New Zealand (Weekly) Update #101

Last updated on Juni 24, 2025

23rd of September 2024 to 22nd of June 2025

Approximate reading time: 15-25 minutes

Let’s Get It Started

Welcome back, folks!
It’s been a hot minute. I just re-read my last update from September 2024 and… wow. What a ride. What a year. One hell of a chaotic, beautiful, soul-punching, spirit-lifting rollercoaster.

It was challenging. It was exhausting. At times, it felt like a never-ending nightmare full of “What the actual fuck?” moments.
But it was also sprinkled with small victories, sweet moments, glimmers of hope, deep support, and a stubborn belief that things will get better.
And somehow, they kinda did. Kind of. A bit.

So here we go – a brutally honest recap of what happened. Even if you can’t fully share the feelings or madness of my lived experience, maybe you’ll get a glimpse. Maybe you’ll wonder how I kept going, why I kept going, and why I still chose to stay.

This is my first blog update in ages, so brace yourself. Feel free to read the whole saga, skim it, or tackle it one bathroom break at a time. Bonus points if you’re reading this with a drink in hand or some good tunes in the background. There will be also some videos at the very end of the blog, feel free to browse and enjoy!

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A Look Back: Immigration Madness

2024 – The year I planned to officially immigrate to New Zealand.
The dream? Residency. Freedom. The legal right to stay and work wherever I want, without a specific job, employer, or visa tying me down. And eventually, permanent residency – the Holy Grail. Untouchable. No more paperwork. No more limbo.

Sounds easy. It’s not.
Spoiler alert: It turned into a bureaucratic horror story that Franz Kafka would’ve found a bit much.

So I applied. Twice. Through the “skilled migrant residency” pathway. Each application? Around $5,000 NZD. Conditions? Simple in theory:
✅ Work in a skilled role (like canyoning guide or dispensing optician)
✅ Work for an accredited employer
✅ Be paid the correct minimum rate
✅ Do it for 12 months
Then apply. Easy. Right?

First application: February 2024.
Rejection: April 2024 — same day I almost drowned while “relaxing” on a kayak with friends.
The reason? Not enough hours, not enough pay, not enough “skilled” work. Despite my contract. Despite doing the job. Despite having all the evidence.
In short: not my fault, still my problem. Immigration at its best.

As we say in Germany: Mund abputzen und weitermachen (wipe your mouth and carry on).
So I did.

Second application: July 2024.
Rejection: August 2024.
The reason? The company I worked for technically didn’t exist anymore – it had merged with another business. Immigration New Zealand claimed that meant my visa was invalid, and I’d been in breach of my visa conditions since April.
Translation: I could be deported. Surprise!

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

I lawyered up, contacted the company, begged, pleaded, built a case.
Immigration didn’t care. They ignored New Zealand’s own companies law.
At the same time, I was stuck in a legal fight with the company itself, couldn’t work, and my visa was about to expire (not that it was valid anyway).

Silver lining: My lawyer wrangled an interim visa until April 2025 – one with open work rights. I could finally work for whoever I wanted.

But emotionally? I was done. Burnt out. Broke. Like actually broke as fuck.
I didn’t have it in me to fight another tribunal, another appeal, another absurdity. I gave up. Not on life, but on residency. On the illusion of fairness. On the myth of a welcoming immigration system. On the idea of justice or fair treatment.

So I just looked for a job. Any job. Just to get me through to April 2025.

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Wet With Wildwire

With summer rolling in, I went job-hunting in Wanaka. Enter: Wildwire, a local guiding company running Via Ferrata (Klettersteig) adventures and two stunning canyoning trips.

We’d been in touch before, but they couldn’t sponsor me due to lack of accreditation.
Now, with my open visa, the door was open. I jumped in.

Even though it was a casual contract (aka “we’ll call you when we need you”), I was working, guiding, living. And napping. A lot.

Six hours guiding in the sun, and I’d come home and crash on the couch like a pensioner after Christmas dinner. The exhaustion was real – not just physical, but emotional. The past year had drained me to the bone.

So I gave in. Slept when needed. Rested without guilt. Skipped social stuff.
Tried not to beat myself up for feeling off. Practised kindness – to myself.

