Confidence isn't a prerequisite for action—it’s what grows in the space between uncertainty and movement.
It was a Friday evening in 2006, and we were about to do what we did every Friday—drink with a massive group of teenagers at Gottwaldovo Square, or Gotko, as we called it. Named after Klement Gottwald, the first Czechoslovak communist president, it was one of the first squares in Bratislava to be renamed after the Velvet Revolution in 1989. Now called Freedom Square, it had become the gathering place where millennial youth convened—and self-destructed.
I was 16, a mess of hormones and a fractured sense of self, far from capable of making thoughtful decisions. All I wanted was to belong, to be seen, to be loved. One of us dealt weed—a risky business in Slovakia, where even the smallest amount, if caught, was and still is punished with absurd severity. Since it was easier to hide it in a woman’s bra, I volunteered mine, tucking away about 10 grams without a second thought. A split-second decision, reckless and thoughtless, yet one that could have easily destroyed my future.
We were drinking, laughing, having fun—just another Friday night—when suddenly, a police car pulled up. I didn’t think much of it. Most officers were men; what could they really do? Besides, we’d seen cops before, and they usually just gave warnings.
What I forgot, though, was that I was 16, and the legal drinking age was 18. They made me blow into a breathalyser, and, unsurprisingly, it came back positive. That was enough. They put me in the car and took me with them.
And so there I was, sitting in the back of a police car, my heart pounding, my bra stuffed with 10 grams of weed.
An inability to foresee the consequences.
For years, I moved through life like this—reacting, adapting, relying on intuition to follow what felt natural or expected. I wasn’t reckless in my own mind; I simply followed the current of life, letting things unfold without questioning where they led. But in my 30s, something shifted—much like the intensity of my hormonal fluctuations. Decisions no longer felt like fleeting moments; they carried weight, a quiet awareness that each choice was setting something into motion. I began to see that every choice wasn’t just about picking a path—it was shaping the person I was becoming, defining my future.
As children, we begin developing what we call intuition between the ages of 4 and 7. Intuition is an unconscious process shaped by experiences, pattern recognition, and emotions. While intuition provides an early guide, it is only when reasoning fully develops that we begin to understand the full weight of our decisions. To truly grasp the weight of our choices—their ripple effects, their long-term impact—we rely on the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for reasoning and decision-making. And that part doesn’t fully mature until our mid-twenties.
As human beings, we are unique in our ability to reflect on the future—something no other animal appears capable of to the same extent. We don’t just act on impulse or instinct; we anticipate, analyse, and project possibilities before they unfold. We weigh risks, imagine alternate outcomes, and wrestle with the tension between what is and what could be.
Unlearning Doubt, Reclaiming Intuition
Over time, we learned to distrust intuition, dismissing it as inadequate for navigating complex decisions. I mean, I ended up in the back of a police car with a bra full of weed. My entire future was at stake—I could have gone to prison. Reckless. Irresponsible. A “bad, bad girl.”
With each passing year, mistake after mistake, the message became clear—intuition was not to be trusted. It couldn’t decode the unspoken rules of social programming or anticipate the silent expectations shaping the world around me. Recklessness and irresponsibility didn’t disappear; they slipped into the shadows, ruling my life from backstage.
Meanwhile, society conditioned us to think and behave in uniform ways—because, let’s be honest, conformity provides stability. It keeps chaos in check, prevents us from turning on each other, and ensures everyone has a place within the order. It hands us a pre-approved set of decisions to follow on a fixed timeline, sparing us from the burden of too much thinking—because thinking takes energy, and time.
But if intuition is shaped by experience, if it evolves alongside us, then isn’t it also a direct expression of the true self? A voice buried beneath layers of conditioning and learned reasoning, waiting to be heard.
Relearning to trust my intuition has been central to the shift in how I approach decision-making in my thirties. For years, I believed confidence was a prerequisite for making big decisions—after all, most people seem incredibly self-assured when taking major life steps.
I thought confidence meant certainty, that I had to know before acting. But certainty is rare. Intuition doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t come with guarantees or neat explanations. It moves quietly, in a pull, in a feeling of alignment that doesn’t always make sense in the moment. Few people trust it before their 30s, because it takes time—trial and error, false starts, and small confirmations—to recognise its voice again.
An Escape, or a Lesson?
I did what most young girls would—I played dumb. Overplayed it, even. I exaggerated my cluelessness, piling it on with my not-so-charming Eastern Slovakian flair: “Where are we going? What’s happening? I’m new here—we only moved two years ago. I don’t even know those people.”
The policeman barely reacted. “We’re going to the station. We’ll call your parents.”
But then, suddenly, his partner noticed a drunk guy messing with the bus stop. “Hey, let’s check him out.”
They exchanged a look, then turned back to me. “We’ll let you out here, but don’t go back to that group.”
And just like that, I was free.
So, naturally, I went straight back. Stupid? Absolutely. But I had to get rid of the weed—and after that night, I swore I’d never touch it again.
Well. That didn’t last.
Confidence is the echo that follows the decision.
Here’s what I’ve learned: true confidence rarely comes before the choices that reshape our lives—it takes root in the wake of a deliberate decision. Layers of conditioning cloud our intuition, and our minds struggle to grasp the full weight of a choice before we make it. Whether it’s defining who we want to become, choosing a career, finding a city to call home, buying a house, getting married, having children, or deciding where to retire, certainty is never absolute—only the illusion that others have it.
So I no longer drift through life, letting decisions make themselves. I choose—consciously, deliberately—blending intuition with reason, trusting the quiet pull within me while grounding it in thought and awareness. If we allow intuition—the purest reflection of who we are—to cut through the noise, it can gently steer us in the right direction.
Perhaps confidence isn’t about knowing in advance, but about trusting ourselves to navigate the path as we walk it.
ADRIANA