About

Today, I live in Adelaide, Australia. I work as a remedial massage therapist, helping people move better, recover from injuries, and understand their pain rather than just chase symptoms. Alongside that, I spend a lot of my free time building things — small apps, websites, and game projects — mostly as a way to learn, experiment, and solve practical problems.

I’m happily married, building a life here with my partner, and currently waiting for my permanent residence. That in-between stage has been both challenging and motivating, it reinforces the importance of patience, adaptability, and long-term thinking.

Outside of work and screens, I play ice-hockey, travel whenever I can, and enjoy projects that sit somewhere between creativity, technology, and community. I like systems, structure, and progress, whether that’s in the human body, a piece of software, or a team.

This mix might look unusual at first, but it makes sense when you look at the path that led me here.

I was born in Rostock, at the time part of East Germany (today  Germany). Not long after, my parents made a decision that would quietly shape the rest of my life — they chose to live in Czechoslovakia.

My mum is German, my dad is Czech, and growing up between those two backgrounds gave me an early sense that identity doesn’t have to be one-dimensional.

I started school in 1989 — a year that changed everything. I technically began my education under a communist regime, but during that very first school year, the system collapsed and the country transformed (the Velvet Revolution). For a child, it didn’t feel dramatic or fast. The changes were gradual and mostly symbolic at first. Even something as simple as how we addressed our teachers took time to evolve — from "soudružka učitelka" (comrade teacher) to "paní učitelka" (Mrs / madam teacher).

That overlap — starting in one system and growing up in another — left an impression. Rules changed, expectations shifted, and suddenly things that once felt fixed became negotiable. Looking back, it was my first real lesson in adaptability: systems can change, sometimes overnight, and people learn to adjust at different speeds.

I didn’t understand the significance of it all at the time. But years later, it became clear that growing up during a period of transition taught me to stay observant, flexible, and open to change — traits that would quietly resurface again and again later in life.

The early environment I grew up in was shaped as much by geography and industry as by culture. The region where I spent my childhood was heavily industrial — marked by surface coal mining, large power plants, and air pollution that was simply part of everyday life. Smoggy days weren’t unusual, and nature often felt stressed rather than protected.

Looking back, it’s hard to ignore how visible that impact was. The forests didn’t disappear, but many trees looked as if they belonged in an apocalyptic movie — bare trunks and branches, with leaves surviving only at the very top. The land was altered, the air carried smells and colours that today would be considered unacceptable. At the time, though, it was normal. As a child, you don’t question what you grow up with — you adapt to it.

There was a certain irony in how the system tried to compensate for this reality. Government-organised school trips called škola v přírodě (“school in nature”) were designed to take children away from cities and pollution, into forests or rural areas. For many of us, these trips were the first real experience of what healthier, less affected nature could look and feel like. They were short escapes, but memorable ones — moments of fresh air, quiet, and contrast.

That contrast stayed with me. On one side, industry, efficiency, and production. On the other, fragile landscapes that needed time and care to recover. Even without fully understanding it at the time, those early experiences shaped my awareness of environment, health, and balance — ideas that would later inform how I think about movement, recovery, and sustainability.

I grew up in a typical apartment block — panelák — seven floors high, divided into three sections, one of many similar buildings grouped together into what we call a sídliště. These housing estates were common across the country, even in smaller cities like the one I grew up in, with around 18,000 people. As a child, it felt like a self-contained world: familiar faces, shared spaces, and a constant sense of movement around the buildings.

My primary school was very close. As an adult, the walk would probably take less than ten minutes, but as a child it felt longer. In the first years, my mum often took me to a pre-class program, where we mostly played before school officially started. Later on, I usually walked on my own. I still remember a pear tree near the school grounds that attracted hornets in the summer — I was always a little nervous passing by it, carefully choosing how close I dared to walk.

During my early childhood, we didn’t have mobile phones. Meeting friends meant going to their apartment building, ringing the bell downstairs, and asking their parents if they could come out. Sometimes I was invited in first, met the parents, and only then we went outside together. Most of our time was spent outdoors, around the buildings or nearby open spaces.

We played mostly with our imagination. We didn’t have many toys for playing outside, and we didn’t really need them. For a while, céčka — small C-shaped plastic pieces that could be connected into chains — became incredibly popular. We invented countless games around them, and sometimes it felt like gambling: you played with what you had, and you could win more, or lose what you brought with you.

My first experiences with sport were informal and playful. I kicked a ball around with my father, or hit a tennis ball using hockey sticks — whatever was available at the time. Physical education classes at school were my first structured exposure to sport, but the real turning point came in year five, when I started playing softball.

That was the first time sport became serious. We trained several times a week, on top of regular PE classes, and played matches on weekends during the season. We were proper child athletes, competing at the highest level in the country — even though the Czech Republic isn’t exactly known for softball. What I enjoyed most wasn’t just the game itself, but being part of a team, training with friends, and following a structure. Even back then, I liked order and responsibility, and I respected the rules and routines that came with it — sometimes more than others did.