Still, there were good times.
Sammy, Anthony, Timi and I hit Oktoberfest Wanaka, Sammy and I won random mini-games, scored pub vouchers, and spent them immediately on food and drinks for us and our mates.
We road-tripped to Tekapo and Franz Josef, did the stunning Roberts Point Track (Keas! Everywhere!), and had an amazing Wellington escape in January – great cafés, lush forests, kombucha brewery tours, and Cuba Street magic.

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Red Bull Gives You… Trolleys?

Back from Wellington, work at Wildwire slowed down (way more than expected), and I started job-hunting again. Needed something new. Something fun.

Cue: the Red Bull Trolley Grand Prix in Auckland.
Basically, a Seifenkistenrennen (soapbox cart race), but make it insane.

Our team theme? Transformers.
We built a full-blown cart and transforming cardboard costumes. We used so much glue, we’re probably banned from at least three hardware stores.

February 2025 – we hit the road to Auckland. Four guys, one trailer, thousands of kilometres, minimal sleep, maximum chaos.
First stop: Tekapo. I check my costume. It’s destroyed.
I lose my mind.

After a few deep breaths and a little dramatic silence, I pivot:
New idea: I’ll be the “Sexy Mechanic.”
Bought some gear at the next construction shop. On race day, shirtless, marker pen scribbles on my back: “Sexy Mechanic.”
Crowd? Loved it.

Performance? …Ehh, we forgot to rehearse.
Race? Pouring rain. Paint peeling off the cart.
Our driver? Nailed it. We crossed the finish line and placed 14th out of 52.

We celebrated with epic food, drinks, and laughter.
Would we do it again?
Hell yes. We already have ideas for the next cart.

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Recycling Dawg

Back in Wānaka, fortune struck again — and in the most wonderfully unexpected way.
While I was on the hunt (yet again) for a new job, Wastebusters, the legendary second-hand haven and environmental non-profit based right here in Wānaka, put out a call. They needed support for the massive A&P Show, one of the town’s biggest events of the year. And not just any support — they needed recycling heroes.

So I showed up. Literally. Checked in, said I was keen — and boom, I was hired.
Four days on the showgrounds, under the blazing summer sun, sorting rubbish, collecting recycling, hauling food scraps, and smiling through it all… alongside 60,000 wandering, sunburned, ice-cream-wielding visitors.

Ten-hour days. Burning feet. Dust in every pore.
But the vibes? Immaculate.
The teamwork? Effortless.
The feeling of doing something good for the planet while grooving to festival tunes in hi-vis? Elite.

After the show, I dropped by Wastebusters again and told them how much I’d enjoyed it — the atmosphere, the purpose, the people. Ten minutes later, HR called.
“Wanna join the recycling team?”

Now imagine this: a certified canyoning guide, a trained dispensing optician with a Master’s in Optometry…
saying:
“Recycling? Fuck yeah. Let’s do it.”

And that’s how I officially became a Wastebuster.

What is Wastebusters?

If you haven’t heard of them, Wastebusters is not your average recycling centre.
They’re a community-powered, purpose-driven environmental hub committed to zero waste, resource recovery, and behaviour change.
They’ve been pioneering sustainability in Wānaka (and further afield) for over 20 years — long before recycling was “cool.”

Their mission?
To radically reduce waste and inspire others to consume less, reuse more, and rethink what we call rubbish.
They run a op shop (legendary one, by the way, like a treasure chest on acid, true that!), education programmes, advocacy work, and most famously: a kickass recycling service that’s as much about impact as it is about action.

In Wānaka, Wastebusters is a local icon.
In New Zealand, it’s a respected leader in grassroots climate action and circular economy initiatives.

So yeah, I was pretty damn proud to wear the badge and to get my hands dirty.

Life on the Line (Sorting Line, That Is)

Working with the small-but-mighty recycling crew, my days were filled with:

• Collecting business recycling around town
• Hand-sorting glass, plastics, cans, and cardboard with the focus of a zen monk
• Wrestling a massive baler press to compress milk bottles, aluminium cans, and whatever else the good people of Wānaka tossed into their bins
• Pushing literal tons of glass down the chute
• Helping customers figure out what’s recyclable and what’s… wishcycling
• Occasionally turning into a one-man percussion band using only metal scraps and a broom handle

All in all? It was grounding. Honest work. No frills. No fancy titles. Just a bunch of legends doing their bit.

