I didn't take a straight path into security. I spent years on the other side of it first, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. That history is the reason I'm good at this now. It taught me how attackers actually think, which turns out to be the only reliable way to build something they can't quietly take apart. You can't defend a system if you've never understood the person trying to break into it.

It started in 2013, with something I only watched happen. A global company's website got defaced—its homepage swapped out for a message of retaliation. I watched it unfold in real-time, a digital act of rebellion broadcast to the world. What stuck with me wasn't the damage; it was how deliberate the whole thing was. Someone had thought through every step. And it sparked something in me—not just curiosity, but inspiration. I wanted to understand the how. I wanted to understand the why.

By 2014 the curiosity had turned into something organized. A few of us formed a collective—no real names, just handles and encrypted rooms. We were held together by a shared ideology and, if I'm honest, by the thrill of it. I wore the mask for a while. We called it hacktivism, told ourselves we were fighting oppression and standing for something bigger than any of us. The people I met there became real friends, the kind you only make at three in the morning over a shared exploit. It was also the puzzle that drew me in, the challenge that kept me awake, the adrenaline that coursed through my veins. Every system was a locked room built out of logic. Every firewall had a seam you just hadn't found yet. A stray error message, a forgotten subdomain, a line of code that didn't belong—each one was a clue. For a while, we felt untouchable.

That didn't last. Over the years we drifted apart. The ideology that united us remained, but the paths diverged. The fire that once burned so brightly began to dim. Some people stayed in the dark because it was the only world they knew, and I don't judge them for it—the shadows are comfortable, and they're familiar. I just wanted something else, so I put away the mask.

These days I live on both sides. I build during the day—patient and careful, the way an engineer has to be. And I still break things at night, not to cause harm but to understand them: probing the seams, testing the locks, reporting what I find so companies can fix it before someone with worse intentions gets there. Creation and deconstruction, back and forth. I need both.