In the Czech Republic, sport has always been more than a pastime — it’s a shared language. Few moments captured that better than the ice-hockey tournament at the 1998 Winter Olympics. I remember watching those games wherever I was. Teachers allowed us to watch the semifinals in class, and when the game went to overtime and was decided by a shootout, the reaction was explosive — not just in our classroom, but across the whole school. It felt as if the entire country was holding its breath at the same time.

I had been watching ice hockey long before Nagano. My father took me to games of the professional club HC Litvínov, a team with a long tradition and a deep connection to that Olympic success. The tournament created something almost magical. It unified the country and sparked a powerful sense of pride — the feeling that even a small nation could leave a big mark on the world. Looking back, we probably gave that victory more importance than it objectively deserved, but that only highlights how deeply it resonated.

Sport also lived in everyday culture, often centred around the pub. Jdeme na jedno — literally “let’s have one” — really means “let’s go to the pub”. It’s both a question and an answer, one of the most common phrases in the country, and it rarely means just one beer. Beer in Czechia is more than a drink; it’s a social connector. Almost everyone has tried it, most people like it, and many relationships are built around it. I was never a big fan, yet during my twenties and early thirties I still drank more beer than many people elsewhere would over a lifetime. I haven’t drunk alcohol since 2019, but I’m aware that if I had stayed in Czechia, beer — at least non-alcoholic — would likely still be part of my social routine.

Despite how central ice hockey was culturally, I never played it as a child. The reasons were practical rather than emotional. My parents didn’t see me as someone who would pursue hockey seriously, and I had eye issues that required wearing glasses, which didn’t help when it came to professional sport. I was placed into art classes early on, and by the time I started making my own decisions, it felt too late to begin. Still, the interest was always there. As a kid, I dreamed of being a goalie — it just never became reality.

Football and ice hockey dominated national attention, but socially there was a wide mix of sports. Around me, people played football, volleyball, tennis, table tennis, and nohejbal (foot-volleyball). In winter, skiing was extremely common, both downhill and cross-country. At school, we were exposed to basketball and athletics as well, and sport was simply part of everyday life.

During high school, sport became less about competition and more about lifestyle. I was part of a close group of friends and we did whatever sport crossed our path. We cycled constantly — it was our main form of independent transport. One of my closest friends was part of a ski patrol, and his family had a holiday house near a slope, which meant I skied often, sometimes thanks to his willingness to share access. Physically, that period was probably the fittest I’ve ever been. We weren’t competing seriously; movement was just part of how we lived.

Looking back, I can also see how my personality shaped my relationship with learning. In primary school, studying felt almost too easy. I rarely brought home a grade worse than a two, and most of the time I collected ones — the best possible mark in the Czech system. I relied heavily on my memory, and it worked. In high school, the first cracks appeared. My grades dropped, and I didn’t handle it well. I became frustrated, questioned my intelligence, and worried about disappointing my parents. The solution was obvious in hindsight: build habits and put in consistent effort. But as a teenager, distractions were everywhere, and I never truly learned how to study. I managed by doing just enough and relying on memory. To this day, I learn deeply and easily when something genuinely interests me. Everything else requires conscious effort. The tension between natural ability and earned discipline became a recurring theme in my life, one I continue to work with rather than ignore.

Summer camps (letní dětské tábory) were a recurring thread through many years of my life, cutting across childhood, teenage years, and early adulthood. In the Czech Republic, they were also a very normal part of growing up. With school holidays lasting two full months in July and August, camps and grandparents’ houses were common places for children to spend time while parents worked.

My first summer camp was when I was around eleven or twelve. It was my parents’ idea, organised through my father’s workplace, and at the time I didn’t know anyone there. That was part of the experience — you arrived as a stranger and left with new friends. I returned again, and later, around the age of fourteen, I joined a different camp organisation through a high-school friend. My current best friend was there as well, and although we weren’t close at the time, that’s where our long-term friendship quietly began.

The earlier camps were very structured and followed the tradition of what used to be called pionýrský tábor (Pioneer camp — a state-organised youth camp system during the socialist era). We stayed in small wooden cabins for two weeks and spent most of our time in the forest. We learned about nature in a very practical way — collecting berries and mushrooms, making fire, orienting ourselves, tying knots, and picking up basic survival skills. There was plenty of physical activity, swimming in a lake, children’s parties, and once a year the traditional stezka odvahy — a nighttime courage trail, usually walked in pairs or small groups for younger children. These camps felt remote, yet never completely cut off from civilisation; you could still walk to a nearby town if needed.

One year, through the same organisation, I also went to a similar camp in Hungary, by Lake Balaton. It was shorter, but followed the same spirit — nature, structure, and shared experience.

