Fate somehow brought me into a conversation with a man in his sixties. At first glance, he seemed like a calm, intelligent, and curious person. He told me that he was approaching retirement, having spent his entire career at a single workplace—a job he had loved in the early years. But not anymore. Now, he just shows up for work.

There was a sadness in his eyes as he shared this. From what he told me, his entire corporate career had been a relentless grind, which he endured with integrity, always meeting expectations. I gathered from his words that he wouldn’t have minded the hard work if only his efforts and sacrifices had been acknowledged. But they weren’t. They were merely expected. And this lack of recognition drained his motivation, then his love for the job.

As I listened to his story, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own career. How many things had I built only to let go of them for some reason? I let them go because they no longer brought me joy. My academic career, then my marketing company, then G4B… each one was years of struggle and hustle. But the moment my work lost its meaning, I couldn’t continue. I didn’t know what would come next, but I knew I couldn’t stay…

Looking at my conversation partner, listening to his story, one question inevitably came to mind—why didn’t he? So many years had passed in his life without him loving what he once did. And perhaps that’s the most painful part. Because every single day he went to work, he was confronted with that loss. Not only had his passion been taken from him—the love for his work, the electrifying energy that drives you forward, fuels the long hours, and sparks innovation—but he let it happen. And facing this loss every day slowly drained the color from his years.

What would be the point? I’m sure he had asked himself that question a thousand times. Maybe he had even blamed himself, maybe he had even punished himself for it… As I listened, my mind played out his story like a film, and for a moment, I lived through those years—his years, or at least something that felt like it could have been his. Then, suddenly, one sentence burned through the reel.

"I’m searching for something I can do with passion."

It was such a beautiful sentence. After all these years, after all these exhausting decades, the desire was still alive in him. The desire not just to be useful, but to find something that truly fulfills him—something that, I imagine, was there when he first started working. The desire to grow, to rediscover passion, to feel again the thrilling energy that drives you forward, enables endurance, and fuels innovation. The desire for self-improvement still burned within him.

He had preserved his faith, his hope, his determination to act for himself. That young man was still alive inside him—perhaps even with his energy intact. It was good to see because, in the end, it doesn’t even matter if he finds that work—I believe he will—but rather that he still feels capable of doing something for himself.

And maybe that’s the key to survival. No, not survival. To truly living.

The article was translated from Hungarian to English by ChatGPT. Thank you, ChatGPT, for being here.

Fate somehow brought me into a conversation with a man in his sixties. At first glance, he seemed like a calm, intelligent, and curious person. He told me that he was approaching retirement, having spent his entire career at a single workplace—a job he had loved in the early years. But not anymore. Now, he just shows up for work. Sadness...

Recognition

Now that I’ve started the dog-walking conversations again, life somehow led me to take a walk with an 11-year-old young man. The kid is a distant relative, but we had never talked before. However, in the past few days, we ended up spending over an hour walking together—just him, Ottó, and me.

As is usually the case with forest mentoring walks, the conversation started immediately. We covered all sorts of topics: we talked about sports, phones, movies, everyday life, then about our parents, parent-child relationships, and friendships. He told me that he often teases others. When I asked why, he explained how much one can learn from these situations—about others, about oneself, and about communication. His reasoning was clear and well-structured.

As we moved past this topic, and after he threw a large rock onto the icy surface of the lake, we started discussing the meaning of life. He thought it was a very complicated question, to which I responded that perhaps the meaning of our lives is simply to be who we are. After all, how often do we hear things like: “Oh, why are you like this or like that? Look at Joe, he’s like this and like that.” 

Wouldn’t it be nice if it were okay just to be who we are?

He stopped for a moment, and I saw the honest amazement in his eyes. Then, with complete understanding, he started nodding—yes, perhaps that really is the meaning of life.

And so we walked—him, me, and Ottó—completely naturally, without any sense of adult-child distinction or effort. As we approached the car, he stopped, looked at me, and said:

“Balázs, you understand me. That’s awesome!”

I thought a lot about this walk afterward. On one hand, I was surprised by how great our conversation was. How mature and intelligent an 11-year-old can be. I reflected on how similar our struggles are: the loneliness of feeling misunderstood, the difficulty of connecting with others, the need to belong somewhere, the challenges of our relationships with our parents…

How much our own problems as adults and parents distance us from our children’s lives—our belief in the importance of our own struggles, our sense of self-importance. How much building my company and maintaining my sense of significance may have distanced me from truly recognizing my children’s early struggles. I failed to see how similar we are.

Or maybe, we are not just like them. Maybe we are still children ourselves. Children living in adult bodies, carrying unresolved problems from our own childhoods. And we pass these problems on to our children. Perhaps we can’t truly grow up until we resolve them. Maybe that’s what we see in our kids sometimes—our own struggles. Maybe we received these problems in the same way, or rather, we inherited them… a generational fate. Maybe the reason I couldn’t fully immerse myself in my children’s struggles was that if I realized they were the same as mine, I would lose my sense of importance.

I would lose the illusion that I am already an adult.

That’s why I escape into the grand challenges of adulthood. That’s why I don’t want to look too deeply into my children’s problems. Or rather, I do—I've always looked, always been interested. But I think I never truly understood them.

Sitting here on the couch today, I feel like this was a really profound conversation. Much more serious than I thought during the walk—if I even thought about it at all at the time.

I think I understood something. Something about myself.

