18 Jan 2025
I’m driving back from London, windows down, trying to shake off the pressure. The clutch is acting funny, and I'm trying to stay alert—I'm extremely tired.
[If the following feels rushed, trust your instincts.]
Ten minutes ago, I turned down drinks with a group of extraordinary people I had worked with for five weeks. I didn’t want to say no. I should have said yes.
But I didn’t. Not because I didn’t enjoy working with them or lacked gratitude but because something about this project stuck with me. It won’t leave me alone. I’ve been thinking about what it meant for me as a professional and a person.
I promised myself I’d write about it, even if no one else reads it. These words don’t have to mean anything to anyone else. But to me, they mean everything.
I was born in Romania in 1976. A kid from a broken home. A violent addict as a father, communist regime. I’ll spare you the stories—high stress environment, grey buildings, rationed food, all the usual clichés.
At 14, I got my first job in a greenhouse, working alongside ex-convicts and men who had run out of options: no job descriptions, structure, or idea of what the next day would bring. If the boss told us to fix the roof after a storm, we climbed up—no harnesses, just 14kg sheets of glass and blind faith that we wouldn’t slip. If vegetables needed packing in suffocating heat, we packed.
If we had to feed the hunting dogs, we chopped up cows. If he needed someone to join him on a hunting trip, you nodded and hoped you’d return with all your fingers.
It was also where I lost a chunk of my hearing. Twenty-four-hour shifts with engines roaring loud enough to drown out your thoughts will do that to you.
The boss was a grotesque mix of insecurity and unchecked power. He was a sleaze, a bully, and a man who insulted people just to hear himself talk. He surrounded himself with men who laughed at his jokes not because they were funny but because laughing meant keeping their jobs. I could write a solid chapter about this low-life, but that would give him too much space in my story.
I worked for him every summer until I turned 18. Then, I worked for him full-time.
[If the following feels rushed, trust your instincts.]
Ten minutes ago, I turned down drinks with a group of extraordinary people I had worked with for five weeks. I didn’t want to say no. I should have said yes.
But I didn’t. Not because I didn’t enjoy working with them or lacked gratitude but because something about this project stuck with me. It won’t leave me alone. I’ve been thinking about what it meant for me as a professional and a person.
I promised myself I’d write about it, even if no one else reads it. These words don’t have to mean anything to anyone else. But to me, they mean everything.
I was born in Romania in 1976. A kid from a broken home. A violent addict as a father, communist regime. I’ll spare you the stories—high stress environment, grey buildings, rationed food, all the usual clichés.
At 14, I got my first job in a greenhouse, working alongside ex-convicts and men who had run out of options: no job descriptions, structure, or idea of what the next day would bring. If the boss told us to fix the roof after a storm, we climbed up—no harnesses, just 14kg sheets of glass and blind faith that we wouldn’t slip. If vegetables needed packing in suffocating heat, we packed.
If we had to feed the hunting dogs, we chopped up cows. If he needed someone to join him on a hunting trip, you nodded and hoped you’d return with all your fingers.
It was also where I lost a chunk of my hearing. Twenty-four-hour shifts with engines roaring loud enough to drown out your thoughts will do that to you.
The boss was a grotesque mix of insecurity and unchecked power. He was a sleaze, a bully, and a man who insulted people just to hear himself talk. He surrounded himself with men who laughed at his jokes not because they were funny but because laughing meant keeping their jobs. I could write a solid chapter about this low-life, but that would give him too much space in my story.
I worked for him every summer until I turned 18. Then, I worked for him full-time.
The Army and the Exploding Cow
At 19, I was drafted into the army—a year of combat training, night shifts, and mind-numbing routine. I spent most of it stationed on the Ukrainian border, ensuring enough steam for the kitchens, the showers, and the laundry. It wasn’t the worst job I’ve had, but it wasn’t exactly a career path either. When I got out, I went back to the greenhouse.
