Prologue — The Man Before the Jump

I wasn’t unhappy.
That matters, because otherwise the story wouldn’t hold.

I lived in Delft. I had a job that mattered, at least on paper. People took me seriously. I was tall—just under two meters—and I stood out without trying. That helped. It gave me a kind of authority by default, as if I had already arrived before I’d proven anything.

My life worked. It ran.

I did what was expected of me, and I did it well enough to be left alone. People asked for my opinion. They invited me into conversations. I knew when to speak and when to stay quiet. My calm was often mistaken for clarity.

In the mornings, I got into my car on time.
In the evenings, I returned with the sense that the day had been useful.

There was no reason to jump.

And yet I stood there often.

Not literally—that would make it too dramatic—but mentally, yes. At that moment where you pause and realize you’ve been postponing the same decision for years, without ever naming it.

I was intelligent. I knew that.

Not in a boastful way, more as a settled fact. I understood things quickly. I could connect ideas. I had words for situations others only sensed. That had taken me far.

And at the same time: not far enough.

When I looked at people my age—similar backgrounds, similar opportunities—I noticed something shift. They had assets. Direction. Momentum. Not spectacular wealth, just definition. Their lives were pointing somewhere.

Mine was… open.

I called that freedom. Or timing. Sometimes even strategy.

But underneath, it felt more like stillness dressed up as patience.

I thought a lot. That had always helped.

As a child. Later too. Thinking was how I stayed in control. How I avoided mistakes. How I made sure I wouldn’t have to recover from anything.

Somewhere along the way, that changed.

Thinking stopped being preparation and became a place to hide.

I knew what I was capable of.
I knew what I didn’t want.
I even knew what would probably work.

What I didn’t do was choose.

The jump this book is about didn’t feel like a jump back then.
More like something I could still afford to delay.

I was healthy. I had work. I had time.

And yet every month that passed felt like a quiet exchange.

Not for something better.
But for nothing at all.

That was when I began to understand that postponement is also a decision—
just one that never asks to be acknowledged.

Chapter One — The Frame

My workdays resembled each other without being boring.
That made them deceptive.

I had responsibilities, meetings, deadlines that applied just enough pressure to keep me sharp. Colleagues knew what to expect from me. I knew my role. Everything added up — as long as you didn’t zoom out too far.

The frame wasn’t tight.
It was neatly stitched.

I had a position that protected me from impulsiveness. A salary that suggested stability. A calendar that made decisions for me before I even had to think about them. It felt safe. Professional. Adult.

Outside of work, things were quieter. Too quiet, perhaps. Evenings when I thought I was tired, while I was mostly empty. Weekends spent making plans that rarely moved beyond the planning itself.

I often said I “wanted to take a little more time.”

To see what was possible. To explore alternatives. To wait for the right timing.

It sounded sensible.

But mostly it meant I refused to set a boundary for myself. Everything stayed open. And what remains open demands constant attention.

I read. I listened. I took ideas seriously that led nowhere. There was always something I needed to understand first before I could act. Another angle. Another scenario. Another reason to wait.

My head grew fuller, not sharper.

On paper, I had freedom of choice.
In practice, every option became an extra weight.

The strange thing was: no one forced me. There was no enemy, no crisis, no visible reason to do anything differently. Precisely because of that, I stayed where I was. The system worked. It delivered exactly what it promised.

Just not what I needed.

I began to feel the difference between functioning and moving. Between continuing and choosing direction. It wasn’t dissatisfaction, more a low-grade irritation that refused to disappear. As if I was constantly a step ahead of myself.

Sometimes, on the way home, I asked myself a simple question:

If this continues, what will it look like in five years?

I knew the answer.
That didn’t make it any easier.

The frame wasn’t tight enough to want to break out of it.
But it was tight enough to remind me I was wearing it.

And that I had put it on myself.