Now that I’ve started the dog-walking conversations again, life somehow led me to take a walk with an 11-year-old young man. The kid is a distant relative, but we had never talked before. However, in the past few days, we ended up spending over an hour walking together—just him, Ottó, and me. As is usually the case with forest mentoring walks, the conversation started immediately. We covered all sorts of topics: we talked about sports, phones, movies, everyday life, then about our parents, parent-child relationships, and friendships...

Understood

The beginning of January is traditionally the time for planning the year in my private life. I sit down with a notebook and carefully structure my thoughts, gathering everything I want to focus on during the year so I can revisit these goals every couple of weeks or months to see what progress I’ve made.

Or rather, what does come is entirely different from what I’m used to writing. Somehow, this year still feels foggy, like the city in the mornings when viewed from the mountain. For the past two weeks, almost every morning, a thick layer of fog has blanketed the streets. During my walks, the top of the hill has sometimes peeked out from the mist, sometimes not. It was so beautiful how the fog concealed the bustling morning city—the rush of people heading to work and children going to school. Even though I couldn’t see them, I knew they were there.

I can’t see things clearly yet; everything feels foggy and quiet. Perhaps my life is following the cycles of nature. Maybe it’s still winter, and my thoughts are frozen, everything within me asleep. Perhaps the creative energies inside me are quietly hibernating in a safe, peaceful place because they know it’s not time to emerge yet—not until the weather turns friendlier.

Of course, it’s also possible that they’re already at work inside me. That’s what I feel, that’s what compels me to sit down again and again to plan my year. They’re doing their job, but the January fog obscures everything within me, too. I can’t see or hear them because I’m still somewhere else. Still on the mountain, still walking there. And while it’s wonderful to be high up, it means you’re not among the others. I don’t see them, I’m not moving with the crowd.

I think that’s my task now—to wait a little longer. With patience, with peace. As I sit in front of my computer, I believe this will be a good year. Despite all the uncertainties, I believe this year will bring something important into my life. It doesn’t matter what will happen, it doesn’t matter how the events around me may stir my emotions repeatedly. Something is coming—a change—that will be good.

I don’t know. I leave room for the possibility that it won’t. I don’t know what will happen. But that’s okay. It’s enough to believe in this, to understand that good things are not easy, not comfortable, not always safe, and not controllable. They are simply good. And it’s enough for me if I can see the good in the difficult, the uncomfortable, the uncertain, and the uncontrollable, if I can go with it and build on it.

It depends on the perspective from which I view my life and the events in it. Maybe it’s this belief that takes me to the mountain every morning. Maybe it’s the strength within this belief that makes me calm and patient. To realize that I don’t need to do anything right now. We don’t sow in winter. Fruits don’t ripen in winter… but we’ve forgotten this because we think we can have everything, anytime, immediately, as long as we want to buy it.

So I let go of all this now, and I simply enjoy the snowy nothingness, the cold purity, and in quiet serenity, I wait for the dream to arrive.

How the calm of nature's cycles can reflect the inner silence and uncertainty of starting a new year. A personal story about the strength found in waiting, faith, and inner work.

Winter Dream – The Quiet Start of the Year

Winter dream

I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for an hour, trying to gather my thoughts. I wanted to write a summary of the year—this exceptionally strange year.

So much has happened this year, and maybe it weighed on me a little. It was a year of goodbyes. Goodbye to something—maybe the past, a phase of life, a few friends, or the changes of the past four years. It felt like waiting for a connection. No plane in sight, no movement, just sitting in the waiting room, unsure if the next plane will arrive on time or who will continue the journey with you—or who won’t.

You just watch the faces in the waiting room.

This whole year felt like waiting and sitting around. And while I didn’t go anywhere—neither literally nor figuratively—there were people moving around me, stopping by for a while. This past hour was the same: quiet and reflective. I’m closing the year... I’m sitting here in the middle of a forest, in a cabin. The wood crackles in the stove and in the small fire pit outside. As I sit and watch the fire, the atmosphere feels perfect for conversations.

There’s something about fire that makes me relax. Everything feels calm as I watch the flames dance, hear the wood crackle, and let the warmth and the smoke smooth out my mood.

This year, I spoke with 91 entrepreneurs, exactly. I counted—though maybe I got it wrong. So, I met 91 people who wanted to talk during this strange year. 91 stories. Athletes, artists, politicians, researchers—some wanting to start a business or already running one but struggling to find their way. Entrepreneurs unsure about what they want to do, or with whom, or having reached the top but unsure where to go next.

There’s something comforting about fire—a slow, quiet warmth that draws you in deeply. I love this feeling. It doesn’t demand anything, isn’t in a hurry, takes nothing away. It only asks for attention, for you to feed its warmth occasionally. Maybe starting the fire is the hard part, but once it’s burning, everything becomes simple.

Maybe conversations are the same. Maybe these conversations are to our souls what the fire is to me here in this winter forest. And perhaps it’s no coincidence that in the past, people gathered around the stove or the fire to chat, joke, tell stories, or just sit quietly together.

2024 was a tough year. Maybe that’s why so many came to talk because it was hard for them too. Perhaps that’s what brought us together—me and these 91 people. We all struggled. Each in their own way. Maybe we were all standing in this year’s transit zone, looking helplessly around like Neo in The Matrix. Wondering where to go next. What direction to take—or if we’re stuck in this nowhere state forever.

