For years I lived in a tent.
Forests of Canada. Mountains of California. Three months working brutal hours as a seasonal worker, then the rest of the year as a nomad — Mexico, India, Nepal.
The deal was simple: work hard, sleep under stars, trade time for time. A day off was a missed paycheck. Total ownership of my hours.
I loved that life. Freedom wasn't a concept. It was a random Wednesday at 1pm, on a beach in Oaxaca eating mango with friends.
Then came the pandemic.
It caught me in Spain. My seasonal job stopped paying what it used to. The road closed. I went to Thailand to learn massage thinking I could trade one honest trade for another. Beautiful detour. Didn't stick.
Madrid happened. Waitressing. Precarity. Forty years old serving cañas at 1am wondering how the hell I got here.
Something cracked.
I enrolled in a bootcamp. Code. Logic. Systems. The opposite of campfires and visas. A company liked my profile and called me mid-course. Now I work remote on a legacy project I don't like. Nobody turns on their camera. Nobody mentors me. I work alone with the AI. I'm not growing. Not professionally. Not as a person.
The job pays €1,300. The work bores me. The comfort is dangerous.
I'm 40. I'm not afraid of hard work. I'm afraid of fading.
So here's the plan:
— Build apps from this quiet Galician flat
— Save what I can
— Camperize a van with my partner
— Reach €2k MRR
— Then point the wheel south
Comfort is not my priority. Freedom is.
If you're here grinding for the same reason — silently, slowly, against the gravity of safe — I'm building in public. Follow along.