And the best part? I got to sneak in my „side hustle“:
Kombucha brewing.
While I haven’t launched a full business (because I’ve chosen to stay flexible for future travel), I’ve been using the Wastebusters community to get feedback, share batches, and refine the brewing process. People dig it.
And it’s a great feeling seeing something you’ve made — with love and probiotics — put a smile on someone’s face.

Purpose Over Paychecks

I always wanted to work for Wastebusters.
Not because it’s glamorous (spoiler: it’s not), but because of the vibe.
It’s one of the few places I’ve worked where purpose genuinely trumps profit, where the people show up not just for the work, but with heart.

And in the end, it really doesn’t matter whether you’re picking up recycling, guiding canyon tours, fitting glasses, or doing lab research.
If the team is solid, if the energy is good — that’s the magic.
That’s what makes a job worth doing.
It’s the people. Always the people.

And Wastebusters? They’ve got the right ones. (Well… one fewer now, since my agreement ended in May 2025.)

They even offered me a long-term contract.
And yes, I was tempted.
But I declined — not because I didn’t want to stay, but because another whisper was calling me…
A quiet one.
A silent one.

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The sound of silence – Vipassana

I would call myself a resilient, determined person — someone who has gone through some pretty serious moments, situations, and challenges. Fights. Struggles. Ups and downs. Through dark moments, dark thoughts, and depression. Through therapy. Life coaching. I’ve walked a healing pilgrimage, written a book about it, and learned a lot — about myself, about the hardships of life, the beauty of it, and about one never-changing truth:

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗲𝗻𝘁.

Everything is constantly changing. No matter how much we work, pray, earn, or try. This is reality. A reality we must accept — not to surrender, but to find more peace, more freedom, and more healing.
After all those challenges, and still facing new ones — including the ongoing (and sometimes exhausting) process of trying to secure residency in New Zealand — I found myself wondering, yet again:
How can I get something meaningful out of my own pain, my triggers, my negative thoughts, and the stories I tell myself about how the world is against me?
Fortunately, I was working with someone at Wastebusters who introduced me to Vipassana — a 10-day silent retreat he was about to attend. “It’s a meditation technique,” he said, “where you face yourself, your pain, your triggers… you dig deep and get some of those toxic roots out.”
That caught my interest. I did some light research (which is recommended — don’t overdo it; too much info can lead to wrong expectations since everyone’s journey is deeply personal) and I decided to give it a go.

Ten days. Silence. Just outside of Auckland. A peaceful, quiet place.

And suddenly, there I was:
No phone.
No music.
No talking.
No reading.
No writing.
No direct eye contact.
No alcohol or drugs — nothing to distract you from your inner journey.
Ten hours of meditation a day.

Now let’s be clear — you’re not forced to do anything. You could hide your phone and sneak a scroll each night. You could bring a bottle of booze and sip yourself into a nightly stupor. You could pack the entire Harry Potter series and have a lovely time.
But if you do that, you’re not just lying to the course — you’re lying to yourself.
And you’re missing the point of what could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity:
To get to know yourself in a way most people never dare.

The schedule is intense:
Wake up: 4:00am
First meditation: 4:30–6:30am
Breakfast until 8:00
Meditations until 11:00
Lunch until 1:00pm
More meditation until 5:00
Light dinner (fruit and tea!) until 6:00
Evening meditation, followed by a discourse video until 8:30
Final meditation until 9:00pm
Then sleep. And repeat.

Each day feels like a week. Each hour of meditation feels like a lifetime. Your mind will go absolutely bananas while you try to observe your breath, your body sensations — and most importantly, not react to any of it.

So what is Vipassana?
In short: “Seeing reality as it is — not as you want it to be.” And not reacting to it.

You start by learning to observe your breath. Natural breath. No control, no manipulation. Just observation. The air coming in — slightly cooler. The air going out — slightly warmer. You become more aware of the smallest sensations around your nostrils: a tingle, a twitch, a bit of itchiness… and you don’t react. That itch? It passes. You observe. You let go.
After a few days, you move on to full-body scans: slowly observing sensations from head to toe, and toe to head. Heat. Prickles. Sweat. Buzzing. Pain. Numbness. Electric pulses. You feel it all (or you might not and you accept it) — and you don’t move. You don’t react. You keep scanning. It sounds simple. But it ain’t easy though.