Until one Sunday morning when the corpse of a dead cow, left in the sun, exploded. Yes, a cow exploded whilst I was skinning the damn thing.
It’s another story; it involved bad decisions, worse planning, and an outcome that traumatised everyone involved [myself and, maybe, the dead cow].
A few days later, a phone rang. My mother’s cousin had a job for me at a cinema in a nearby city. And just like that, I traded dead cows for Hollywood glamour.
To be clear, this was not a dream job. I wasn't very good at it, and it wasn't some destined moment when I knew that I would discover my passion for design.
In that moment, it was a job, a way out.
I was hired to paint movie posters, giant, hand-painted advertisements for the latest films slapped onto the side of the cinema. Every week, a new film, a new canvas, and a new deadline. I wasn’t just painting but learning how to sell a story in a single banner. I learned the fundamentals of advertising before I even knew what advertising was.
I also learned English—well, sort of. At first, I memorised the words on the posters. Then, I started sneaking into the cinema before work to watch trailers, picking up phrases here and there and trying to squeeze them into conversations.
But the job barely paid, and I was still borrowing money to get to work. The boss was a Communist remnant, utterly clueless about running a business in a market-driven economy. It was a miracle the place functioned at all.
Still, it was here that I started counting my projects: one poster a week, five cinemas, and a relentless, unforgiving schedule.
When the job ended in early 2003, I was married, broke, and awaiting eviction. The greenhouse was no longer an option. The tinnitus I developed from that place was enough of a reminder.
So I went to the city and entered almost every shop on the high street asking for work. I washed windows and decorated shops. I took whatever job I could find.
Until one day, I walked into a newly opened stationery shop that needed a logo painted on a wall.
Two nights later—one large logo painted and a few extra jobs—I had my first junior designer job.
Until one Sunday morning when the corpse of a dead cow, left in the sun, exploded. Yes, a cow exploded whilst I was skinning the damn thing.
It’s another story; it involved bad decisions, worse planning, and an outcome that traumatised everyone involved [myself and, maybe, the dead cow].
A few days later, a phone rang. My mother’s cousin had a job for me at a cinema in a nearby city. And just like that, I traded dead cows for Hollywood glamour.
To be clear, this was not a dream job. I wasn't very good at it, and it wasn't some destined moment when I knew that I would discover my passion for design.
In that moment, it was a job, a way out.
I was hired to paint movie posters, giant, hand-painted advertisements for the latest films slapped onto the side of the cinema. Every week, a new film, a new canvas, and a new deadline. I wasn’t just painting but learning how to sell a story in a single banner. I learned the fundamentals of advertising before I even knew what advertising was.
I also learned English—well, sort of. At first, I memorised the words on the posters. Then, I started sneaking into the cinema before work to watch trailers, picking up phrases here and there and trying to squeeze them into conversations.
But the job barely paid, and I was still borrowing money to get to work. The boss was a Communist remnant, utterly clueless about running a business in a market-driven economy. It was a miracle the place functioned at all.
Still, it was here that I started counting my projects: one poster a week, five cinemas, and a relentless, unforgiving schedule.
When the job ended in early 2003, I was married, broke, and awaiting eviction. The greenhouse was no longer an option. The tinnitus I developed from that place was enough of a reminder.
So I went to the city and entered almost every shop on the high street asking for work. I washed windows and decorated shops. I took whatever job I could find.
Until one day, I walked into a newly opened stationery shop that needed a logo painted on a wall.
Two nights later—one large logo painted and a few extra jobs—I had my first junior designer job.
From Junior Designer to Creative Director.
The man who hired me wasn’t like my previous bosses. Claudiu was a mentor, a brother, and a guy who took a gamble on someone with no formal training and a questionable work history. I worked hard. I learned fast. We built things together.
Nine years later, I was a Creative Director. I had a talented team of designers and had completed nearly 250 projects in a crazy market. I had built something real.
Half-way through came Corina.
