Ever since I could remember, I dreamed of working in media—cue the kid who analyzed TV credits like they were holy texts. But life tossed me a curveball: by 19, I was a industrial mechanic TRAINEE, stuck in a job that felt like watching rust form. FOUR soul-sucking years later, I rage-quit my hometown with a backpack, zero plans, and a “YOLO” attitude. Six months of hostel chaos, €1 pasta dinners, and questionable life choices later, I landed on Mallorca as a beach promoter—days selling club wristbands, nights dancing on bars. That summer? Pure magic. Until I flew home broke, jobless, and crawling back to A factory like a defeated rom-com sidekick.

Six years passed. Six. Years. I became a 9-to-5 zombie, but that media itch never died. Finally, I snapped: “This isn’t a life—it’s a Netflix autoplay nightmare.” So I sold my stuff, kissed my comfort zone goodbye, and bolted to Hamburg. There, I scored an apprenticeship at TRACK agency And swapping wrenches for Adobe Suite.

Finally—my dream job! At 29, I’d arrived at the mountaintop. But plot twist: Turns out, dreaming about a career in media doesn’t magically teach you how to GROW in one. Sure, I’d nailed the “where,” but the “how” felt like IKEA instructions written in hieroglyphics. Enter TRACK, the agency that said, “We’ve got you,” and threw me into the deep end of creativity. Photoshop? Illustrator? InDesign? Premiere Pro? After Effects? I became an Adobe Suite wizard, one panic-Googling session at a time.

Vocational school? Crushing it. Despite being the “old guy” in class (shoutout to my teen classmates who still think TikTok dances are a personality), I aced projects, rallied the squad as class rep, and low-key became the guy people copied homework from. (You’re welcome.)

Then came the mediale—a buzzy Hamburg creative fair—where teams pitched to design its entire vibe. My crew? We went full Ocean’s 11, armed with mood boards and caffeine, and walked out victorious. Oh, and did I mention rubbing pixels with giants? From BMW’s majestic cars to Vodafone’s neon campaigns to MINI’s sleek designs—I’ve left my fingerprints on projects that actually matter.

But here’s the tea: Now that I’ve leveled up from “What’s a layer mask?” to “Let me animate that logo real quick,” I’m hungry for the next creative Everest. Bigger briefs. Wilder ideas. Stories that make hearts race and thumbs pause scrolling.

EVER SINCE I DISCOVERED A CAMERA, I’VE BEEN OBSESSED WITH STEALING SOULS THROUGH MY LENS—CUE THE WEIRDO STALKING SUNSETS LIKE THEY WERE RARE POKÉMON. MY HAPPY PLACE? CRUSHING MILES THROUGH HAMBURG’S PARKS, SOAKING UP LAZY SUMMER VIBES AT KIEZ KIOSKS LIKE A HUMAN SPONGE. NOTHING BEATS CHILLING WITH MY CREW, UNPACKING LIFE’S BULLSHIT OVER ASTRA BOTTLES.
BUT MY ESCAPE POD FROM THE MEDIA MATRIX? FOOTBALL. LET’S BE REAL: ON THE PITCH I’M A CONTROLLED CHAOS THEORY, BUT WATCHING IT? THAT’S MY OPERA. , ANY SPORT HYPNOTIZES ME. GLUED TO THE SCREEN, HEART PUMMELING MY RIBCAGE, LIKE EVERY MATCH IS A HIGH-STAKES HEIST.
OH, AND MY FRIENDS CALL ME THE DIESEL AGGREGAT—LOUD, EMPATHETIC AS A RESCUE PUPPY, AND APPARENTLY FUNNIER THAN every MEME.