ABOUT ME

I’ve spent most of my life chasing performance.

First on the bike, then in myself, and eventually, in others.

 

As a professional cyclist, I had the privilege to compete on some of the biggest stages in the world. I raced for the best teams and trained at the highest level. I stood on podiums, won the Critérium du Dauphiné, claimed national titles, and represented Slovenia at the Olympic Games. On paper, I had it all.

 

But what most people didn’t see was everything that came with it.

 

Behind the victories was pressure.

Behind the power numbers, exhaustion.

Behind the control — a constant fight for identity.

 

Like many athletes, I internalized the belief that performance equals worth. That suffering is noble. That pushing harder is always the answer.

 

Over time, my body and mind began to break down. I dealt with recurring injuries, a deep emotional numbness, and a full-blown eating disorder that consumed not just my physical health, but my sense of self.

I wasn’t training anymore — I was surviving.

 

At some point, I stopped running from the pain and started listening to it.

 

That was the beginning of everything.

 

I stepped away from competition and immersed myself in learning — not just how to rebuild my body, but how to reconnect with it.

I immersed myself in understanding how the human body truly works — not just in peak moments, but under pressure, in fatigue, and during recovery.

I dove deep into human physiology, cellular metabolism, the mechanics of breath, and the architecture of restorative sleep.

I spent years exploring how performance is regulated from within: how stress alters biology, how tension reshapes posture and movement, and how the body communicates long before it breaks down.

Along the way, I worked hands-on with tools like HRV tracking, blood biomarker interpretation, red light therapy, movement diagnostics, and breathing assessments — not as gadgets, but as windows into deeper patterns.

 

A fundamental turning point in my journey came when I stopped trying to fix my body — and started listening to it.

 

Not through performance hacks or mental strategies, but through the deep, slow, often uncomfortable process of somatic awareness.

 

For the first time, I allowed myself to feel the tension I had spent years outrunning. The breath I had held. The contractions I had normalized. The silence of a body that had been trying to speak all along.

 

It was through this somatic work — this direct, embodied learning — that I began to reconnect with sensations I had numbed, suppressed, or overridden. I started to see how my eating disorder wasn’t a food problem, but a survival strategy. How my emotional detachment was wired into muscle tone, breath patterns, and postural rigidity. How my relentless drive came from a nervous system stuck in overdrive.

 

Piece by piece, I learned to reorganize.

 

Not through control, but through attention.

 

Not through intensity, but through presence.

 

Through structured somatic practice, I rebuilt a relationship with my body — one based on trust, curiosity, and cooperation. My breath softened. My movements slowed. My internal dialogue changed. What began as physical work soon became emotional work. Then relational work. Then life work.

 

This process didn’t just change how I move.

It changed how I make decisions, how I handle pressure, how I exist in my own skin.

 

As I continued to evolve, I brought everything I had learned — from elite sport, physiology, neuroscience, and raw experience — into a method that reflects it all: a system that doesn’t separate the physical from the emotional, or the mental from the somatic.

 

It became the JB Method.

 

Today, I work with athletes, professionals, and high performers — people who excel outwardly, but feel blocked inwardly. People whose strength has become a shield. People whose power is real — but misaligned.

 

My role is not to correct or push.

 

It’s to guide them back to their internal intelligence — through movement, breath, nervous system awareness, and precise strategies that support sustainable performance from the inside out.

 

I don’t believe in shortcuts or magic formulas.

But I do believe in the body’s capacity to reorganize — when we stop fighting it.

 

This isn’t a comeback story.

It’s the story of what happens when you finally come back to yourself.