I loved sports with all my heart. Motocross, road cycling, and mountain biking—they were my ultimate outlets, the spaces where I went to decompress and feel fully alive. But too many times, I had to stop because I crashed hard or broke my bones. It felt like every single time I hit a good rhythm, something bad happened on my road of discovering the best in myself. Whether it was losing my physical shape or the heavy pressure I put on myself to make results count—to make especially others proud—I went extraordinarily far for it.

I pushed my boundaries way past the edge, crossing limits that should have stayed untouched. But it felt okay at the time, because I just didn’t want to lose or give up. In the end, though, I had no choice. I had to walk away from the sports I loved with heart and soul.

And even today, I still pay the price for those heavy injuries. Long walks and even a simple casual ride on a bike are no longer possible.

When the body forces you out of the arena, the silence left behind is heavy. With photography, I found a way to stay close to the sports I still cherish.

 

With a camera in my hand, I was right back in the action, feeling the adrenaline and the pulse of the race. I just wanted to show the world images that mattered. Images that carried a soul, an emotion.

How far would I go? To bring the best frames to the table, I invested everything—even ruining my own clothes in the dirt and elements—just to bring a bit of magic into the world. I was dragging all that weight with heavy lenses until my body was bruised, yet I kept working just to make the people close to me proud. And too often, the return was nearly no payment, or worse, a complete lack of basic respect. You pour your physical exhaustion and your creative soul into a craft, hoping the work speaks for itself, only to realize you are carrying the entire weight alone.

 

For the longest time, that need to prove myself just transferred from the bike to the lens. But in that constant drive to prove my worth, I lost myself.

I stopped seeing the images that I actually loved. Instead, my eyes were only scanning for what others would like—what would get approval, what would satisfy the client, what would check the right boxes. Without realizing it, I had built a trap where I was still working entirely for other people, letting their expectations dictate my vision. The joy of the capture was buried under the pressure of validation.

Some people look at this and think I am never satisfied. They think I am always chasing the newest product, always looking for the next piece of gear.

I don’t chase gear for the sake of it; I just give everything I have to bring the absolute best to the table. That is called true perfectionism, and it is a standard that is extremely hard on oneself. The ones who stand on the sidelines pointing the finger—pointing fingers is easy, but seeing the truth is harder. They never expect that level of total dedication, and they don’t understand the cost.

That is why I need to step away from assignments, expectations, and the endless cycle of working for others. I want to discover the world.

Being on the road—whether moving through the landscape with a motorbike or finding a quiet camp in a campervan—is where the heavy noise finally fades away. It is an escape from the chaos, a way to connect deeply with nature where true peace enters the mind. Out there, the road doesn’t care about client briefs or what gear is in your bag. It just offers space, horizon, and a profound sense of stillness.

Some months ago, I made a quiet, definitive shift. I decided to work exclusively with Leica moving forward. I sold off all my materials from other brands, and I still find myself wanting to simplify even more—clearing my shelves until everything is simple, enjoyable, and fun.

I don’t need to prove my worth anymore. I am officially stopping assignment work. No more client expectations, no more second-guessing my vision, and no more working for others.

Today, my relationship with photography has found its true rhythm.

I just love film and the slowing down of it—that deliberate, meditative pause where every single frame is a conscious breath. But I also fell for something I truly never expected: the sharpness and the handling of the Leica SL3.

It is the combination of both worlds that brings me peace. The analog soul and the digital precision, working together without friction as I travel down open roads, campervan parked under an open sky, or pausing with the motorbike to watch the light change across a valley.

No expectations. No assignments. No more chasing approval or working for someone else’s eye.

Just me, my Leica, the open road, and the freedom to finally see, feel, and capture the beauty of the world for myself.