
What I Learned
I used to believe fear meant danger. That it was a signal to stop, to retreat, to hide. But fear, I’ve come to see, is often just the sound of growth knocking at the door.
I used to believe fear meant danger. That it was a signal to stop, to retreat, to hide.
The soulscape I long for — the quiet, the family, the freedom — only grows out of engagement with the messy, difficult, responsibility-heavy work I used to dread. The peace is real, but it’s earned brick by brick, project by project, arc by arc.
Fear didn’t mean stop. Fear meant begin here.
Why Share This
I don’t think my story is unique. Most of us face crossroads where one path feels safe but stagnant, and the other feels terrifying but alive. We hesitate, we bargain, we wish we could have the outcome without the risk.
But here’s the thing: a lot of the meaningful in my life today sprouted from that one “yes” in the face of fear.
So if you’re standing at your own threshold, staring at the discomfort that comes with responsibility, maybe this is the reminder you need: the fear won’t vanish, but it might just be pointing you toward the beginning of something that matters.