Perhaps we were, and still are, like Neo at the subway station in The Matrix. Maybe this year, this station, symbolizes transition and stagnation—a state where, like Neo, we are physically and symbolically stuck. This state reflects our inner conflicts and uncertainties, triggered by our reflections on ourselves, the purpose of human existence, our goals, and identity.

It’s like being in a liminal space where old rules no longer apply, but the new directions are not yet clear. Perhaps these are the moments in life when we feel unable to move forward or backward. Yet, these transitional periods are necessary for finding new paths and growing. And these transitions, these moments on the threshold of closure and change, can be so challenging, so opaque, that we don’t even realize what’s happening around us—or to us.

But what can I do while there’s no forward or backward? What can we do while waiting for our plane? Perhaps the best thing is to sit down and talk.

And maybe this year, in this very strange 2024, we all did the best we could—my 91 conversation partners and I.

We paid attention to the fire. To ourselves. To each other.

And so, this very strange 2024, in its own way, gave us the best it could.
We just don’t know what that is yet…

So much has happened this year, and maybe it weighed on me a little. It was a year of goodbyes. Goodbye to something—maybe the past, a phase of life, a few friends, or the changes of the past four years...

Will this end too?

Perhaps it was about a year ago that I decided to stop reading the news, though I can’t say for sure. What is certain is that I no longer read or watch news, except on very rare occasions. And even when I do consume content related to current events, it’s usually podcasts where topics are explored in depth, offering more detailed perspectives.

In the beginning, I wrestled with the fear of “becoming ignorant,” of losing touch with reality, of shirking my duty as an informed, responsible citizen. Surely, it’s my obligation as an adult to stay up-to-date. Reading the news is essential, isn’t it? If I don’t, how will I know what’s happening in the world? But is that true? Do I really understand what’s happening globally just by consuming news? Is it necessary for me to concern myself with the lives and events of people and places that have no real impact on my own life? And are they truly unrelated? After all, today, we can follow any country’s affairs in real-time, and with interconnected supply chains and mutual dependencies, a factory shutdown in Asia can cause economic downturns in the heart of Europe.

There’s an intriguing book on this topic featured on the Bridge Budapest Booklist—“Stop Reading the News!” by Rolf Dobelli.

The author urges readers, including me, to abandon news consumption altogether, arguing that not only is it unnecessary, but it’s also harmful. He presents numerous reasons why avoiding the news might lead to a happier and more productive life.

One of Dobelli’s main critiques is the superficiality of news. It rarely provides a deeper understanding of the world. News offers brief, oversimplified snippets of information that fail to illuminate larger contexts. Part of this simplification stems from the evolution of our media consumption habits. How did a newspaper kiosk look 10 or 20 years ago? It was filled with daily papers and lots of text. Today, if we buy anything at all, it’s likely a magazine with large photos and minimal text.

Even my own writings have received feedback that, while good, they’re too long and should be much shorter. Sure, the essence of a topic can be summarized in one sentence, but the experience and interpretation of that one sentence rely entirely on the reader.

And then there’s the manipulation and distortion by the media. News outlets, backed by economic and political interests, often manipulate narratives and create sensational headlines to maximize clicks, stirring emotional responses in as many people as possible. Details aren’t necessary—who has the time for them? All it takes is a strong emotional jolt, and a brief news piece begins its work within the consumer.

Let’s be honest, this manipulation works, and its negative effects are evident. The majority of news, as I’ve experienced and observed in everyday conversations, focuses on negative topics, triggering stress, anxiety, and pessimism in us. How we process this depends on our circumstances, mindset, and level of rationality. One thing seems certain: this has a detrimental effect on our mental health and overall well-being.

Why? Because these are problems that often seem insurmountable. It’s hard to imagine how we, as ordinary people, could do anything about them. What could we possibly do? Nothing—and this breeds a sense of helplessness. Who can address these issues? The "big players"! Our leaders, politicians—they have the resources and power. It’s their responsibility, so we don’t have to do anything.

Or, if we don’t want to remain passive, there’s one thing we can do: ensure those we trust are in power. That’s something we can fight for. But we don’t really have information, only small doses of it, and what we truly have are feelings. So, we must believe it will all turn out well.

And if something is good, where is it good? Right where we are. I want things to be good where I live, for the people I live with, for those I share my life with. What’s frightening is that while we focus on distant, intangible matters, we neglect what’s right in front of us—the things we could actually influence.

We waste so much valuable time this way. The increasingly expansive world we live in generates more and more news. The internet is bottomless. Reading and following the news consumes vast amounts of time—time that could be spent on more valuable activities like learning, working, or spending time with family and friends.

Or reading a book. Whether it’s a professional guide, a novel, or a deep, philosophical work, each offers something, each enriches us, and each makes us feel a little better.

Of course, news is important—it’s part of life to know what’s happening around us. But perhaps if we could step back from the overwhelming torrent of global events and return to where we actually are, we could connect better with one another. In this connectedness, we might more easily find our peace and the belief that no matter what happens in the world, together, by helping one another, we can endure it.

Newslessness

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about situations from my past that fill me with deep shame or guilt. Moments where I behaved terribly or where others treated me that way. Am I getting old? Or is it something about the alignment of the stars that brings these buried memories to the surface?

There’s so much written and said about accepting our lives, our experiences, that everything happens for a reason, that we must face who we are and embrace our fate. But if you see a slap coming your way, what would you do? Would you accept it, or would you duck?