The camps I joined during high school had a slightly different focus. They were organised by an institution supporting people with physical and mental disabilities, with the aim of integrating healthy children with disabled participants. In the early years, the mix was close to fifty–fifty. Over time, and unfortunately without continued government support, the balance shifted more toward healthy kids, until eventually the camps ran only in that form. Still, the values remained.

In these camps, we stayed in a building with multiple rooms, each with its own bathroom — practical and important for participants with disabilities, and noticeably more comfortable. Hot water, however, was available only once a day. If you wanted a hot shower, you had to be on time after dinner; if you were late, you missed out. The water was shared with other camps at the same location — a general forest camp and a football camp — and friendships naturally formed across organisations, especially during evening parties and discos.

Life at camp followed a clear rhythm. We woke up early, had breakfast and exercise, and as leaders we met each morning to plan the day for our groups. Days were filled with activities, followed by lunch and rest, then more activities in the afternoon. Evenings were for reflection — evaluating the day, talking through what worked and what didn’t, and sharing plans for what was coming next. Some nights ended with campfires, parties, or the stezka odvahy. Others were quieter. Once the kids went to sleep, adults still had meetings or night duties.

Camp life felt completely different from normal routines. There were no parents, constant contact with nature, friends around you twenty-four hours a day, and real responsibility. It felt like being part of a tribe or a large family. You weren’t necessarily close with everyone, but everyone mattered. The two weeks were intense, and saying goodbye was always emotional. Younger kids made their first real friends. Older ones experienced their first loves. For young adults, it was often the first time being responsible not just for themselves, but for a whole group of children.

My role at camp evolved over time. At first, I was simply a kid enjoying summer, learning about nature, and being part of a group. As I returned year after year, I reached the age where I could help more. Around sixteen, I became an assistant to group leaders. From eighteen onwards, I took on the role of a group leader myself. In the final years, when the organisation could no longer secure any government support, we still ran the camp anyway. The very last year, there were only three of us left as leaders — my best friend, another close friend, and me. That felt like the end of an era.

All up, across both organisations, I spent around fifteen consecutive years at summer camps.

Looking back, summer camps gave me a strong sense of belonging — working toward something bigger than just myself, much like sport. Unlike sport, they also taught me a deep respect for nature, basic survival skills, and an understanding that not everyone moves, thinks, or experiences the world in the same way. Being exposed to people with different abilities, and to mixed-gender social dynamics, broadened my perspective early on.

Camps shaped who I became — not only during the time spent there, but through the relationships that grew out of them. Some of those friendships, including my closest one, are still part of my life today. The way I interact with people, take responsibility, and try to understand others continues to be influenced by those years.

Going to university felt less like a personal decision and more like an expectation — from my parents, from society, and from the environment I grew up in. With a general academic high school behind me, it seemed like the only logical next step. Still, I was unsure from the beginning. I already knew I struggled with studying in a traditional sense, and I wasn’t confident about how I would cope. Going there with a close friend helped psychologically, but looking back, it may also have kept me too comfortable, preventing me from pushing myself out of familiar patterns.

I studied Mechatronics at the Technical University of Liberec. At the time, I wanted to study IT, but there were limited options, and I didn’t pass the entrance exams to the more software-focused school. Mechatronics felt like the closest alternative — a difficult field, but one that included programming. I believed I was good at math and physics, as they had come easily to me in high school, and my interest in computers and video games made the technical direction feel natural.

Liberec itself played an important role in that period of my life. Compared to where I grew up, it sits at a higher altitude and felt noticeably different. It is a regional capital and a larger city, surrounded by mountains and nature. Winters could be harsh, with temperatures dropping to around −20 °C and heavy snowfall, while summers could still reach above 30 °C. It was a city with a proper four-season cycle, something I really appreciated. Despite everything that happened academically, I genuinely liked Liberec as a city and as a place to spend my university years.

Liberec was also far from home — about four hours by train. I lived in dorms during the week and returned home on weekends. At first, I enjoyed the independence — dorm life, parties, and the freedom that came with living on my own. University-level math quickly proved far more demanding than I expected, but through repetition, group study, and sheer persistence, I managed to pass those exams. My real struggle came with subjects like electronics and physics, where success depended heavily on memorisation rather than understanding or problem-solving.

The first real warning signs appeared after my first semester exams. University wasn’t like high school anymore — I couldn’t pass with minimal effort. I failed exams, some of them repeatedly. I wasn’t ready to give up, but it became clear that the path ahead would be difficult, and possibly one I wouldn’t be able to finish. I kept telling myself that next time I would study harder, but I never really did. Instead, I focused on the subjects I enjoyed, especially programming and practical work, while the gaps elsewhere kept growing. With each exam period, it became more obvious that completing the degree was unlikely.

