I sit at my desk. The tablet lies in front of me, and old school grades appear on the screen. A relic
from a time I don't miss. I hated school—this constant evaluation, the measuring against a system that
left no room for creativity or individuality.You just have to sit down and
study!
they said. Read more books, and your grammar will
improve!
But it wasn't that simple.Lazy but smart,
they said
when I was a child. And I believed them.
On top of that, I was overweight. Obese. And because others
made fun of me, I felt worthless.
My gaze keeps wandering to the mirror. My own reflection looks back at me, but I don't really recognize
myself. Hadn't I finally become thin enough to be perfect? Am I finally worth something? Adapted enough
to blend in?
It was always: René, you're too loud, or too much.
So I tried to meet their
expectations. Thinner, more ambitious, more conforming. Deep inside, these words were like programs
running in my mind, controlling my thoughts.

At work, I function. I smile in video calls, speak professionally, get my tasks done. I do far more than
I should. Do more—because it's still not enough or not perfect enough. Always hoping to climb higher, to
move forward—at any cost.
But as soon as I close my laptop, all that's left is exhaustion. My eyes
fall on the mirror.
The same question again: Am I finally perfect now? Better? Worth more?
There was no single moment of realization, no sudden enlightenment. It was a long journey, an endless
battle against the doubts deeply ingrained in me.
Enough, I thought. Take a sabbatical,
after COVID it will do you good. Walk the Camino and try applying elsewhere in the
meantime.
Always with that feeling: It's not enough. If it doesn't work out there, then
somewhere else.
But I didn't find anything new.
Whatever—back to the golden cage.

But what awaited me left me speechless: Suddenly, I often felt nauseous when talking to people, I was exhausted for no reason, I had pain in my left arm, and I could barely work, let alone manage my daily life. This went on for almost an entire year.

And then, thanks to someone who opened my eyes, it finally dawned on me:
I cannot live in a system
that keeps me small.
I can create my own space.
I can finally decide for myself who I want to be.
I learned to see that I am enough.
That my exhaustion wasn't a sign of weakness but proof that I had
accomplished something.
That my sensitivity wasn't a burden but a gift.
I can read people's
emotions, pick up on the smallest nuances in conversations.
What once overwhelmed me now makes me a
great observer.
I no longer have to hide because I accept that I am gay.

The people around me—my sister, friends, my husband, the +1 nice colleagues at work—are my anchors, my mirrors, in which I no longer feel like a stranger.
Since then, I get on my road bike with a different feeling, in skin-tight gear. The wind rushes past me, nature flies by, my mind clears. Conversations with colleagues become more authentic, more honest. At work, I set the pace now—without burning out.

Freedom.
I don't want to be free just for myself.
I want to show others that it's possible.
I want to
inspire, to motivate, to give people the tools to shape their own path.
To create something beyond
imagination.
Something that not only helps me but also those who struggle the most.
I see myself in the reflection of a window. A man who doubts less, who is no longer afraid to be seen. I am attractive, full of energy, ready to shape the future and make the impossible happen—not just for myself but for anyone who needs support.
I don't pretend anymore.
Either like this—or not at all.
Since then, a new chapter of my life has begun. Even though there are still setbacks, I now stand on a different foundation.
Ever since I developed cataracts in my right eye, I understand everyone who relies on accessible
products. And once again, I see the same patterns:
People saying: "Isn't that a bit much?
The design, the effort?"
I can finally respond: NO.
As I keep riding, I lift my gaze. The sky is bathed in soft colors, the day is coming to an end.
But
for me, a new chapter is just beginning.