The feeling is terrible when the thought arrives, when, out of nowhere, that memory crawls into your face, dragging that emotion with it, engulfing you completely. And in an instant, you’re back in that old situation. Reliving it all over again.

It rushes at me so quickly, so inevitably, that at first, I didn’t know what to do. I just got smeared across it. My shame. And if I was still standing after the first blow, the urge to flee would come rushing in… But no matter how loudly the spiritual gurus, the internationally certified life coaches, and the authors of motivational books yell at me from the ringside to stand my ground, hold on, wear it down… I know I have to run.

Nowhere, because this isn’t about the slap anymore. I got that slap long ago, from someone else, from myself—does it even matter? Really, there’s no slap anymore. What’s left is the aching pain because back when that slap came, I couldn’t dodge it. Now, this feeling is nothing more than the memory of the pain from my broken nose, my knocked-out tooth, which torments me out of nowhere, again and again. You can’t duck it, and there’s no remedy for it either, because this pain doesn’t flow from the nerves around the broken parts; it’s become a part of my existence. Perhaps an inseparable memento.

We sit on the couch at dawn. Everyone is here.

It’s dark; the others are asleep. Ottó lies on his back with his legs splayed, head turned away, utterly relaxed, maybe dreaming of chewing a bone as his body occasionally twitches. The cat is silent too, curled up and softly breathing in the armchair. Kata is in the bedroom behind a closed door. I make sure not to wake her with the loud clatter of emotions and thoughts rattling inside me, capable of replaying an old scene within me in an instant. Sparing me nothing, showing me new and newer angles of my shame. As if I were inside the other person, the one I wronged or who wronged me. I feel how the emotion twists me, how I want to run, to escape the memory, the feeling, myself, the notion that I am not good, the fear that I might indeed be what I am in that feeling.

There was a time when I denied it, rationalized it, blamed others, or simply shut the door on it and maybe even bricked it up. Maybe this feeling is here now because of all those years of loneliness and humiliation, insisting on staying so close to me.

It’s sitting next to me on the couch…

Even today. Someone came again today. Came to celebrate their presence, to embrace me, to never let go. I surrender—I’ve run out of ideas. Am I tired? Have I accepted it? I don’t know. Maybe together we’ll figure something out. Maybe if it stays long enough, it will eventually want to leave, sending me only the occasional postcard: “Hello, I’m doing well! Hope you are too.”

Perhaps this time of year is the best for this. For being together. All of us. Me, who I am. Me, who I was seen as. Me, what I thought about who I was seen as. Me, the good, the bad, everything. Every day, a different guest from within me—a memory, an old version of myself—that I gift myself.

And I, a well-behaved child, unwrap my daily gift each day to get to know what lies hidden in the darkest coffee-drinking season of the year…

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about situations from my past that fill me with deep shame or guilt. Moments where I behaved terribly or where others treated me that way. Am I getting old?

Shame

Of course, it shouldn’t be. It could be about so many other things. In a relationship, perhaps most importantly, it could be about connection.

It could be about how this is the moment when you can be closest to the other person, when for an infinite instant, all boundaries disappear—when not just your thoughts, emotions, and desires but your bodies, too, become one.

But maybe you don’t want to connect anymore. Not anymore.

Maybe the other person has become too much.

Maybe the woman next to you is too strong, dominating you, correcting you, constantly telling you how things should be done. She feels like your mother. And you definitely don’t want to sleep with your mother. Or perhaps you feel like you’re living with a helpless victim, someone who always needs to be told what to do, someone for whom you have to solve everything. Like a child. No way...

You’re looking for her—the woman who’s your partner. Who isn’t above you or below you but beside you. A woman who might, just occasionally, be a bit like your mother when it’s necessary, or a bit of a vulnerable, fragile victim whom you can save when needed. All of this so you can feel like a man.

But when sex becomes a punishment withheld at home, what is that really about?

So, if the man is missing from the relationship, he must be found elsewhere. Because the feeling is essential, even if just for a while.

And both parties do this, in one way or another.

In video games, you don’t have to go far for it. It’s better than porn, and the enjoyment lasts longer.

But one thing is missing from it: the other person. The connection with them. And it’s a devastating feeling to be alone in a relationship.

This article was written as a complement to a post published on the Lost Garden blog.

Of course, it shouldn’t be. It could be about so many other things. In a relationship, perhaps most importantly, it could be about connection. It could be about how this is the moment when you can be closest to the other person, when for an infinite instant, all boundaries disappear—when not just your thoughts, emotions, and desires but your bodies, too, become one.

Everything is About Sex

We love inequality. We go to parties where there are already plenty of people. We choose restaurants where many tables are occupied. We buy brands that many others use or aspire to use. Our lives are full of such situations. We actively seek them out. Yet, at the same time, we claim that inequality is the root of all societal problems.

What would happen if it didn’t exist? How would it impact progress?

I believe the same principles that govern matter also influence our entire existence. Our world originated from inequality. The uneven distribution of hydrogen molecules created gravitational centers, where matter began to accumulate, attracting more and more material. This process became the engine of star formation, where hydrogen atoms fused to form helium, releasing immense amounts of energy. That energy powered systems.

Of course, there comes a day when these systems collapse, and the brilliant stars are destroyed. Then, the remnants of these dead stars start to regroup, forming a new star, with planets emerging from the surrounding debris. Under the right conditions, life appears on some of these planets…

From dust we were made, and to dust we shall return.