Eventually, the situation became final. There were several compulsory subjects I needed to pass, and I couldn’t pass any of them. The immediate feeling was shame and worry. I knew I had disappointed my parents, and I was afraid of what came next. Returning to my hometown felt like a step backwards, and without a degree — something I had been told was essential for success — my future felt uncertain. Telling my mum was one of the hardest moments. She was sad, but supportive. Her understanding and love hurt more than anger would have, but it also mattered more.

Coming back home turned out to be easier than I expected. My mum already had a plan. She gave me a job in her office so I could earn my allowance, and she paid for English lessons as well. We agreed that I would work for her for a year, finish the language program, and then look for a proper job. That structure helped. I spent a lot of time with my high school friends during that year — many of them hadn’t succeeded at university either. I didn’t feel broken or behind; I was simply on a different path, and life continued.

Looking back, I learned far more during my university years than the academic results suggest. Life in the dorms taught me about people, independence, and responsibility. With my roommate, I helped create and maintain a gaming server for the dormitory — he handled the hardware, I took care of the software. I learned how to build basic websites, debug problems, read technical documentation in English, and work with databases. Those skills didn’t come from lectures or exams, but they stayed with me.

In the end, failing at university didn’t close doors — it opened different ones. With the support of my parents and friends, that period became not the end of something, but the beginning of another chapter.

Moving to Prague was the result of momentum more than long planning. I went to several interviews, and the first successful one already meant I was leaving my hometown. Before I even started that job, another interview succeeded, and I chose the later offer. In IT, there weren’t many cities in Czechia where opportunities were concentrated, and Prague had always stood apart. It was the centre of business, culture, protests, and tourism — a city that never really slowed down. For a young adult, it was an attractive place to be.

My first role in IT was as a junior tester. I started in what the company called a “testing hatchery” — a structured onboarding program designed to teach new recruits testing standards and ways of thinking. I found the job online and applied without strong expectations. After an unfinished university journey, IT felt like the one area where my background might still make sense. When the first job offer arrived, I felt relieved. When the second followed shortly after, I knew I would be fine.

The company was Czech and not small, though I later learned that its main business model was body shopping — training professionals and assigning them to projects in other companies. The hatchery phase went smoothly. It was competitive but friendly, and there were no exams or formal tests. I was mostly curious about what would come next and which project I would be assigned to.

That reality became clear quickly. I went through two interviews in the telecommunications industry. The first one failed completely — the sales manager responsible for placing me had altered my CV without my knowledge, and it showed during the interview. I complained, was assigned to a different person who respected my actual experience, and the second interview was successful.

I joined an acceptance testing department. At first, I worked mostly on regression testing for small changes, often related to functionality that had been implemented a long time ago. Soon after, I started writing test cases as well. Technically, the work was not difficult. The bigger challenge was understanding how a large organisation actually worked — who was responsible for what, and why some issues appeared simply because testing environments had drifted far away from their original state due to years of backlog and partially resolved problems.

We didn’t really do automation testing. The focus was on integration, databases, and interfaces, while user interface testing was mostly handled by a business-side UAT department. At the beginning, I didn’t feel particularly useful, but I also wasn’t overwhelmed. That changed once I started working on real projects. Still, I never felt underestimated.

During the first years, I lived in a shared apartment to save money and have people around. Later on, I rented a small studio closer to my job, trading shared space for privacy and a shorter commute. Life in Prague itself was surprisingly ordinary during the workweek. My routine was simple: work, grocery shopping on the way home, cooking, some entertainment, sleep, and repeat. Commuting took longer than in smaller cities, but otherwise daily life wasn’t dramatically different.

Prague offered anonymity — no one knew me, and no one really cared. As an adult spending most days in an office, it wasn’t easy to build new friendships outside work, especially when I often went home for weekends. But I didn’t feel like I was missing out. I had friendly relationships at work, weekends with high-school friends, and I was in a relationship at the time.

Professionally, things progressed. I stayed with the company I had been assigned to, and during a period of financial uncertainty they offered me a permanent position. That meant negotiations between companies and, naturally, a raise. I moved from small changes to project work, often handling two to five projects at once. They were all different, involved different systems, and sat at different stages — yet over time, the same types of problems kept repeating. The work became more stressful, and while my confidence was relatively solid, psychologically I was becoming more strained.

Gradually, a deeper dissatisfaction crept in. I could do the job, but I didn’t love it, and I couldn’t imagine doing it for the rest of my life. I earned more than many people in other professions, yet it still wasn’t enough to realistically buy an apartment, let alone a house. That contradiction felt depressing. Stress, insecurity, and dissatisfaction spilled into my personal life as well, and they played a role in the end of my relationship.