And just when you think you’re getting the hang of it, your mind goes absolutely feral.
One moment, you’re calmly focused. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, your mind serves you this image:
You’re hungry. Someone offers you food. Great. But now you’re using that food as soap and smearing it all over yourself. Wait, why? Now this person who gave you the food wants to kill you — so naturally, you throw the food at them and run. All of that… in one second.

𝗠𝗶𝗻𝗱. 𝗜𝘀. 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀.

But also:
Your mind shows you pain. Trauma. Flashbacks. Deep-rooted fears or beliefs you didn’t even know were still living inside you.
This is the real work.
Around Day 4, they ask you to sit “as equanimously as possible” during three core sessions.

That means:
No movement.
No cracking.
No scratching.
No adjusting.

Unless you’re in serious pain or have a physical disability — you stay still.
So I did. I sat. I scanned. My position was fine at first — smooth sailing. Then a sharp pain crept into my back. Like someone was stretching a resistance band across my spine and pulling harder and harder.
Before, I would’ve shifted immediately to avoid the pain. But I didn’t. I kept scanning. Kept observing.
And the pain — slowly — started fading from the top down.
And then my mind struck.
Out of nowhere, an old memory surfaced — one I hadn’t thought of in 20 years.
I was 15. I had been choked by someone older, stronger, emotionally somehow unstable. Pushed against a wardrobe.
The pain I was feeling in my back during this meditation — it was probably the same pain. But this time, something shifted:
That pain was never mine to carry. It never belonged to me.
It was their pain — thrown onto me out of arrogance, ignorance, fear, and rage. And in that moment, in that hall, I was finally able to let it go.
Not just mentally — but deep in my body. On an experiential level. And that’s where real healing happens.

Let me be very clear:
This retreat was not about becoming a Buddhist. It wasn’t about reaching enlightenment or floating above the trees. It was a raw, brutal, deeply human way to face pain — past and present — and begin to release it.
And from the bottom of my heart: It works.
Not like a magic fix. Not overnight.
But slowly, steadily, and profoundly — it helps.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗩𝗶𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗮 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁:
It’s not a religion.
It’s not about becoming a monk or reaching enlightenment.
It’s not about “positive vibes” or spiritual bypassing.
And it’s definitely not a wellness holiday.

It’s intense. It’s raw. It’s humbling.
And yes — it might sound like hippie stuff. But unless you’ve done it, you don’t really know.
And that’s okay. I’m not here to convert or convince. I’m here to share an experience — because healing looks different for everyone, and no one should be judged for what helps them grow.

Would I do it again?
Yes. 100%.
Will I do it again soon? I don’t know — because honestly, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Way harder than walking across Spain, or writing a book, or fighting through immigration chaos. Because this retreat doesn’t challenge your body — it challenges your ego, your mind and your whole system.
It digs into the soil of your mind and keeps digging. But with each layer, something releases. Something heals. Something shifts. You start seeing the truth of things more clearly — and you start responding to life differently.
So if you’re called to explore it, don’t over-Google.
Don’t overthink it.
Just go.

Now, to anyone reading this who thinks: “Sounds a bit woo-woo” or “Silence won’t fix trauma” — I hear you. I used to think the same. And that’s fair. But just like you wouldn’t dismiss skydiving if you’ve never jumped, or criticize therapy if you’ve never sat on the couch — don’t judge what you haven’t tried. Everyone’s experience is their own. No one should feel ridiculed or diminished for doing something that helped them grow or heal.

If you ever feel called to do something similar, I say:
Don’t over-research it. Don’t overthink it. Just go.
Everyone’s journey is different. And that’s exactly the point.

5 Takeaway Messages from 10 Days of Silence

Your mind is not your enemy — but it needs training.

Left unchecked, the mind runs wild. Vipassana teaches you to observe it without getting pulled into the madness.

Healing isn’t intellectual — it’s experiential.

You can understand your pain, but only by feeling and observing it can you truly release it.

Discomfort is the path, not the problem.

Growth often hides behind restlessness, pain, or boredom. Sit with it. That’s where change happens.

You don’t need to be “spiritual” to benefit.