If there were no inequality in the world, there would be no life. You wouldn’t have to choose between iWiW and Facebook, and you wouldn’t be reading this article now.

So, if the universe fundamentally strives to increase entropy—to distribute energy and matter as evenly as possible—how does this coexist with the fact that matter clusters around gravitational centers? One force seeks to disperse matter, while another pulls it together. Perhaps the same happens in societies: human systems might function according to similar principles.

Somewhere deep inside, we sense that it would be good if power, wealth, opportunities, and resources were evenly distributed in the world. Perhaps this is the fundamental law of existence. But inequality acts like gravity, creating centers where wealth and power become increasingly concentrated. This concentration creates pressure, which leads to fusion, generating energy and radiating force. Meanwhile, the components strive for entropy, creating constant tension in the system.

Perhaps this is exactly what’s happening in our society and economy. The problem is that we are the components of this system, and the tension born of inequality weighs on us, causing immense pain and suffering. It’s possible that resources, particularly wealth, have concentrated so much in our world that this process can no longer be stopped. These centers, now possessing vast wealth, behave like black holes, absorbing everything that comes near them…

Could it be that our societies are born and die just like our solar systems?

Matter (power, wealth) accumulates, constantly transforming everything around it, releasing vast amounts of energy, which further fuels the process until it reaches a point where this transformation no longer produces anything. Instead, it drains energy. At some point, the swelling system collapses under its own weight. As the structure falls apart, some of its values scatter, some are destroyed—or rather, transformed. Ultimately, this creates a foundation for something new to emerge. In truth, perhaps the cycle simply restarts—the wheel of fate turns again.

Does the system still have enough reserves to sustain itself, to avoid collapsing under the weight of accumulated power? Can it still produce, or is it merely siphoning off energy? And what will happen when it produces only enough energy to survive? Is survival enough?

There is immense tension within the system. This tension exerts continuous pressure on its components, forcing them to change, which in turn compels the system itself to evolve. But isn’t that how life works? Life is never static; it’s always changing, always seeking balance, yet always diverging from it. Perhaps this tension is the engine of life. It drives development and innovation.

And yes, intervention is possible… It just requires energy.

The opportunity is there. Or perhaps, the illusion of it.

Inequality

I simply don’t care about the news. I don’t read anything current, I don’t care about the American presidential election, I don’t care what’s happening in Brussels, I don’t care about poll results or which politician, religious leader, or celebrity did what with whom.

It’s everywhere, for years now. I hear it during friendly coffee chats, at the gym, friends call me about it, it’s there between YouTube videos. For years.

Over the last ten years, I felt it was necessary to be informed about current issues. I read the news, bought financial publications, listened to podcasts, followed events daily. I enjoyed debating what each party stood for, digging into what mattered to me. There was never a party I fully agreed with, so I usually voted against someone rather than for someone…

Because this is a perpetual opposition stance. Yet, I felt that, precisely because I didn’t belong anywhere, I could appreciate when someone did something I liked. But somehow, this not-belonging turned into belonging nowhere — not politically, not in debates, not in conversations. So, to others, I became sometimes liberal, sometimes conservative, sometimes a turncoat, indecisive, stupid, or simply just a “little queer.”

Once, in a podcast, someone said that being a politician is a profession. Just like being a doctor, a lawyer, or a teacher. It’s a profession to be learned, then a job to be done. A task. A task whose purpose, perhaps as simple as it sounds, is for us, ordinary people — the public, the masses — to live well. To feel safe, so that when we go to the store, we can buy things for ourselves and our children — food, clothes, anything necessary for life.

But perhaps the most important task of a politician is to make sure the people, the God-given people (“if they be so joyful as I would have them, and as the ox under the yoke”), feel like a people. A large community, where together, we are more, we are better, we are one. And in this sense of togetherness, we should have a vision, to know where we are all going. Together.

I think our leaders have failed. If that’s their task and everything else — tax systems, education, healthcare, industry, etc. — is merely a means to that end, then something has gone awry. Not just here at home. Perhaps everywhere.

But many don’t think so. And that’s perfectly okay. But if politics is a profession, then why don’t we let our politicians do their job? We, ordinary people, are not there at the decision-making tables, we don’t see or hear the clash of opposing interests. We don’t have firsthand experience, we don’t see the big picture. We see and hear what one side or the other says. Shows us. Whoever has more resources can say and show more. And of course, they can lie if it suits their interests. Perhaps they can’t even do otherwise, since lies are also told about them.

Anyone can say anything about what someone else is doing and why. We can have faceless enemies, shadow powers trying to take away our lives, our souls, our children’s futures, anything. Who knows what will happen. But perhaps we feel how we are, how we live. And maybe we don’t feel well.

Maybe all this isn’t about whether we like what’s going on. Because we might not. Maybe the question is just how long we believe that someone can make this better. Maybe politicians are the new priests. And the parliament, the houses of representatives, are the temples of this global new religion. They sell us faith. We believe in living gods among us and listen to their priests. Every single moment. The gods live as long as they have believers.

Should I believe? Should I pray for a better future? And is my only choice which god to bow down before?

Should I go vote? I did. Always. Should I encourage my kids, my friends to do the same? I did. It’s up to them who they vote for. And that’s not even my issue.

To arms then? Shall we begin the holy crusade?! This has been going on for years. If we pull weapons on each other, who benefits? Will we be victors or losers? Where will we belong? Because the victors always write history. But is that really how I should look at the people around me?