Looking back, there wasn’t a single breaking point. It was a convergence of factors — the relationship ending, financial insecurity about the future, ongoing stress, and the realisation that the only times I felt genuinely happy were on holidays, in nature, or while playing sport. I had a strong start in IT, and it gave me stability and confidence when I needed it. But I also realised that it wasn’t what I wanted my life to be about. I wasn’t failing at IT — I was slowly outgrowing it.

The decision to leave didn’t happen overnight. It had been forming quietly for years, layered over the dissatisfaction and questions that had already begun during my time in IT. The idea of living abroad had always been somewhere in the background of my mind. I was never afraid of it — it simply didn’t feel realistic for a long time because of resources and opportunities.

The first serious thoughts about leaving my job — and eventually the country — appeared two or three years before I actually left. Around two years before departure, I started considering Australia as a possible destination. At that stage, it still felt theoretical. I assumed I would need more savings, perhaps even secure a job before going. The real decision came about a year later.

It was late November. I went to the Australian immigration website, mostly out of curiosity, to see what would be required for a visa. I started filling out the form. A few minutes later, the system asked me to pay the visa fee. I did. I expected more bureaucracy, more questions, more waiting. Instead, the next morning, the visa had been granted. I remember physically showing the email to a colleague — who was also a friend and mentor — asking her to confirm that I was reading it correctly. She confirmed it. From that moment, the preparation phase began.

Australia wasn’t a romantic choice. It was the result of elimination. I set simple criteria: not too close to home, a language I already knew at least on a basic level, attractive nature and culture, political stability, and stronger economic conditions. Czech is spoken only in Czechia. That left German and English. The United States never attracted me. Other countries either didn’t meet my criteria or I didn’t know enough about them. Eventually, the realistic options narrowed down to Canada and Australia. The final deciding factor was climate. If Australia hadn’t existed, I would probably have tried Canada.

Once I chose Australia, confirmation bias quietly stepped in. The more I talked about it, the more it made sense. People recommended it. Positive stories outweighed negative ones in my mind. I filtered out doubts.

In truth, I didn’t know much about the country. I knew it was the smallest continent and the largest island. I knew English was spoken there and had a basic awareness of its colonial history. I knew that Canberra was the capital, though not the largest city. I knew Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane — mostly because of sport — and I recognised the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. I associated Australia with dangerous animals, beautiful beaches, Uluru, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Great Ocean Road. That was almost the extent of it. I didn’t idealise it. If anything, I thought it might be less developed than it actually was. And while I understood its size intellectually, I underestimated what that scale would mean in practice.

After the visa was granted and I told the people closest to me, everything accelerated. I bought a ticket for 11 March 2013, landing in Australia on 13 March. In Czechia, the notice period was three months, and I agreed with my boss that I would finish a specific part of a large ongoing project before leaving. That meant I was still working almost until departure. The final weeks were logistical more than emotional. I had to clear out my apartment, sell some belongings, move others to my mum’s and sister’s place. I had farewell gatherings. On the very day of departure, I sold my car — still using it to manage everything until the last moment.

There wasn’t much space to process what was happening. It was slightly exciting, but mostly procedural. Step by step, I made things happen. At the airport, my closest family came to say goodbye. There were tears. On the plane, once things became quiet, I had a brief moment of reflection — “What have you done?” — but exhaustion took over. I slept. I woke up in Korea during a stopover, slept again, and woke shortly before sunrise, an hour or two before landing.

The sunrise that morning is something I still remember clearly. It began as a thin line of light on the horizon. Slowly, the darkness softened. Colours started to mix across the sky — dark blue turning into lighter blue, then orange, red, and eventually white. It felt expansive and almost theatrical, as if Australia was quietly showing off. It felt like an appropriate welcome — a new beginning arriving with the light.

Looking back, I wasn’t driven by one single emotion. I was escaping routines that no longer felt healthy, searching for a better life, proving to myself — and perhaps to others — that I could do something difficult. I was starting over, though I didn’t fully grasp what that meant at the time. The visa was valid for one year, and I treated it as such. I set goals for that year. I had a return ticket, and I knew that if it didn’t work out, I could return or try another country.

Many people later described the move as brave. I never felt brave, because I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t completely calm either, but I was curious, determined, hopeful — and ready to see what would happen next.

I landed in Sydney after more than twenty-four hours of travel. Customs took nearly two hours, and by the time I stepped outside toward the shuttle buses, I was exhausted but alert. I had booked a hostel and believed the airport transport was included in the price. The air didn’t feel dramatically different from places I had visited before. If I hadn’t known I was in Australia, I might have guessed Greece or somewhere in the Middle East. There was no immediate “this is completely different” sensation.

A shuttle driver with broken English and I — with probably even more broken English — agreed that he would take me to my hostel. Only later did I realise it was a different transport company and that I would have to pay him. I had only a card. He helped me find an ATM in a nearby convenience store. Inside, a woman accidentally bumped into me and said, “I’m so sorry, darling.” I remember being genuinely surprised. A stranger calling me “darling” felt unusual and oddly warm at the same time.

