Why I Still Walk With Fire: Not Because It’s Spectacular—But Because It’s Necessary

By Andreas Patria Krisna (a.k.a. patrickhrisna)

I’ve stood at the edge of fire in more places than I once imagined possible.

In a quiet temple garden in Ubud, where Balinese priests blessed the coals with chants older than memory.
In a corporate retreat center outside Jakarta, where executives removed their watches and ties—and for the first time in years, felt time slow.
On a dew-covered field near a school in West Java, where teachers held hands before stepping forward, not as staff, but as humans carrying invisible burdens.
In a rainforest clearing in Northern Thailand, where a nonprofit team, exhausted from years of service, finally let themselves be held.
Even in a converted warehouse in Manila, where a tech startup—on the brink of collapse—found their voice again, not in a strategy session, but in shared silence after the last ember cooled.

I didn’t seek to “go global.” I simply said yes—when a team was ready, when the intention was true, and when the work mattered more than the location.

And in every place, the fire asked the same question: “Are you willing to be present—not as a title, but as a person?”

Not My Words—Theirs

I don’t measure success in photos or applause. I measure it in the quiet moments after—the whispers, the tears, the sudden honesty in a debrief circle. Over 15 years and 190+ sessions, certain voices stay with me. Not because they were loud—but because they were real.

“I came as the quiet one who never spoke in meetings. After walking the fire, I raised my hand in our boardroom—and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid my voice would shake. It did. But I kept talking.”

— D., Finance Manager, Jakarta

“We’d just gone through massive layoffs. Morale was gone. The fire didn’t fix our problems—but it gave us back our humanity. We cried together. We held each other.”

— T., HR Director, Singapore

“As a CEO, I thought I was strong. But I broke down at the edge of the fire—because no one had ever asked me, ‘What are you carrying?’”

— R., Tech Founder, Manila

“Our team was full of high performers who never trusted each other. After firewalking, we stopped competing. Now, we ask: ‘How can I support you?’”

— L., Project Lead, Kuala Lumpur

“I didn’t walk. I stood and watched. And that was honored. No shame. No pressure. Just space.”

— M., L&D Specialist, Bangkok

“We’re a religious school team. The fire walk—blessed in Balinese tradition—felt sacred, not sensational. It reminded us why we serve.”

— S., School Leadership Team, West Java

“After the fire, our team started having ‘courage conversations’—not just status updates.”

— A., Product Team, Ho Chi Minh City

“I walked for my team. Not for myself. And when I stepped off, they hugged me like family. In 10 years of corporate life, I’d never felt that kind of belonging.”

— K., Operations Head, Bali

“You don’t just run an activity. You hold space. And in that space, broken teams remember they’re human again.”

— N., NGO Director, Yogyakarta

“The silence after we all crossed? That was holy. In that moment, hierarchy disappeared. We were just people—breathing, trembling, together.”

— P., Executive, Jakarta

Why I’m Still Here

People ask me: “After all these years—aren’t you tired of fire?”

No. Because it was never about the fire.

It was about the woman in Singapore who finally grieved with her team.
The teacher in West Java who whispered, “I feel seen.”
The CEO in Manila who learned it’s safe to fall—because others will catch you.
The quiet finance manager in Jakarta who discovered her voice matters.

I’m not a performer. I’m a witness. A holder of space. A student of human courage.

My home is Bali. My heart is in Jakarta. But my work? It belongs to any team ready to trade pretense for presence, speed for stillness, and isolation for belonging.

As long as there are teams who’ve forgotten they’re human…
As long as leaders carry weight in silence…
As long as someone stands at the edge of their fear and wonders, “Can I?”—

…I’ll be there. Not with answers. But with a circle. A breath. And a fire that asks only one thing:

“Will you walk—truly walk—as yourself?”

That’s why I’m still here.
Not as Andreas the instructor.
But as patrick—the fellow traveler, still learning, still humbled, still showing up.