WARRIORS WAYY

(A Manifesto Born in the Dark)

It was 2002. I was five years old, and unusually intelligent for my age. I could grasp things in minutes that took others days to learn. I sensed there was something different about me, although I couldn’t name it then. And honestly, it scared me—because like every child, I just wanted to belong. I wanted to be accepted.

But I was bullied. I was weak, small, and sensitive. I couldn't understand why those with power chose cruelty—it didn’t feel like true strength.

My father worked out of town and came home every few days. The only thing that activated the reward system in my brain was the chocolate he brought me once a week. That chocolate was everything. I savored the moment so deeply I never wanted it to end. And to earn it, I had to show effort. There was a perfect balance between effort and reward. My parents gave what they could, even when money was tight. In hindsight, that childhood taught me the real value of gratitude.

Up until 2006, everything followed that rhythm. Then one day, everything changed.

Suddenly, my father owned a supermarket. Overnight, everything I once had to earn became unlimited. The reward system in my brain collapsed. The sweets and chocolates that used to bring me joy now became an endless flood—accessible without effort. I drowned in them.

Within six months, I was a different child. The smiling, thankful boy was gone—replaced by someone dulled by unearned abundance. The reward had lost all meaning.

To outsiders, I was lucky. Kids envied me. Once, a friend said to my dad:

“Can we eat what he doesn’t finish?”

That moment still haunts me. They didn’t know—this wasn’t a blessing, but a divine test. A childhood trial disguised as indulgence. I had transformed physically. Fat accumulated in every corner of my body. My posture, my health, my cells—all poisoned. I no longer belonged among the other children.

My only escape was video games. For years, I spent 6–8 hours a day playing—trying to avoid myself. That mental escape became a lifestyle until I turned 16. By then, even chocolate and games had stopped activating my brain’s reward system. I needed something new.

Naturally, it became girls.

But none were interested in me. I was an overweight, spoiled kid with no confidence. So I turned to the only battlefield I had left—my body.

I started working out. But for me, it wasn’t just fitness—it was war. Every workout was a battlefield. In just one year, I lost 20 kg, grew 14 cm, and built muscle. When I returned to school, no one recognized me. But I realized this was only the beginning.

The fight against fat was long, and that challenge made me one of the hardest-working people I knew. Perhaps God gave me extraordinary strength because of that war.

But real strength had to be mental.

That awakening came at 20, during my military service. For someone used to instant gratification, one year felt like forever. But when I made it through, I felt a type of satisfaction I had never known before.

A reward earned through struggle is the only one that brings true peace.

After that, my perspective shifted completely. I was no longer running from challenges—I was hunting them. I found serenity in chaos.

Because I finally understood:

This journey is the destination.

The war never ends—and that’s exactly why I love it. Each day is a new battle that makes me stronger.

I’ve walked through darkness that would break others—and felt joy in that silence. I’m not searching for light. I am the light that grows in ruins.

I once found the treasure too early, at age nine—and it destroyed me. Now I know:

If the path to the treasure doesn't go through ruins, it's a trap.

This journey isn’t for those who want comfort. It’s for those who crave growth. I’m not here to lead sheep—I speak to lions. To those who will one day become leaders in their own way.

To reach the treasure, you must pass through ruins.To lead others, you must first conquer yourself.The warrior’s path is endless caos and stress —and glorious.

WARRIORS WAYY

(A Manifesto Born in the Dark)

It was 2002. I was five years old, and unusually intelligent for my age. I could grasp things in minutes that took others days to learn. I sensed there was something different about me, although I couldn’t name it then. And honestly, it scared me—because like every child, I just wanted to belong. I wanted to be accepted.

But I was bullied. I was weak, small, and sensitive. I couldn't understand why those with power chose cruelty—it didn’t feel like true strength.

My father worked out of town and came home every few days. The only thing that activated the reward system in my brain was the chocolate he brought me once a week. That chocolate was everything. I savored the moment so deeply I never wanted it to end. And to earn it, I had to show effort. There was a perfect balance between effort and reward. My parents gave what they could, even when money was tight. In hindsight, that childhood taught me the real value of gratitude.

Up until 2006, everything followed that rhythm. Then one day, everything changed.

Suddenly, my father owned a supermarket. Overnight, everything I once had to earn became unlimited. The reward system in my brain collapsed. The sweets and chocolates that used to bring me joy now became an endless flood—accessible without effort. I drowned in them.

Within six months, I was a different child. The smiling, thankful boy was gone—replaced by someone dulled by unearned abundance. The reward had lost all meaning.

To outsiders, I was lucky. Kids envied me. Once, a friend said to my dad:

“Can we eat what he doesn’t finish?”

That moment still haunts me. They didn’t know—this wasn’t a blessing, but a divine test. A childhood trial disguised as indulgence. I had transformed physically. Fat accumulated in every corner of my body. My posture, my health, my cells—all poisoned. I no longer belonged among the other children.

My only escape was video games. For years, I spent 6–8 hours a day playing—trying to avoid myself. That mental escape became a lifestyle until I turned 16. By then, even chocolate and games had stopped activating my brain’s reward system. I needed something new.

Naturally, it became girls.

But none were interested in me. I was an overweight, spoiled kid with no confidence. So I turned to the only battlefield I had left—my body.

I started working out. But for me, it wasn’t just fitness—it was war. Every workout was a battlefield. In just one year, I lost 20 kg, grew 14 cm, and built muscle. When I returned to school, no one recognized me. But I realized this was only the beginning.

The fight against fat was long, and that challenge made me one of the hardest-working people I knew. Perhaps God gave me extraordinary strength because of that war.

But real strength had to be mental.

That awakening came at 20, during my military service. For someone used to instant gratification, one year felt like forever. But when I made it through, I felt a type of satisfaction I had never known before.

A reward earned through struggle is the only one that brings true peace.

After that, my perspective shifted completely. I was no longer running from challenges—I was hunting them. I found serenity in chaos.

Because I finally understood:

This journey is the destination.

The war never ends—and that’s exactly why I love it. Each day is a new battle that makes me stronger.

I’ve walked through darkness that would break others—and felt joy in that silence. I’m not searching for light. I am the light that grows in ruins.

I once found the treasure too early, at age nine—and it destroyed me. Now I know:

If the path to the treasure doesn't go through ruins, it's a trap.

This journey isn’t for those who want comfort. It’s for those who crave growth. I’m not here to lead sheep—I speak to lions. To those who will one day become leaders in their own way.

To reach the treasure, you must pass through ruins.To lead others, you must first conquer yourself.The warrior’s path is endless caos and stress —and glorious.