On hesitation and courage

Throughout your talk, you return to the idea that hesitation is often what stands between us and opportunity. Looking back on the moments that changed your life—from asking for your first job to accepting the role of Head of Kentron—what do you think people are really afraid of when they hesitate? And how did you learn to treat rejection not as a setback, but as part of the process?

I think most people are not afraid of failure itself. They are afraid of what failure seems to say about them. We hesitate because we imagine rejection as a judgment, when in reality it is often just information. Someone says no, a door closes, a plan doesn't work—but none of those things define who we are.

When I look back at the moments that shaped my life, I see that they all began with uncertainty. Asking for opportunities, starting a company when I had very limited resources, accepting responsibility in public service—none of those decisions came with guarantees. There was always a reason to hesitate.

What changed over time was my relationship with rejection. Early on, I realized that every meaningful opportunity carries the possibility of hearing "no." If you want certainty, you have to accept smaller ambitions. But if you want growth, you have to become comfortable with uncertainty.

I learned to see rejection not as a setback but as part of the process. Sometimes a "no" means "not now." Sometimes it reveals a better path. And sometimes it simply teaches you how to ask better questions the next time.

The biggest opportunities in my life did not come because I was certain. They came because I was willing to move forward despite uncertainty. In many ways, courage is not the absence of hesitation. It is deciding that what lies beyond it matters more.

On the body and the city

You have a very physical relationship with your own limits — the Iron Man, the back pains, the father carrying you to school. Now you govern a district. Do you think the body teaches us something about how to move through a city — about fatigue, endurance, the rhythm of streets?

The connection between the body and the city is very natural. We experience cities physically before we experience them intellectually. A broken sidewalk, poor lighting, inaccessible public spaces, long walking distances—these are not abstract urban planning issues. They affect how people feel, move, and live every day.

Physical challenges have taught me that progress is rarely about dramatic moments. It is about consistency, endurance, and paying attention to small signals before they become bigger problems. Cities work in a similar way. A healthy city is one that supports people's daily rhythms rather than fighting against them.

When I walk through Kentron today, I pay attention to details I might have overlooked before: how comfortably people move, where they stop, where they gather, where they struggle. In many ways, the city communicates through the experiences of the people who use it.

On Kentron as a living space

Kentron is the historical and cultural center of Yerevan. When you walk it now — not as a resident but as its head — what does the neighborhood reveal to you that it didn't before?

When I became Head of Kentron, I began seeing the district through a different lens. As a resident, you naturally experience a neighborhood through your own routine. As its head, you start seeing thousands of routines happening simultaneously.

What reveals itself most is how interconnected everything is. A courtyard is not just a courtyard. It is where children play, neighbors meet, and communities form. A sidewalk is not just infrastructure. It determines how comfortably and safely people move through their day.

The more I walk through Kentron, the more I understand that cities are living systems. Every small improvement has a human story behind it, and every unresolved problem affects someone's daily life.

On aesthetics in public life

Your colorful socks became almost a philosophical statement inside a very conservative institution. Was that a deliberate act, or did it just happen? And what do you think a small, persistent aesthetic gesture can do in a public institution?

I would not say it was a deliberate statement at first. It was simply an expression of personality. But over time I realized that small aesthetic gestures can communicate something important.

Public institutions are often associated with rigidity and distance. Sometimes a small expression of individuality reminds people that institutions are ultimately made up of human beings.

More broadly, aesthetics matter because they shape how people experience their environment. Whether it is a colorful pair of socks or the restoration of a public space, attention to aesthetics communicates care. And when people see care, they often respond with greater engagement and responsibility themselves.

On execution as an aesthetic act

You say ideas don't create results — execution does. But great architecture, great urbanism, often begins with an image — a vision — that precedes any plan. Is there a tension between your pragmatism and what a city actually needs to become?

I don't see a contradiction between vision and execution. In fact, they depend on each other.

A vision gives direction. It helps people imagine what is possible. But vision alone cannot improve a city. At some point, ideas have to become sidewalks, playgrounds, lighting systems, and public spaces.

