Work you love is still work

October 2023. San Juan de Dios Hospital, Pamplona.

Two weeks ago, I couldn't get out of bed. Now I can sit in a wheelchair and move my arms. Progress.

The first thing I do when my hands start cooperating — I ask them to bring my laptop. Not a book. Not a phone with Netflix. A laptop.

I connect to the hospital wifi. Open Notion. Stare at hundreds of notes, ideas, half-finished posts.

From a wheelchair, unable to get myself to the bathroom — my first move = get back to creating content.

My hands chose for me. I didn't make the decision. My hands just opened what matters.

The Illusion of Effortlessness

There's this beautiful myth: if something is truly yours, it comes easy and natural. Inspiration hits, your hands do the work on their own, time flies by.

Bullshit.

When you're on fire about something, the work comes easier — but it's still work. You spend energy, time, nerves. The difference is you don't notice the exhaustion. Or you notice it — and keep going anyway.

Here's what I've learned over the years: if you can not do it — it's not your thing. The real stuff doesn't ask permission. It wakes you up at night. Itches. Won't let you forget.

Nights at the Construction Site

Ten to nine at night. Construction site of the first Burger King on Parnas. I'm sitting on an overturned bucket, finishing a presentation.

Earlier that day I ran my first management seminar for restaurant directors. Delivered the standard program — and immediately knew: needs a rewrite. Wrong emphasis. Not enough time for hands-on practice. I want another day. Better. Sharper.

I could've gone home. The workday ended three hours ago. But I'm sitting here because I'm fired up.

My first public project Not Now School was born the same way — on weekends. Personal life went on pause. My partner — thank god — took it well: for a couple months I'd be busy evenings and weekends. He accepted it. I worked.

Nights at the Factory

At the Mil helicopter plant, every new project turned into night shifts. Not because we couldn't plan. Because when you work for someone with a direct line to the president, tasks come in at any hour. Deadline — yesterday. Weekends — a flexible concept.

That's also where I made "Context" magazine. A corporate digital lifestyle magazine for helicopter factory employees. Maybe two hundred people would read it, tops. Could've phoned it in.

But I was obsessed — so it had to be beautiful. I sweated over the design down to the last pixel. Spent weeks sourcing articles. Redid the layout a third time.

The magazine turned out gorgeous. Tiny audience — so what.

You walk out at night after another shift — and Moscow has this specific night smell, unmistakable. Linden trees, wet asphalt after rain, something ineffable about youth and ambition. In summer, the city beckoned you to wander. But you stayed inside, because the project wouldn't let go.

That's what it means to pour your soul into something. You do it not because it pays off. The project stops being just a project — it becomes part of who you are.

And that's exactly why losing it — hurts.

The Price of a Soul Invested

February 2022. Second week after the war started.

I had a blog called Not Now School. Years of work — and it had finally hit its stride. Readers, engagement, the feeling that it's working.

Then the feedback changed. Not like before. Something completely different.

People had changed. Their words, their voice, their silence.

I was torn apart by feelings — about myself, about the blog, about the war, about identity.

I stopped feeling Russian. I didn't feel Ukrainian. I felt a gaping void. Nobody. Unmoored. A person without a place to call home.

NNS wasn't just a blog. It was part of who I thought I was.

Losing the project plus losing the sense of "who I am" plus losing home — a triple blow.

And that's when I understood the price of a soul invested. If the loss doesn't hurt — you didn't invest. But I had invested. So it hurt so much I could barely breathe.

After the Loss

There's no magic formula.

But here's a fact: what sets you on fire — comes back. It doesn't go anywhere. It waits until you're ready again.

After the war started, I tried to "take a break from content." Focus on my job. Stop writing.

After a month, I started sleeping badly. After two — constant irritation. Something's off. Something's missing. This background dissatisfaction with myself.

When I started writing again — it released. Literally. Like opening a valve and letting out the pressure.

That's how ksnk.media was born. Different format, different language, different audience. But the same calling — to create, to show, to share.

And Here I Am in the Hospital

Every project of mine ends — through death, war, bureaucracy, circumstances. And every time I start the next one.

October 2023. Pamplona. A wheelchair. Hands that finally obey.

First move — open Notion.

Not because I have to. Because I can't do otherwise.

What I've Learned

Burger King, the Mil factory, Not Now School, ksnk.media — these are all forms. The substance is one: I do what sets me on fire, and I pour my soul into it.

Night shifts at the Parnas construction site. Moscow nights smelling like summer. A magazine for two hundred people polished to the pixel. A blog that died along with my identity. A laptop in the hospital.

One pattern: work that sets you on fire — is still work. The pain of loss — measures what you put in. And if you truly invested — it comes back. In a different form, in a different place, with different people.

Because you didn't choose the craft. The craft chose you.