I did everything politics expects of me. What is supposedly the duty of an educated citizen. I let our politicians do their job. I don’t harass them, I have my tolerance. I just want to ask them to let me live. Get out of my private life. Don’t constantly try to make me believe what is good and what is bad. Especially don’t make me think that if I don’t live as they say, I’m some kind of trash. And don’t make me think that if someone else doesn’t do the same, then they’re a traitor, a nobody, and most of all, against me.

I’m a simple person. I want to live. In peace, in calm. I want to feel safe with my family, my loved ones. I want to talk with my friends in the morning about things that bring us closer, not divide us — about each other, how we’re doing, what we long for, what joy or sorrow we’ve experienced in recent days.

And of course, I’m happy to talk about politics too, because maybe a good citizen, a responsible adult does that as well.

You Did This, King!

It is always painful when something ends. Especially when it is someone's life. Is it part of life? Indeed, but for those involved, for those who remain, who have lost someone, a huge void appears in their lives. The death of their loved one is a part of their life that they didn’t ask for, didn’t wish for. For those left behind, the death of their loved one is a painfully heavy burden.

A well-known person. Someone’s son, someone’s brother, friend, mentor. A well-known person. And suddenly, my Facebook and LinkedIn feeds were filled with posts where this well-known person is in photos with others, stories about who talked to him when and where, and what he did. As I was reading these posts, I felt a strange discomfort.

Are they about the deceased? About his greatness as a human being, about what he gave to humanity? About who he was, what he loved, whom he loved, who he really was? Maybe so that those who didn’t know him could learn little things about him that cannot be found in books or recordings. So they could get to know the person too.

Or about his legacy? About what he gave to the world, what we received from him, how we became better, more because of him. How he affected us, our present, and our future. And maybe, by understanding what we received, we can also understand what we lost.

Or about the mourner? Does the writer want to do something, to give something, since they had no control over what happened? Or are we lifting up the deceased in our writing as a sign of our respect, gratitude, thanks, and grief?

Is this a moment when we can show everyone how important we were to the deceased well-known person? That we met – even if only for the length of a selfie – that we talked, and we told him this and that. And he listened because we were, and are, important. And maybe others will acknowledge this with their reactions. And maybe then we will be more certain that we were, and are, important.

What would I do if I had a photo or story with him? Would I post it? Would I too, with a mix of pride and sadness, tell the internet world that he’s gone? I don’t know; I’m not in such a situation, or I don’t remember ever being in one. I don’t know how I would feel, how I would see the moment, and of course, how the one reading it would judge it.

I also wondered if I would post about it if my neighbor, whom I highly respect, passed away. If a close relative died, would I post about it? Would I want to share what happened with the community? And if I shared it, what would I expect from it? And if I didn’t share this, but I shared the death of a well-known person, what would that say about all of this, and about me?

Do I want people to be empathetic? To not be alone in my pain? Or do I just want to talk out my pain, to make it easier to process the trauma that I might not even realize at that moment? Or do I just want attention, to feel like people are paying attention to me?

When I share something publicly on social media, it feels like I’m putting that part of my life on display. Is it okay to display death or grief? Is it important for our never-seen digital followers to express their condolences? Or do we just want to simplify how we inform our acquaintances? Are we looking for the quicker, easier way even here?

There’s nothing stopping you from writing a post about it. You can do whatever you want. Meanwhile, I’m thinking about what it gives me to read about what others feel, how they see the deceased, how they relate to him. I think if a post is about the deceased, their legacy, or the mourning, such writing enriches me, helps me get to know the person, and maybe helps me understand the shades of grief too.

We don’t talk much about death; we die in closed rooms, under the care of professionals. Just like birth, death is not really part of our home anymore. I don’t know what death is like. I don’t know what it’s like to hold the hand of your loved one as they go. I don’t know how to prepare for it. And I don’t know if I would want to display that.

For me, the display window is not the right place to share my experiences or those of others about death. The display objectifies and markets one of the most tragic life events. Between the car of the week, the girl of the day, and motivational quotes, grief and someone’s death don’t belong. Death and grief should be talked about, discussed. And of course, you can write about them, with respect, love, dignity. With emotions. Where? Where is the right place for this? I don’t know.

And maybe it’s just a cultural issue. Maybe I wasn’t socialized for this. I’ve never talked about death. When a very close loved one of mine died, I didn’t talk about it for years. I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do with their absence or with myself.

I didn’t know how to share this with others.

Even today, I don’t know how to share this with others. How to share it well.

Recently, someone passed away. A well-known person. Someone’s son, someone’s brother, friend, mentor. A well-known person. And suddenly, my Facebook and LinkedIn feeds were filled with posts where this well-known person is in photos with others, stories about who talked to him when and where, and what he did. As I was reading these posts, I felt a strange discomfort.

How can one write about this?

"Men are often characterized as having a useful purpose.

But what should a being who identifies as a man do in the middle of his life if he has lost the purpose he once deemed important, lost his sense of significance, and torn down the facade he had built?

What do we do when we are not true to ourselves, our principles, our goals, and we’ve strayed, yet are afraid to delve into the depths of shame and afraid to change because we fear losing everything we’ve achieved so far in life?

How can one redesign, redefine their life, rebuild their character, their unique masculinity, and find meaningful purposes even after overcoming scarcity? What unexpected pitfalls, failures, successes, and joys await us so that we do not succumb to shame, to degradation, but instead embrace a new, better, and entirely different quality of life?

