I Didn’t Plan This — I Just Followed What Felt Different

I remember standing next to a machine for eight hours, doing nothing but watching.

At the time, it didn’t feel dramatic. It wasn’t a bad day. It wasn’t even a hard day. It was just… quiet. Repetitive. Predictable. A piece of metal in front of me, a process to follow, and the feeling that tomorrow would look almost the same.

But what I didn’t realize back then was that something inside me was already moving.

Not away from the work—I actually liked the work. That’s the strange part when I look back. I never had that feeling people talk about, waking up in the morning and thinking, I don’t want to go there. I didn’t have that. I was motivated. I was curious. I learned how to file, drill, mill, grind. Later, I worked on big CNC machines, programmed them, mounted the workpieces, understood precision in a very physical way.

And then everything changed again when I moved into programming. Suddenly I was sitting in an office, working on a computer. Same industry, completely different world.

After that, I worked with EDM machines—slow, incredibly precise. Time didn’t matter as much anymore. What mattered was accuracy. Micrometers. Details you couldn’t even see properly with your eyes.

Every step was different. Every step taught me something.

And still, nothing felt wrong.

That’s why the shift didn’t come from frustration. It came from something else.

I think the first real signal was a person.

Every week, a salesman came into the company. And when he walked in, something changed in the room. You could feel it immediately. People looked up. Conversations shifted. There was energy.

He had this… presence. Always in a good mood. Always open. And without trying too hard, he became the center of attention.

I didn’t think, I want to be like him.

But I noticed.

And sometimes, that’s how things start—not with a decision, but with attention.

Later, when I worked more independently, I began speaking with customers myself. At first, it was just technical conversations. What the machine can do. What’s possible. What’s not.

But then something interesting happened.

I enjoyed those conversations more than the machines.

I liked understanding how the customer thinks. What problems they have. Why they need something—not just what they need.

And slowly, a thought started forming.

Maybe this is something for me.

Not a clear plan. Not a dream job. Just a direction.

At the same time, I felt something else growing inside me—a need to develop. To move. To challenge myself. It wasn’t about escaping my job. It was about expanding who I was.

So I made a decision that didn’t feel completely safe.

I wanted to go into sales.

The strange thing is, when you say that out loud, people react. Especially people close to you. My mother told me many times, “This is not the right job for you.” She didn’t mean it in a bad way. She wanted to protect me. Sales has a certain reputation. People think it’s about talking all day, pushing products, being someone you’re not.

If you hear that often enough, it stays in your head.

So even when I decided to try, I didn’t feel confident. I felt… unsure. Like I was stepping into something I didn’t fully understand.

And maybe that was true.

Then Chris appeared.

It wasn’t planned. He was just another salesman visiting the company. But my boss knew what I was thinking about my future, and he connected us.

“Talk to him,” he said.

So I did.

And that changed something—not because Chris gave me one big moment of clarity. It wasn’t like that. There was no conversation where I suddenly thought, This is my future.

It was quieter.

We spoke in my free time. He explained things. He helped me prepare. He showed me what I didn’t know.

And what I didn’t know was a lot.

I wrote applications. The feedback was bad. Or there was no feedback at all.

So I changed my approach. I called companies directly. Sales managers. CEOs. I tried to convince them to give me a chance.

Still nothing.

Looking back, I understand why. I was trying to sell myself as a salesman—with no experience.

That’s probably the hardest product you can sell.

Then one day, Chris called me again.

“I think I have something for you.”

A company in Bavaria was looking for a new salesman. I sent my application. Then came the interviews—first with my future boss, then HR, then the CEO.

And I still remember one sentence.

“I think you are a tough person.”

At that moment, I didn’t fully understand what he meant. Today, I think I do.

I wasn’t experienced. I wasn’t polished. But I was willing to try. To learn. To stay when it gets uncomfortable.

And maybe that was enough.

The first year proved how important that was.

It was hard. Not physically. Mentally.

Cold calls. Rejection. Walking into companies where nobody knew your name, and even worse—nobody knew your company. Competing against big players everyone already trusted.

You doubt yourself. You think, Was this a mistake?

And at the same time, you have to convince others.

Convince them of your product. Your company. Yourself.

It’s a strange situation—to feel uncertain inside and still show confidence outside.

But I wasn’t alone.

There were people in the company who supported me. Who said, “It’s not easy, but you can do it.”

And slowly, something shifted.

Not in one big moment. In many small ones.

A conversation that went better than expected. A customer who opened up. A rejection that didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

You learn that sales is not what people think.

It’s not about talking all the time.

It’s about asking the right questions.

Listening.

Understanding.

“How long do you work here?”

“What do you do every day?”

“What challenges do you have?”

Simple questions. But if you ask them honestly, something happens. People feel it. They feel that you are interested—not just in selling something, but in them.

And when that happens, the conversation changes.

It becomes easier. Not easy—but easier.

That’s something I tried to explain recently when I found myself in a strange situation.

I was sitting across from someone who now has to step into sales himself. He’s the “Mayor” here in the Brida Community. He’s used to leading, organizing, building something. But sales is new for him.

And suddenly, I was the one explaining.

It felt… unusual.

Because I don’t see myself as a mentor. I’m still learning. Every day. But in that moment, I realized something.

I’ve come further than I thought.

Five years ago, I was standing next to machines.

Now I sit in front of customers and understand how they think.

And maybe more importantly—I understand how I think.

When he asked me for advice, I didn’t think about techniques or strategies first.

I thought about mindset.

Don’t be afraid.

Stay positive.

Don’t give up.

Because the problems you have today—fear, uncertainty, hesitation—they will disappear. Not because you avoid them, but because you face them again and again.

Three months later, they are no longer problems.

You have new ones.

And that’s a good sign.

In the last weeks, I’ve been thinking more about all of this. About the changes. About where I started and where I am now.

I don’t do that often. Usually, I just move forward. One meeting, one day, one week at a time.

But when I stop for a moment, I feel something I didn’t expect when I was younger.

Pride.

Not in a loud way. Not something I talk about often.

But a quiet feeling.

That I tried something uncertain.

That I stayed when it was difficult.

That I built something step by step.

And that my life today—work, family, routines—it all feels… right.

Not perfect. But right.

Sometimes I think back to that first week, standing between machines, watching.

If you had told me then where I would be now, I probably wouldn’t have believed you.

Not because it was impossible.

But because I hadn’t seen it yet.

And maybe that’s the point.

You don’t always see your future clearly.

Sometimes you just notice something.

A person. A feeling. A small moment.

And if you follow it long enough, it becomes a life.