This isn’t about religion, mantras, or robes — it’s a practical tool for anyone wanting more peace and clarity.

Everyone’s journey is different — and valid.

Don’t judge what you haven’t experienced. What works for someone else might surprise you if you give it a chance.

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Whats next – Post-Retreat Blues, Bureaucracy & a „travel plan„

So. I came back from the silence retreat — mind sharp, soul lighter, no job, no major plans, and absolutely nothing to distract me from the chaotic circus that is… my own brain.
Welcome back to “normal life.”
Except — plot twist — normal doesn’t feel normal anymore.
Suddenly, I’m noticing all these micro-thoughts and emotional patterns — like my brain’s running a background script full of old beliefs, weird reactions, and half-baked expectations that aren’t even mine.
Every day feels like a mental tug-of-war:
👉🏼 Part of me wants to scream, flinch, flee, or overthink.
👉🏼 Another part gently whispers, “Breathe. Let it go. Don’t be dramatic.”

Sometimes I listen to the whisper. Sometimes I make toast and sulk for an hour.
Progress.
But weirdly, I feel more aware now.
More able to choose a different reaction. Or even no reaction and just let the sensations pass.
More willing to let go of thought patterns that feel like hand-me-down clothes from someone else’s teenage years. (fun fact – I would always wear the clothes from my older brothers…)
And from this chaos came clarity — about life, direction, and… Wānaka.

Breaking Up With Wānaka
Here’s the deal:
Wānaka isn’t home anymore.
The place has changed.
I’ve changed.

When I first arrived, Wānaka felt like magic — a mix of mountains, lakes, dreamy coffee, and genuinely kind humans.
Now? It’s feeling more like a rush, a must, a place for the rich and famous. A place full of unspoken challenges, comparisons and outdoor madness.

It’s getting busier.
It’s getting bougier.
And unless you’re cashed up, connected, or casually famous, it’s becoming a hard place to truly live — not just exist.

Even long-time locals — the ones who’ve seen the town grow from dirt roads to designer shops — are saying it’s changing too fast, too hard, too much.
More tourism. More money. More stress.
And less of that small-town soul I fell in love with.

So after lots of late-night chats (and one too many “Wānaka wine Wednesdays”), Sammy and I made a call:
It’s time to move on.

Operation: Get the Hell Up North
The plan?
Travel.
Work.
Breathe.
Recalibrate.
Maybe even chase some sun.

And yes — we’re legal!
Visa legal.

Thanks to a metric tonne of paperwork, I applied for a partnership open work visa through Sammy (absolute legend, partner, and co-CEO of Operation Move).
Let’s just say I came in prepared:
📁 Timelines
📁 Shared tenancy agreement
📁 Joint bank account
📁 Screenshots of our chats
📁 Social media receipts
📁 Photos galore
📁 Support letters from everyone but the family dog

Immigration had no reason to doubt the relationship – I overloaded them with information, evidence and documents.
And just like that — approved until April 2026.
Honestly, that application was so watertight I could’ve laminated it and used it as a flotation device.

Immigration Plot Twist: Minister Mode Activated
But I wasn’t done there.
After everything that went down — the double residency rejection, the legal misfires, the company-merging nonsense, the underpayment disaster — I wasn’t going to just move on quietly.
So I did what any peaceful, reflective, post-retreat legend would do:
I read the New Zealand Immigration Act.

And boom:
Section 11.
A hidden gem.
It allows you to request a Special Direction from the Minister of Immigration.
Basically: “Hey Minister, your department screwed me over — here’s the evidence, do something.” Simple, not easy though!

So I wrote a five-page letter.
Attached every relevant document.
Made the case based on injustice, hardship, and public interest.
And just before my Vipassana retreat… I got the reply:

Accepted for Ministerial review.
Yep — my case is now on the desk of the actual Minister (or Associate Minister, depending on whose coffee break it is).

In a perfect world?
They’ll grant my residency directly, probably even backdated.
In the real world? Well… we’ll see.

If that doesn’t work, I’ll apply again in November 2025, this time under the partnership category with Sammy, who is a proud New Zealand citizen and fellow snack lover.

Canada 2026: Maple Syrup & Mystery
And then comes the next chapter.
In March 2026, we plan to head off to Canada on a Working Holiday Visa.
New adventures. New people. New kombucha brews?
We don’t know exactly where we’ll land — but who really does?