How can we feel like complete men, free from the need to follow socially ingrained goals, usefulness, or family models? What must we give up, what is the cost, the pain, or perhaps the shame?

And if we don’t, what will the price be?

Is it okay to ask whether it is allowed—whether we should rather rely on our feelings over rational arguments, make peace with choosing what is best for us without making sacrifices?

What does it mean, and do we need to be strong men?

Is it necessary to suffer for a higher quality of life, to dive deep into ourselves, to walk through hell, or is that just bullshit, and there’s an easier, painless way?"

...a recording was made with me, in which I had a conversation with Judit Kovács about these topics. The above text was written as feedback by one of Judit's acquaintances while we were preparing how to summarize the message of the videos.

After the HR Fest conference, I recalled this whole period again, the many uncertainties—whether I should, whether I dared talk about these things. How would this affect me, how would it affect those who are part of my story, how would it change my relationships?

How far and in what way should I take responsibility for those who are important? When am I being selfish, a traitor, or even narcissistic in choosing myself? And who will I become if I do?

This is how a very close friend summed it up. A meaningful word. Hurtful. But other deeply painful comments came from elsewhere too—from close people. And, of course, sometimes silence spoke the loudest. Did I make a mistake?

The “Better Man Project” was created two years ago. These were two important years. These conversations set me on a path that has led to more and more unfamiliar acquaintances, more and more leaders approaching me to explore these questions in the hope of changing something. Something that isn’t right. Something we often don’t even know, only suffering from its effects in everyday life. And often, they just tell their own stories because, in a way, we are comrades. Not making a decision, lying, looking away—it rots one’s self-esteem.

Am I a better man now? I don’t know. I hope so. I feel more comfortable in my skin. My relationships have become better, deeper, and more honest. Has life gotten easier? No. Yet, somehow, I feel like I have fewer burdens to carry. Or, if not fewer, then more of us are carrying the same burden. Together.

And somehow, it’s much better to live, to experience life this way.

Men are often characterized as having a useful purpose. But what should a being who identifies as a man do in the middle of his life if he has lost the purpose he once deemed important, lost his sense of significance, and torn down the facade he had built?

Male Roles

For some time now, I’ve been thinking about leaving the country. I’ve been browsing international real estate websites: Spain, Italy, Portugal, maybe Austria. You can find property everywhere for the same price as here. Or cheaper. Honestly, the place itself doesn’t matter that much. But if the point isn’t where to go, then it’s probably more about getting out of here.

But why do I want to change? And what do I want to change?

I remember when I bought my first motorcycle. It was sometime in the early 2000s. A beautiful little 600cc naked bike… It was so pretty, so easy to handle, lovable. Everything was fine. It was great riding around, and if I went fast, I enjoyed the bike’s momentum, and if I went slow, I basked in the attention. But after two years, something changed. All I could think about was getting another one.

And so it happened—I bought a bigger one. Stronger. Cooler. I loved that 1500cc black bike, the way it roared beneath me. Yes, this was always what I wanted to feel! Definitely since high school. And this machine was exactly what I wanted. A beast, my iron masterpiece that embodied both my freedom and individuality.

Then the feeling came back—I needed another one. Something newer, better, stronger, cooler, more masculine. More unique. Something that would make me feel more unique. Yes, that was it. That was the key. It didn’t matter about the power, the speed. I didn’t even ride fast. I wasn’t even really a good motorcyclist. I just wanted a bike that only I had. What should I get?

And it solved the problem. I didn’t need a new bike, nothing extra. A new helmet was enough to bring back that feeling: everything is awesome! I’m the king! Is that it? Is that what it’s about? That I have an endless need for change, for something different? I just need to figure out what can, should, or is worth changing to satisfy the feeling inside me. To bring that “we’re all good” feeling.

I’ve been traveling a lot to our western neighbor lately. I observe the people, the towns, the shelves in Spar. There’s order. Peace. I didn’t see any fences made of sausages (though the grass is greener), and I don’t want to get into price comparisons, but somehow, the way people relate to each other feels entirely different. Is this societal well-being? That the road they tore up in the morning is fixed by the afternoon? All done by one person with one machine. That the shopkeeper lends you his truck to carry what you bought? Just like that? Because he knows you’ll bring it back. He doesn’t know, but he trusts. In you. In us. Strangers.

I love the place where I live now. I love the people around me. The gym I go to, the morning coffee with the guys before training, the pastry I nibble on while listening to them. But as I walk around the city, the country, something weighs on me. I don’t really listen to or read the news anymore. I don’t know who’s threatening my home, who wants to take away my security. I don’t know who’s right. I don’t know who’s telling the bigger lie. Unfortunately, I don’t care anymore, because I can’t decide. I can’t make sense of it all. I don’t know who I can trust when it comes to my future. After all, I still have a future, and I want to create again, do my work. Live, just live.

But what can I do? I’ve followed politics. I’ve read. I’ve watched podcasts. I’ve always voted. I pay my taxes. I pick up litter. I pay attention to the people around me. I help them. I support various organizations—sometimes foundations, sometimes associations. I try to be a good citizen. And I don’t know what else I could do. It would be so nice if someone could tell me what I should change.

I’m happy to work toward making things different. I’m happy to learn and do what it takes to make us feel better. I try to be calm and kind at the store, at the gas station, on the street. Because maybe the mood is what really matters. How we treat each other. The faces you see in the elevator, in line. And whether you dare talk to someone on the street if you see they’re not doing well. Or to the person who drops their cigarette butt, their fast-food wrapper, or whatever they don’t need—asking them to put it in the bin instead of on the ground. Please.