A young, ambitious designer who needed experience. She worked for free for a few weeks, built her CV, and left. She wasn’t supposed to be a major character in my life. But life has a funny way of looping people back in when you least expect it.
Nine years later, I was a Creative Director. I had a talented team of designers and had completed nearly 250 projects in a crazy market. I had built something real.
Half-way through came Corina.
A young, ambitious designer who needed experience. She worked for free for a few weeks, built her CV, and left. She wasn’t supposed to be a major character in my life. But life has a funny way of looping people back in when you least expect it.
The Rejection Tour of Scandinavia.
By 2013, I was restless. The social/economic context around me would not allow my cortisol to decrease. I packed my bags, printed 95 CVs, and flew to Scandinavia to find a job.
For three weeks, I walked the streets of Copenhagen, Malmö, and Helsingør, knocking on doors and handing out resumes.
Thirty-six rejection emails. Zero interviews.
I returned to Romania, exhausted.
With no better plan, I started my own business. No, not the kind that raises funding and scales fast, wearing a hoodie on a couch and typing on my laptop.
But the kind where you wash windows, clean banners, wrap cars, and drill holes in shop walls at midnight. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept me going and paid my bills.
And then Corina called.
She was living in the UK. Corina and her husband gave me a place to stay, and I stayed for ten weeks in their home in Caterham.
That’s where everything changed. Since March 2014, I’ve been moving. Physically. Professionally. Mentally.
Since then, I’ve worked on extraordinary projects with extraordinary people.
For three weeks, I walked the streets of Copenhagen, Malmö, and Helsingør, knocking on doors and handing out resumes.
Thirty-six rejection emails. Zero interviews.
I returned to Romania, exhausted.
With no better plan, I started my own business. No, not the kind that raises funding and scales fast, wearing a hoodie on a couch and typing on my laptop.
But the kind where you wash windows, clean banners, wrap cars, and drill holes in shop walls at midnight. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept me going and paid my bills.
And then Corina called.
She was living in the UK. Corina and her husband gave me a place to stay, and I stayed for ten weeks in their home in Caterham.
That’s where everything changed. Since March 2014, I’ve been moving. Physically. Professionally. Mentally.
Since then, I’ve worked on extraordinary projects with extraordinary people.

And now, Project 400.
Project 400 involved working with 7DOTS, a boutique agency in Kingston Upon Thames. It involved helping one of their clients undergo digital transformation.
[I need to slow down now... breathe, Alin, breathe.]
I don’t think they realise how good they are together.
And they definitely don’t know how much this project means to me.
After two years of rebuilding myself—recovering from a divorce, finishing a two-year education, and launching a startup, this was my first contract.
Two hard years. Battling depression. Anxiety. Sleepless nights. Wondering if the frameworks and tools I was building were practical or if I was just delusional.
Project 400 doesn’t have to mean anything to anyone else.
But to me, it means a lot.
It’s proof that I made it through. That I’m still here.
I am still learning and still growing.
This is not a finish line.
I have more to do. More to learn. There is more to solve, more to prove.
I am many things. But I am not a self-made professional.
I owe a lot to the people who took a chance on me. And for that, I am grateful.
Thank you.
A.
[I need to slow down now... breathe, Alin, breathe.]
I don’t think they realise how good they are together.
And they definitely don’t know how much this project means to me.
After two years of rebuilding myself—recovering from a divorce, finishing a two-year education, and launching a startup, this was my first contract.
Two hard years. Battling depression. Anxiety. Sleepless nights. Wondering if the frameworks and tools I was building were practical or if I was just delusional.
Project 400 doesn’t have to mean anything to anyone else.
But to me, it means a lot.
It’s proof that I made it through. That I’m still here.
I am still learning and still growing.
This is not a finish line.
I have more to do. More to learn. There is more to solve, more to prove.
I am many things. But I am not a self-made professional.
I owe a lot to the people who took a chance on me. And for that, I am grateful.
Thank you.
A.
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