I almost didn't go.

It was an evening in 2014. I was sitting in my flat in Yekaterinburg, phone in hand, and I typed a message to a recruiter I'd spoken to that afternoon: "I really appreciate the opportunity, but I don't think the timing is right for me." Sent it. Put the phone on the table. Went to bed.

That was my first decision about Sakhalin. It took a second one — sent the following morning, considerably more awkwardly — to actually get me there.

Let me go back a few hours.

The call I wasn't expecting

Earlier that day, a recruiter had called me. She'd found me on LinkedIn — which, in 2014, was still something that made you stop and look twice. Most people I knew weren't on the platform at all, let alone being contacted through it. I was two and a half years out of university, working for my first company, doing structural engineering work I liked well enough.

The call went well. Better than I expected. She was specific, she knew the role, she seemed happy with what she heard. The position was at a Fluor office on Sakhalin island — a Russian island in the Pacific, more than 7,000 kilometres from Yekaterinburg by train. To get there, you'd cross the full width of Russia and then a strait of water between the mainland and the island itself.

By the end of the call, she was ready to set up the next round with the hiring manager. I thanked her and hung up.

Then I sat with it.

I had a girlfriend at the time — she later became my wife. She had her own career in Yekaterinburg. I was a city guy. I'd travelled, been abroad a few times, but I'd only ever worked for one company and I was nowhere near senior enough to think of myself as someone who just picks up and moves to remote islands. The math didn't work. The distance was too large, the timing was wrong. I'd already decided, quietly, that this wasn't for me.

So I wrote the message. Polite, grateful. "I don't think the timing is right". Sent it. Went to bed.

Except I couldn't sleep.

Something was bothering me — not anxiety exactly, more like a low hum that wouldn't switch off. Eventually I told my girlfriend about the call. The role, the company, the island. About saying no.

She looked at me.

"Why did you refuse?"

"I assumed you wouldn't want to go," I said. "I thought it probably wouldn't be nice for you."

She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Next time, you can just ask me."

I picked up my phone.

The message I sent the recruiter the following morning was one of the more embarrassing things I've written professionally. Something like: "I think I may have mixed up the chats — that message was intended for another opportunity I was considering. I'm happy to continue with your process." I don't know whether she believed me. She moved me to the next round anyway.

Two months later, I was on Sakhalin.

Oatmeal, buckwheat, and $100 a month

The first month was a lesson in arithmetic. The plane ticket had cost around $400. My monthly salary was $500. The journey there had taken almost a full month's earnings before I'd worked a single day. Then rent, and the deposit on top of that. By the time I'd covered both, I had almost nothing left.

My diet for those first months: oatmeal for breakfast. The office provided lunch — I split it in two halves, one at noon, one in the evening instead of dinner. Buckwheat on weekdays. Sausages on weekends, as a small upgrade. Roughly $100 a month.

I loved it. The work was serious, the team was good, and I was putting in overtime. When the first salary hit, it was four times what I'd been making before. You're either in or you're not — and I was in.

A few months later, Fluor sent me to their head office in Houston. November, same year. Per diem: $100 a day.

Same number. Different universe.

The pattern I only saw later

I've made a lot of decisions since Sakhalin that felt genuinely scary at the moment I said yes. Moving to Moscow for a role I eventually needed to leave. Turning down a project in Saudi Arabia when my wife was pregnant. Committing to Europe in August 2023 with a newborn daughter and no offer yet in hand. Accepting a role in Sweden eighteen days later, in an industry I'd never worked in, for a company that had been searching for six months.

Every single one felt uncertain at the point I said yes. That's not a coincidence — it's the pattern. The moves that changed things were never obvious in the moment. Not because the conditions were wrong, but because the future is genuinely unknowable. You can prepare, research, talk to people who've been there. But you can't eliminate the fear. You can only decide whether to move anyway.

The oatmeal months were some of the best of my career. Houston was remarkable. None of that was visible on the evening I almost said no for good.

One thing for this week

Think of a decision you've been holding. A role you haven't applied for. A conversation you haven't started. A move you've been sitting with, waiting for the uncertainty to settle before you commit.

Ask yourself who else is involved in this decision — and whether you've actually asked them.

Not for permission. Just: "is this something we could figure out together?"

You might be surprised by the answer.

Until next Saturday,

Vitalii

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