Paolo, you've faced criticism for staying completely silent after Noostech's bankruptcy. Could you share your perspective on why you chose that approach?

Yes, I was criticized for going silent after the collapse of Noostech, and I get why people felt that way. In a world where everyone expects a quick statement, an apology, or an explanation right away, my silence probably felt like I was hiding, or worse, not taking responsibility. But here’s the truth behind that decision: silence was intentional. It wasn’t about avoidance—it was about reflection, regrouping, and finding clarity before saying anything.

When Noostech fell, the last thing I wanted to do was react in a knee-jerk way, throwing out statements just to satisfy the demand for a response. I didn’t want to play into the cycle of trying to manage public perception when I was in the middle of processing what had happened—both on a personal level and in terms of the business. I had to figure out not just why Noostech failed, but what I was going to do next, how I was going to grow from that failure. And that’s not something you can rush.

In those moments of chaos, when everything’s crumbling, it’s easy to get swept up in the noise—everyone has an opinion, everyone’s watching, and there’s this pressure to address the public narrative. But I knew that reacting too soon would’ve been a mistake. I needed time to regroup, to analyze the situation honestly, and to understand the deeper lessons from that failure. Sometimes silence isn’t about avoiding responsibility—it’s about choosing responsibility, by ensuring that when you do speak, you’re saying something real, something thoughtful, and something meaningful.

And honestly? The public doesn’t always deserve an immediate explanation. People were criticizing, sure, but most of them weren’t interested in the real story—they just wanted to see a spectacle, to know what went wrong so they could gossip or analyze it from the sidelines. I wasn’t about to feed that. I didn’t owe anyone a rushed response. What I owed myself, and the people who really mattered, was the time to reflect, rebuild, and come back with something authentic and grounded.

There’s another layer to it, too. In the moment of failure, there’s this overwhelming emotional noise—the disappointment, the loss, the ego taking a hit. Speaking out immediately in that state often means you end up saying things that are driven by emotion, by frustration, or by the need to save face. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to come from a place of clarity and integrity, and that meant going quiet for a while. I had to let the dust settle, both externally and internally, before I was ready to talk about what happened.

In today’s world, where transparency is often confused with instant gratification, silence is seen as suspect. But for me, it wasn’t about hiding. It was about taking control of my own process, about giving myself the space to regroup without the pressure of performing for an audience that mostly wanted to see how I’d handle the failure. And when I did finally speak, I knew I’d have something more valuable to say—something reflective of the lessons I’d learned and the clarity I’d gained, not just a rushed attempt to calm the storm.

So yes, I was silent after the fall of Noostech, but that silence was my way of regaining control of the narrative, rather than being pulled in a hundred directions by external expectations. It was about self-respect and refusing to let the noise of public opinion dictate how I responded to one of the most difficult moments of my career. I wasn’t going to react. I was going to respond, and there’s a big difference between the two.