About me.

I was born in 2007 in Moara Vlăsiei, a village in Ilfov, on the edge of what was once the Vlăsiei Forest. This is where my parents and my mother's parents are from; my father's mother came all the way from Oneaga, a near-forgotten hamlet near Botoșani — that's where my drop of Moldavian blood comes from. But by lineage I consider myself a local: my ancestors were among the first shepherd families to settle their flocks on these plains, at the edge of the forest. They were herders with many children, and the name Anca spread quickly — so quickly that, in the area, dozens of families still carry it today.

I don't say this for any prestige, but because that's where I come from: a modest family, below the average of the time. I was born in the very years the economic crisis was settling over all of Eastern Europe. My father had just lost the company he'd barely started, and my parents were buried under debts I probably still don't fully know. They both worked themselves to the bone — around 2009–2010 my mother was back in employment and my father held down two jobs at once — and, whenever it was needed, they went without so I wouldn't feel the lack. I was little; I don't think I understood back then how much "nothing" was costing them. I understood later.

When my first-grade teacher told my mother I had a logical-mathematical mind, she had no idea she was predicting an entire path. I finished middle school with the highest average of all three schools in Moara Vlăsiei and got into "I.L. Caragiale" National College in Bucharest, on the maths-computer science track, intensive English. To this day it's the best thing that ever happened to me — without it I wouldn't have done half of what I've done since.

That's where I doubted myself for the first time. We really were the best of the best, and the only difference was the background each of us came from. My classmates had been taken all over Europe, some to other continents, raised with private tutoring several times a week. In my year, I was the only one — I repeat, the only — student from a rural area. I left home in the dark and lost hours on the road every day, sometimes more, sometimes less; in winter it was night both on the way there and on the way back. From the first days, I was laughed at. I'm not looking for anyone to blame, and I'd like to believe it was bullying without malice — but there was no way I couldn't feel the marginalisation.

At first I told myself I could never compete here the way I did back home. I was wrong. I took first prize every single year at Caragiale too — except here the satisfaction no longer came from being the first name called at the awards, but from the fight it took to get there. The competition was, at last, truly real — and it didn't discourage me, it disciplined me.

In the 11th grade I stumbled, without realising it, onto what I would go on to do. A younger cousin was struggling with physics, then with maths; I started helping her. She told me she finally understood, and brought along a classmate in the same situation. By the end of the year, three or four children were coming to my house regularly. I never asked for a penny — I simply enjoyed seeing others succeed too, not just me.

By the 12th grade, eight or nine parents were already reaching out to me to work with their children from the autumn. I couldn't believe that help I'd been giving out of pure joy would change the way I see things. I ended the year with around nineteen students, most of them with excellent results. Nearly half came from disadvantaged families or areas, and I helped them without asking for anything in return: it was enough for me to see that they wanted it, that they stuck with it, and that it worked. I think that's when I really understood what I want to do.

Then came the Baccalaureate. I scored a clean 10 in maths — honestly, it was child's play, but a grade that mattered enormously for the image I'd already begun to build, and one I spoke about in the national press. Next came my first year at Automatic Control and Computer Science, at the Polytechnic: I was following my instinct, maths woven together with programming, another hobby of mine that few knew about.

That's also when I decided to turn this story into a serious pursuit and opened my company — AXS LEARNING SRL. The name isn't accidental: AXS comes from our initials — Alexandra's, my girlfriend, and mine, A × S — and "Learning" stands for tutoring and studying, where it all began. I started with three or four students. It may not sound like a long time, but over the years more than 100 students have passed through my hands. It felt unreal — I wouldn't have believed it myself. But as beautiful as the growth was, it was just as hard to split myself between students and university, and my personal life had all but vanished. The results were there, though, and now I know for certain: it was worth it, without a single regret.

Today, AXS LEARNING is no longer just tutoring. I've niched into technology and built an entire ecosystem: AXS Liceu, for eighth-graders preparing for high-school admission, used by more than 6,500 students and parents and now also in Poland as AXS Liceum; Era Lumis, for National Evaluation simulations graded automatically against the official marking scheme; AXS Learning Centre, my tutoring centre, with homework graded with the help of AI; Parenting Academy, for parents; DEX Dicționar, an explanatory Romanian dictionary written from scratch; and AXS Tools, free utilities I offer asking nothing in return.

A few more platforms, and more countries, are on the way. The thread stays the same, though, all the way from the first child I helped: I want a student to be able to start from "I don't know where to begin" and reach, with these tools, a clear plan — and the confidence to see it through.