The second surprise came moments later at the hostel reception. Tired and carrying everything I owned in a big duffle bag and backpack, I told the receptionist I had a booking. Without hesitation, he said, “No, you don’t.” I immediately started searching through my documents to find the printed confirmation email. When he realised I had taken him seriously, he smiled and clarified that I did have a booking, but check-in was at 1pm. It was around 9am. I told him that kind of joke wasn’t funny after flying across the world. He apologised — at least for the timing — and said he would try to find me a bed earlier, maybe around 11am. In the meantime, he suggested I leave my luggage and go for a walk.

I followed his advice. I left my belongings and kept only my backpack with essentials. As so many times before, I followed my instinct toward water. Soon I reached the harbour. I walked through what I now know is the Royal Botanic Garden, and then I saw it — the Sydney Opera House, with my own eyes, not on a screen. In that moment, something settled. I had made it. I had arrived somewhere I once only hoped to visit. It was real.

On that same walk, I also encountered an ibis wandering through the city. I was surprised to see such a bird casually moving around the urban environment and took a picture of it. Only much later did I learn that ibises are a typical Sydney “pest,” often found around rubbish bins throughout the CBD. It was an early reminder that reality is always slightly different from postcards.

When I returned to the hostel, a bed was available in a dorm room. I slept for a couple of hours. The jet lag hit hard over the following days. Nights were restless, and by mid-afternoon I would crash into sleep. I don’t remember my first meal in Australia. I remember instead realising very quickly that Sydney was far more expensive than I had expected. The savings I thought might last six months would likely last three. That calculation adjusted my optimism into caution almost immediately.

I contacted my parents on the first day to tell them I had arrived safely, though I don’t remember the conversation. What I remember from those early days are long walks to orient myself, trying to understand where I was and how the city worked. I remember the jet lag. And I remember cockroaches in the dorm room — a practical introduction to Australian wildlife that felt far less romantic than beaches and postcards.

There was no dramatic emotional collapse. No sudden regret. Just a quiet awareness that this was no longer an idea or a plan. It was happening. The holiday feeling faded quickly. I had a one-year visa, limited savings, and no job. The adventure had officially begun.

The first days in Australia were a mixture of orientation and recalibration. I had expected things to be different — the architecture, the trees, the natural environment, even driving on the opposite side of the road. Those were the predictable differences. What I hadn’t fully grasped was the scale. Sydney was enormous. The streets were wider, the parks significantly larger, and the CBD felt dense with movement. I had known Australia was multicultural, but hearing so many languages in a single walk, seeing such variety in food, restaurants, and brands — the scale of it exceeded my expectations.

The people surprised me most. There was a relaxed, smiling informality in daily interactions. Even at the bank, when I opened my account with limited vocabulary, the staff were patient and casual. It felt accessible rather than intimidating. Another discovery was public transport by ferry. From Circular Quay, I could take a ferry to Manly as part of the normal transport system. The ride circled the harbour, offering views of the Opera House from constantly shifting angles, moved toward the open sea before turning inward again, and finally reached what felt like a holiday destination. That ferry trip was one of my most exciting experiences during the first week — something I would repeat countless times later.

Financially, reality set in quickly. I had arrived with savings I hoped would last six months. In practice, they would likely last three. Groceries were almost double the price I was used to in Czechia. Services such as a haircut or public transport were even more expensive. I didn’t panic. I didn’t switch into extreme survival mode. I simply recalculated. I would need a job sooner rather than later, and probably cheaper accommodation as well.

I started browsing Gumtree immediately, sending messages and resumes while also searching for shared housing. I cooked most of my meals and kept an eye on unnecessary expenses. Money had never been something I handled recklessly; I adapted rather than worried.

My initial plan was simple: take any job that allowed me to earn money. Very quickly I realised that in Australia, qualifications mattered more than I expected. If not formal education, then licenses — RSA, White Card, certifications for almost everything. I had none of those.

Luck helped. I found someone who was just opening a café. I applied for a position as a kitchen hand and ended up helping them move into the new space. I was paid cash on the day, which felt like a small victory. They invited me back to assist during one of the opening days, but that was the end of it. They were trying multiple people and ultimately chose staff with more hospitality experience.

Meanwhile, I had interviewed at a European restaurant for a dishwasher and kitchen hand position, and that was the job that stuck. I spent hours washing dishes, peeling potatoes, cutting vegetables, preparing mash, and cleaning after each shift. I was paid 13 AUD per hour. Only years later did I learn that this wasn’t even the legal minimum at the time. I never complained. I simply worked more hours to reach the savings target I had set for myself.

It was not glamorous. It was not aligned with my previous career in IT. But it was honest work. I was in Australia, earning money, standing on my own feet — even if those feet were often wet from a sink full of dishes.

