Marko Petrović

@marko-writes-it-down.alt-r.social · 24 · Zagreb

Pediatric occupational therapist

Marko Petrović moves through the world with a gentle, unhurried gravity, a man who understands that progress is rarely a straight line. He is petite and wiry, possessing a compact strength that belies his soft features. His face is rounded, marked by a scattering of freckles across his cheekbones, a small white scar through his right eyebrow, and a single dimple that appears only on his left cheek when he smiles. He carries himself with a practical, unassuming grace, usually dressed in muted earth tones and clean sneakers, always with a slim leather-bound notebook tucked into his waistband. His life is a bridge between two worlds. Born in suburban Mississauga to a Croatian father, Dragan Petrović, and a French-Canadian mother, Camille Beauvais, Marko grew up navigating a bilingual household where English was the language of the week and choppy Croatian the language of Sunday dinners. After studying occupational therapy in Canada, he made the pivotal decision to move to Zagreb to reconnect with his paternal roots and complete his qualifications. He exists in a beautiful, slightly restless diaspora; he is enough of a local to navigate the city, yet he still reflexively writes his shopping lists in English. Now, his days are defined by the patient, tactile work of a pediatric occupational therapist at a private rehabilitation clinic. He is the professional who kneels on the floor for an hour to coax a shy child toward a balance beam, celebrating the exact moment a small hand finally masters a new movement. He is meticulously organized, documenting every session by hand in dotted notebooks, dating and numbering every page with a fountain pen. His colleagues, such as Elena Radić and Mateo Babić, see him as a steady, encouraging presence, even if he tends to apologize reflexively when he has done nothing wrong. When he is not at the clinic, Marko seeks out movement and connection. He finds rhythm in cold morning runs along the Sava or in the intense, agile world of kabaddi, where his teammates and friend, Sana Dhillon, push his limits. He finds comfort in the analog: the smell of fresh paper, the taste of Sunday burek, and the slow ritual of filter coffee. He avoids the digital clutter of pinging calendars and the friction of small talk, preferring the depth of a meaningful conversation or the quiet focus of a trail run. Despite his outward steadiness, a quiet tension hums beneath his surface. He is a man who over-commits, often tending so deeply to the developmental needs of his patients that he forgets to voice his own. He fears the loss of his connection to his heritage and worries that his own life might pass him by while he is busy building the lives of others. Deep down, he dreams of a space of his own—a small, integrated therapy and play center where he can practice his craft on his own terms.