Until then, we’ll test out the car setup I built just before the silence retreat.
Not to brag (okay, maybe a little), but this thing is solid:
🛠 Built in two Saturdays
🛏 Full bed base for two
📦 Epic storage drawers
🔧 More stable than my mental health in 2024

And So…
Back from silence.
Ready to roll.
Still confused. Still tired.
But hopeful.

Because as messy and maddening as it’s all been — I’m still here.
Still moving.
Still laughing.
Still choosing purpose over comfort.

And whether we land in Raglan, Rotorua, or Vancouver— at least we’ve got each other, a working visa, and a van (well it is a Honda CRV and might some more snackies in order to become a real Van) that doesn’t squeak. (Well… not much.)

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What else to say?

Two and a half years.
That’s how long I’ve been in New Zealand.
Two and a half years navigating the wild, bureaucratic jungle of immigration — one visa after another (at least five by now, maybe six if we count the emotional breakdowns).
But beyond the paperwork, beyond the constant state of waiting and uncertainty, these years have been a series of chapters: some heavy, some light, all deeply personal.
They’ve held adventure and chaos, new connections and heartbreak, and an ongoing, often raw, journey of getting to know myself — the real self, not the one shaped by expectations or fear.
They’ve been full of ups and downs, of deep joy and paralyzing doubt, of pushing forward when everything inside said to stop.
Especially in 2024, the „What the actual fuck?“ moments came like waves — relentless, disorienting, and sometimes drowning.

The Distance That Grows
The longer I’m here, the more I realize that I haven’t just put physical distance between myself and Germany — I’ve drifted in other ways, too.
Friendships have shifted.
Some have faded. Others changed shape entirely.
And while there are still connections that feel strong, that feel like home, many now carry a kind of quiet distance.
There are fewer check-ins. Fewer spontaneous “Hey, how are you really doing?” messages.
Less shared life. Less catching up.
And sometimes, that silence hits harder than any immigration rejection letter.

Living on the other side of the world, after more than 30 years in one place, is a strange thing.
It can feel incredibly lonely, no matter how beautiful the landscape.
Challenging, even when the sun is shining.
Exhausting, even when the days seem calm.
And trying to explain that to others — near or far, loved ones or strangers — can feel like trying to describe a dream that no longer makes sense when you wake up.

You start to wonder:
Would it be easier to go back?
To choose a “normal” path — a stable job, a house, marriage, a couple of holidays a year in Europe?
Would that be more peaceful? More acceptable? More predictable?

The Inner Work
But then I stop and remember what these two and a half years have given me — not just what they’ve taken.
Without the hard parts in my life — the breakdowns, the betrayals, the bureaucracy — I wouldn’t have:

• Started therapy
• Taken coaching sessions
• Walked the Camino Francés, carrying both my pack and my pain
• Written a book about it
• Faced the shadows of my past instead of running from them
• Tried a Vipassana retreat, where I met silence not as an enemy, but as a teacher
• Learned to be honest, not just outwardly, but with myself
• And slowly, quietly, started to believe that it’s okay to not meet every expectation — especially the ones I never chose in the first place

Gratitude in the Grief
So no — it wasn’t easy.
It still isn’t.
But looking back now, I feel something I didn’t expect to:
Gratitude.

Because that’s the thing about struggle:
It can break you open, or it can break you down.
And sometimes, it does both — until you realise that the cracks are where the light gets in.
All of this pain — every hard moment, every cancelled visa, every night I questioned if I belonged here…
It meant something.
It taught me to let go of who I thought I needed to be.
It gave me the tools to heal, to move forward, to soften.
It gave me people.
The right ones.
Friends, chosen family, a relationship with Sammy — real, honest connections that reminded me I don’t have to do this alone.

Gratitude for the struggle, because it shaped me.
Gratitude for the heartbreak, because it humbled me.
Gratitude for the silence, because it helped me hear what truly matters.
And above all, gratitude for the people who showed up, who stayed, who held space when I couldn’t hold it myself.

If I’ve learned one thing, it’s this:
You don’t need a perfect plan.
You just need the right people and the courage to keep showing up — even when everything feels uncertain.

Your DingyInternational
Felix

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