Working in the restaurant kitchen turned out to be more surprising than I expected. The job itself was physically demanding — long hours on my feet, constant movement, heat, water, and repetitive tasks. During peak hours, the pace was intense. But what surprised me most wasn’t the workload. It was the people.

Many of my colleagues were highly educated. One was an engineer, another a lawyer, another a medical doctor. All of them had university degrees and professional careers back home. The kitchen was not their destination — it was their transition. A way to stay in Australia, earn money, and find the next opportunity. It felt surreal at first. Since then, I’ve often said — partly as a joke, partly seriously — that if you want to find very smart people in Sydney, go to the kitchen of a restaurant.

The atmosphere in this particular kitchen was relatively friendly. There was hierarchy, but it wasn’t aggressively enforced. Chefs helped sous chefs, sous chefs helped kitchen hands, and sometimes it went the other way around. English was the official language, though you could hear others during breaks — two of the chefs were Hungarian and would switch to their native language when they spoke together. Looking back, it was a healthy environment.

The job humbled me in a quiet way. It showed me how physically hard work can be and how migration often begins below your qualification level. It was my first real reality check about what building a life in Australia might actually look like. At the same time, I never saw it as permanent. I had my eyes on the bigger picture. I was earning money, improving my English, and learning how Sydney worked. It was a step — not a destination.

Once I had saved enough, I knew it was time to move again. I didn’t come to Australia just to wash dishes. I came to experience it. The kitchen gave me stability and savings. The next step would give me perspective.

I had initially booked the hostel for two weeks, but I stayed only twelve days before moving into a shared apartment. The hostel was a good landing point, but it was clearly not meant for long-term living. Most people there were travellers and backpackers — young Europeans, with a strong presence of Germans and British. The atmosphere was social, alcohol-driven, and temporary by nature. It was exciting in a way, but it wasn’t a place to build stability.

I started looking for shared accommodation almost immediately, mainly through Flatmates and Gumtree. The first opportunity came through word of mouth. Another hostel guest told me about a shared house near Bondi Beach. I went to inspect it. The price was fair and the location attractive, but the reality felt too similar to the hostel — bunk beds, four people in one room, a messy environment. I couldn’t imagine myself living there.

The second option I found myself on Gumtree. Someone was leaving a shared apartment in Redfern, and there was a bed available in a room shared with a working guy from Poland. I decided to take the chance. It wasn’t perfect — still a bit messy — but it was manageable and far more stable than the Bondi house. As a bonus, the apartment complex had a swimming pool, which felt almost luxurious at the time.

The apartment was in Redfern, a suburb that has changed significantly over the years. I ended up staying there for about five months. The original Polish roommate was often away, and we didn’t have many opportunities to get to know each other deeply, but there was mutual respect and no conflict. Eventually he moved to Melbourne, planning to pack his belongings and ride there on his scooter — a detail I still remember clearly.

The other roommates changed over time. Some were travellers passing through, others had been in Sydney for years. I built a few friendly connections, though many people were just temporary presences in each other’s lives. Despite the constant rotation, living there gave me something important: a sense of stability. It was a place I could rely on.

Shared living in Sydney didn’t teach me tolerance — I had already experienced that during my university years. But it did teach me how little I truly needed. My kitchen job was physically demanding, and most days I returned home only to rest and sleep. The apartment became less about comfort and more about function — a base, not a lifestyle.

I stayed in Redfern as long as I needed to. Once I had saved enough money, I packed everything again. I didn’t know exactly what would come next, only that I was ready to move. I said goodbye, carried my belongings once more, and stepped into the next chapter — a backpacking trip that would take me further than I expected.

I started my journey in Cairns. It was September, and my reasoning was simple — if I began in the north, I could enjoy good weather all the way down. I didn’t know how long the trip would last or whether I would return to Sydney, move to Melbourne, or find work somewhere along the coast. The plan was flexible: buy activity vouchers, get a hop-on hop-off bus ticket to Sydney, and adjust as I moved.

Cairns felt tropical, humid, and immediately like a holiday. I stayed in a hostel near the city centre and spent the first day exploring the town and swimming in the Lagoon — a large public pool by the sea. It might seem strange at first, but when you remember that the ocean can contain crocodiles and deadly jellyfish, it makes sense. I had planned to relax there for a week, but I quickly got restless and started booking trips.

I visited the Daintree Rainforest  and travelled to Cape Tribulation.  That place felt like paradise — rainforest meeting an empty beach, warm sand, open sea. I stayed in a small camp with dorms about 100 metres from the water. It felt like a scene from Cast Away. It was off-season for jellyfish, and that particular stretch wasn’t known for crocodiles, so I could actually swim. For the first time, I felt completely immersed in Australian nature.