Something. So I feel better. I don’t know why these things bother me now and didn’t before. I wish they didn’t bother me. I wish they didn’t bother me because they weren’t like this. And I don’t know how things are elsewhere. So I asked myself the question. What should I change? What can I change? How could I change what I’m living in now? So that the things I see wouldn’t be there.

Maybe I should just close my eyes? That’s an option too. Then I wouldn’t see. If I don’t see, maybe it won’t bother me. Or maybe I should just say, that’s life! It’s like this everywhere! At least here I know what it’s like. Or maybe I should just accept that, back in the good old days when I was young, people were different. This is how it is, and this is how we must love it.

Meanwhile, the question arises: while I try to be a good citizen because the country I live in matters to me, does the state want me to think it’s good too? Does it do the things that are important to me or to my community? Can reciprocity be understood in this relationship?

It should be, but I think no, it cannot. There is a power relationship. I’m just a statistical number. A social security number, a tax number, one vote. And I think it’s not different anywhere else. We live in a caste system. Like the bees. But maybe with bees, everyone matters. They matter to each other. It works for the bees; it could work for us too. There’s something that won’t let me rest. But I don’t know exactly what. Not yet. Just a tiny word stirs within me: Enough!

I like to make my own decisions about the things that matter to me. I work toward having that opportunity. Because in life, things usually don’t just happen. Usually, someone does something. I like to do things myself when it comes to matters that are important to me, and not wait for someone else to do something to me.

So, I’m searching for my answer to what I should do. I just need to figure out what can, should, or is worth changing to satisfy the feeling inside me. What I can change will become clear if I do it.

I’m on it. I’m on it to arrive at the “we’re all good” feeling. Not just for me. For us.

We live together. Let’s work on it. Let’s change.

Where to next?

I am in a fortunate position because I can afford silence in my everyday life. Somehow, life has brought this: I am quiet in my daily routines, in social gatherings, in phone conversations. I listen, I listen to others, who fill the space that silence creates. They talk. They talk because they need to share their burdens with someone, somewhere.

There are so many difficulties and changes in the lives of those I know. And lately, for some reason, they are increasingly reaching out to me, asking for help in gaining perspective, asking me to share my thoughts, but often just to listen. They seek the attentive silence, the connection that it offers.

And somehow, they connect with me in a completely different way than they did a few years ago. I observe myself in these connections. I observe the people, trying to understand why they come today, what they are seeking, and what that brief time together gives them. I observe what it gives me.

Something that wasn't there before. Am I filling the gaps of my past with these connections, or am I trying to build my future? I am present, we are present in these conversations, but what is my motivation? Why are they seeking these connections with me, and what has changed in me that I have become open to this? As people come and go in my days, I have started to feel that something is missing.

I used to always be the one speaking. Pouring out words about what I was doing, what I had achieved, what I wanted to do... Is that what I miss? The audience? The fans? Or is it that I want someone to be for me as I am for others? Perhaps I just can't find the direction, or I don't quite feel where this flow between me and others is heading. Or maybe it's just old reflexes knocking, seeking some attention to take control of things. Perhaps it’s control that I miss.

Is the security of control more important than the freedom of flow? I can control. I know I can. I can even manipulate. I have enough knowledge, experience, and willpower for it. If I control, the world will be as I want to make it.

But my freedom has always been more important to me—freedom to decide, to act, to exist—than my security. Or at least that's what I've always told myself. But back to connections. What does all this have to do with how I am present today? In this great flow—between me and others—I am now more of a giver than a receiver. When it comes to attention, to support, the flow is mostly outward.

Is it safe? It is. Because I decide what I give, to whom, and with whom I talk. I regulate it. So, what I am in now is still a world I created, directed, and controlled. These rules limit me. They are safe, but they build walls that make it hard to see reality clearly. All this while I hide behind the freedom of flow. This is what I say. This is how I see it, because I want to see myself as free.

But what will make me free, how and from what can I let go of control?

Perhaps receiving is already freer than giving? After all, I don’t know what I will receive. But receiving can also be controlled. Because I can regulate what and from whom I receive. I can’t let just anything in… can I? Where is the line between safety and freedom? How far can safe freedom stretch, and is freedom without safety even conceivable? Can we exist in such an environment? Can I? That is, could I be present for someone as others are present for me? Do I want that? If I did, would there already be someone?

Where is the boundary between when I need to act and actively shape the world, my world, and when I need to let things happen, to trust life? Just like a fetus entrusts itself to the mother in whom it grows and develops.

Did the things that happened to me in life happen because of who I am, or am I who I am because these things happened to me? In life’s chain of cause and effect, what is the logical order?

I’ve been thinking about this for a while.

The past year or two of my life has been strongly about giving. Of course, I receive as well, but perhaps my outward channels are more open. I focus on others, because maybe in their stories, I’ll find the path I want to follow. Maybe. Or maybe not, maybe I won’t find anything. Maybe it’s my task to create one for myself. A path of my own. To somewhere. But where? Perhaps that's what I’m missing today.

Recognition
2025.02.05.

2025. BALAZS VENDLER

All rights reserved.

Recognition2025.02.05.

2025. BALAZS VENDLER

All rights reserved.

Recognition
2025.02.05.