I was born in the Polish People’s Republic — a country defined by queues, ration cards, and a deep cultural imprint that equated hardship with virtue. Like many others, I was raised in a family that taught me — explicitly or silently — that worth is measured in effort, status and income. There was affection, but there were also dysfunctions we didn’t have the language to name.
So I did what so many kids in post-communist Poland did: I chased being “the best.” In primary school, in high school, and later at university — I didn’t just want to be good. I needed to be better than the others. It wasn’t about growing as a person. It was about winning. I wasn’t running toward something meaningful. I was simply running to be ahead.
When it came time to choose a major, I had no idea what I wanted to do in life. Like many teenagers, I was confused, but I was also good at math — and my father, practical and firm, said: “If you don’t know what you want, choose something that will make you money.” That’s how I ended up studying computer science.
And so began a new chapter of the same old story: now the race was for income, not grades.
Then came the family. And with it, the responsibility to provide. That responsibility, already heavy, grew even more intense in the age of social media, where every scroll showed someone else’s success: luxury vacations, designer clothes, new cars, titles, promotions.
I chased harder.
Worked longer.
Moved abroad.
Took more jobs.
Pushed for promotions.
Got my first director title. Then another. And another.
Eventually, I became CTO. I reached the top. But something felt… wrong.
There was no satisfaction. No fulfillment. I paused — and for the first time in years — looked back.
What I saw was a trail of lost moments. Missed time with my family. Friendships that faded. Hobbies I never had. I wasn’t proud. I was empty.
And that’s when I began to see the truth:
The problem wasn’t the role, the job, the industry, or even the pace.
The problem was the mindset.
I had lived most of my life in a world built around “I have to.”
I have to study this.
I have to earn more.
I have to prove myself.
I have to win.
And so I asked myself: What if I didn’t have to? What if I could want to?
That shift — from obligation to intention — changed everything.
It changed how I see my job. It changed how I lead. It changed how I listen. It changed how I live.
For the first time, I allowed myself to see my role not as a title to defend or a ladder to climb, but as an opportunity — to learn, to give, to grow, and to connect. I saw that the most meaningful part of my work isn’t the systems or the strategies. It’s the people.
You.
Those around me.
Colleagues. Collaborators. Mentors. Team members. Friends.
You are the ones who inspire me, challenge me, and help me become more fully human. You are the ones I want to give something back to. (Well — unless there’s too many of you in one room, in which case my ADHD starts flashing red.)
This realization didn’t come from a book. It came from stopping. From turning around. From seeing clearly for the first time.
And so today I write this for one reason:
Because I believe that being a manager starts with being a human.
You can’t lead well if you don’t care.
You can’t grow others if you’re not willing to grow yourself.
And you can’t fake presence or purpose.
When my father, who had spent years as a director and later ran his own company, once told me, “A director doesn’t really know anything — he has no real trade,” I didn’t argue.
Now I know better.
Leadership is a trade.
A deeply human one.
It’s the art of seeing others — and showing them who they can become.
And it begins the moment you stop asking what you have to do
— and start asking what you want to build.