From there, I explored the Great Barrier Reef.   I snorkelled over colourful coral and later tried scuba diving. The reef was stunning, but diving wasn’t for me. I suffer from hay fever and often have a congested nose, and the pressure caused pain in my forehead and ears. It was another small reminder that adventure doesn’t always fit perfectly — sometimes your body sets boundaries.

Moving south, I stopped in places like Magnetic Island, Townsville, Airlie Beach, and spent three days sailing around the Whitsundays. One of the most magical moments happened there. The boat had been running on engine power most of the time when suddenly the crew switched everything off. Silence. Then we saw them — a family of humpback whales playing in the distance. Within seconds, everyone was pointing in the same direction. It was one of those rare moments where strangers collectively fall quiet in awe.

On Fraser Island (K’gari), I stayed in a tent camp. The outdoor kitchen was covered by a round pergola, and above us — resting calmly on the wooden beams — was a huge python. We ate dinner directly beneath it. I had never seen a snake that large before.

As I continued through Noosa, Rainbow Beach, the Gold Coast, Surfers Paradise, and finally Byron Bay, I began recognising familiar faces. Backpackers rarely travelled together long-term, but we would repeatedly cross paths. You might share one tour, separate, and then unexpectedly meet again days later in another town. It created a strange sense of temporary community.

One funny memory involved a group of German backpackers. We were sitting together in a car, everyone speaking German. I could understand most of it — I had learned German in school — but speaking was harder. Eventually, I joined the conversation in English. They were confused and slightly shocked, and I had to explain myself. It was a small but satisfying moment.

Not all encounters were light-hearted. Near Nimbin, I went for a walk and spotted a long brown snake by the roadside. I took a photo to identify it later. It turned out to be an Eastern Brown snake — one of the most venomous snakes in the world. That was my first close encounter with potentially dangerous Australian wildlife.

By the time I reached Byron Bay and then returned to Sydney, I was different from the person who had started in Cairns. The trip wasn’t just about beaches and landscapes. It gave me perspective — on scale, on nature, on migration, and on myself. Australia no longer felt like a distant experiment. It felt real. It felt like home. It felt like a place where I could build a life.

Returning to Sydney after the East Coast trip felt different. It wasn’t just another stop anymore — it felt a bit like coming home. At the same time, there was a sense of pressure. I knew I needed to find work again, but this time I approached it with confidence. I had already managed it once, and I believed I could do it again. More importantly, I was highly motivated to do whatever it would take to stay in Australia longer.

While I was still travelling, I reached out to my former flatmates in Redfern to let them know I would be back in Sydney for a few days. They offered me a place to stay, and as it turned out, one of the roommates was about to leave permanently. That created an opportunity for me to stay much longer. I accepted without hesitation. It gave me a renewed sense of stability and direction. Around that time, the decision became clear — Sydney would be the city where I would try to build something.

The idea of staying in Australia longer had already formed during my East Coast trip. That journey confirmed what I had started to feel before — I didn’t want to leave. The lifestyle, the opportunities, the people, and the sense of freedom all played a role. Emotionally, the decision was already made. What I didn’t have yet was a practical way to make it happen.

I visited a migration and student agency that I had already heard about back in Prague. In Sydney, they had another branch, and I went there simply to understand my options. I didn’t have strong expectations. I just wanted clarity. What I received was a reality check. They explained that staying in Australia permanently would be much more difficult than I thought. Based on my age and background, the skilled migration pathway was unlikely. By the time I could gain enough points through further education and experience, I would start losing points due to age.

Their recommendation was to continue in IT, as it would give me the best chance — but no guarantees. That part was clear to them, but not acceptable to me. I didn’t come to Australia to continue the same path. I came to change my life. Still, one thing became obvious: if I wanted to stay, I needed a new qualification. A student visa was the most realistic pathway.

We went through multiple study options, but nothing really appealed to me. Then the agent mentioned a Diploma of Sports and Recreation Management. That immediately caught my attention. After the East Coast trip, I could easily imagine myself working in that environment — organizing activities, running beach events, maybe even something like jet-ski rentals in Queensland. It felt aligned with the lifestyle I had just experienced.

However, I couldn’t study that diploma directly. I needed both a language test and a lower-level qualification first. The school offered two pathways to get there: Personal Training or Massage. At first, massage didn’t make much sense to me. Where I came from, it was often something people learned over a weekend. I didn’t understand why it would take nearly two years to study.

That changed when I learned more about it. I visited the school and spoke with the director. For the first time, I saw a different perspective — massage not as relaxation or spa therapy, but as a clinical and practical skill. I could become a sports massage therapist or work in rehabilitation. It started to feel closer to physiotherapy, something that could genuinely help people and make a difference in their lives.

That idea resonated with me more than the personal training pathway. In the end, it was still just a step toward what I saw as my main goal — Sports and Recreation Management. But without fully realising it at the time, this decision would shape my future far more than I expected.