What I have learned is that execution is not the opposite of imagination. It is what gives imagination credibility. The most inspiring urban projects begin with a vision, but they earn trust through implementation.

A city needs both dreamers and builders. My focus has always been on ensuring that good ideas become visible realities.

On motivation at scale

You said that in the public sector the greatest reward is seeing "small achievements and satisfied faces around." As Head of Kentron, you're responsible for thousands of people you may never personally meet. How do you stay connected to the human side of that responsibility? What helps you remember that every project, complaint, or decision ultimately affects real lives?

One of the most important lessons I learned in research is that behind every statistic is a person. That perspective remains with me in public service.

It is easy to speak about projects, budgets, and infrastructure. But ultimately, every decision affects someone's daily experience. A renovated courtyard means children have a safer place to play. Better lighting means someone feels safer walking home at night.

I stay connected by spending time in the district, listening to residents, and observing how people actually use the spaces we improve. Seeing the impact directly is a constant reminder that public service is fundamentally about people, not projects.

On vulnerability and endurance

During the Iron Man, you described reaching a point where you were exhausted, overwhelmed, and crying—and realizing that crying actually helped you keep going. That moment revealed a different kind of strength. In leadership, where people often expect confidence and certainty, is there still room for vulnerability? What have those difficult moments taught you about resilience, both personally and professionally?

I believe vulnerability and resilience are not opposites. In many cases, vulnerability is what makes resilience possible.

There are moments in life when determination alone is not enough. You reach your limits physically, emotionally, or professionally. Those moments force you to be honest with yourself.

Leadership is often associated with certainty, but real leadership also requires self-awareness. People do not need leaders who pretend to be invulnerable. They need leaders who remain steady during challenges while continuing to learn and adapt.

The difficult moments in my life have taught me that resilience is not about never struggling. It is about continuing forward despite the struggle.

On the city's low-hanging fruits

You were advised to focus on low-hanging fruits when you started in Kentron. What were yours? And now, two years in, what does a "high-hanging fruit" look like for this district?

When I first arrived in Kentron, I focused on areas where visible improvements could quickly improve people's daily lives. Courtyard renovations, playground installations, sidewalk restoration, better lighting—these were practical interventions with immediate impact.

Those projects were important because they built trust. People could see that change was possible.

Today, the challenges are more complex. The "high-hanging fruits" involve long-term urban development, sustainability, and creating systems that will continue delivering value years from now. They require broader coordination, patience, and strategic thinking. The rewards are greater, but so is the complexity.

On the moment before yes

You said no to the mayor at first. Then, by evening, you said yes. That turning point — between no and yes — what actually happened in you during those hours?

My initial reaction was shaped by the weight of the responsibility. Public service affects people directly and at scale. It is not a decision you make lightly.

During those hours, I was thinking less about the position itself and more about the opportunity to create impact. Throughout my career, I have believed that meaningful change comes from moving beyond your comfort zone.

By the end of the day, I realized that the question was not whether the challenge would be difficult. It certainly would be. The question was whether I was willing to contribute where I believed I could make a difference.

The answer to that question was yes.

On presence, finally

DASEIN means "being-there" — the raw fact of existing in a specific place and time. Where in your daily life do you feel most present? Not productive, not responsible. Just there.

The moments when I feel most present are usually very simple.

Sometimes it is walking through Kentron early in the morning before the day becomes busy. Sometimes it is exercising, when your attention is focused entirely on the next step rather than the next meeting. Sometimes it is spending time with family and friends.

Presence, for me, comes when I am fully engaged with what is in front of me rather than thinking about what comes next.

Much of my professional life has been about asking questions, solving problems, and planning for the future. Those things are important. But being present means appreciating the moment as it is. It means observing, listening, and simply being there.

And perhaps that is where understanding begins.

Petros Petoyan petros_petoyan
The head of the administrative district of Kentron kentron_district

Photographer: David Galstyan davgalstian