Don't touch this screw!

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Hi there!

I hope you’re doing well.
It’s been a while since I wrote a newsletter and I figured it’s time for a little change. Starting from this one, I’m going to try something new: longer forms. Think essays. Or, to borrow from my Polish roots—felietons.
Little stories. With a bit of irony, a pinch of reflection, and hopefully, some good vibes along the way.

So here it goes. Welcome to the first one.
Grab a coffee, and enjoy the read.

It all started with the bag.
No one tells you that the biggest challenge for a young engineer isn’t the wiring diagram or talking to the CEO—it’s the toolbag that never has wheels. Just weight. Physical and existential. Because you’re not only carrying screwdrivers. You’re carrying responsibility. And grease.

In field service, you learn two things fast: that Google only works in one corner of the shop floor (while standing on one leg), and that “it can’t be done” is not an answer. It’s just a test of your creativity. Improvisation becomes a soft skill. Sometimes a cable doesn’t work, the manual is missing, the robot is running Windows 95, and all you have is a zip tie, a roll of tape, and a coworker who says, “maybe this will hold.”

With time, you notice that service is not just about machines. It’s about people. At university, they teach you about encoders and robot kinematics. But no one explains how to talk to an operator who just got yelled at because production is down. And you walk in like Bambi on ice—fresh, hopeful, and thinking the schematic will save you.

It won’t.

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Tone of voice might.
Because when you explain to someone, covered in sweat and stress, that you’re here to help, they better believe it. Empathy turns out to be more useful than your multimeter. A screwdriver helps, sure. But empathy unscrews the real tension.

You learn fast. You have to. There’s no time to sit and analyze. You walk into the factory, and in two minutes you have to look like someone who knows. Production is bleeding money. Everyone’s watching. And you’re trying to diagnose a fault by listening to how it hums. Then someone asks, “So, when will it work again?” That’s when the real performance starts.

You’re not analyzing. You’re guessing—with style.

Eventually, it clicks. You see patterns. You make connections. You start to understand things no one ever taught you. It’s like driving a car—at first, you think about every move. Later, your hands know what to do. Except here, the stakes are a bit higher. Instead of a smooth ride, you’re aiming for a running machine. And a calm client.

Service humbles you. Brutally.
There’s always that moment when you think: “I’ve seen it all.” And then a machine operator—who’s worked on it since the Cold War—says something that makes no sense. But you do what he says, and… it works. That’s when you learn to listen. Not to data. To people.

Trusting others’ experience is not a weakness. It’s a tool.

Service teaches you languages. Not foreign ones. Human ones. You learn to speak to operators, team leads, maintenance managers, CEOs—and each one needs a different dialect. You tell each one the same truth, just wrapped differently. And when you master that, you become dangerously effective.

Service doesn’t do routine. One day you’re in a cookie factory. Next, you’re ankle-deep in coolant and metal shavings. Then you’re in a deep-freeze warehouse that makes Siberia look cozy. Every factory is a different world. You learn to adapt. You stop fearing the unknown. It becomes your breakfast.

But you get something precious in return:
Experience. From different industries, technologies, people. And with it comes perspective. You see problems differently. Because you’ve been there. You’ve fixed it. You’ve talked to people who don’t care about your title—just whether the machine runs.

And you write everything down.
Because memory is a fairy tale. Without notes, you’re lost. Notes are your second brain. Greasy? Maybe. But reliable.

Service builds muscle memory. Literally. At first, screws won’t budge, your hands are sausages, and you sweat like a pig. But over time, you feel the torque. You know when something gives. And suddenly, you’re the guy who can disassemble a motor and not have any screws left over. That’s a win.

Sometimes, the most expensive thing is speed.
You think you’re fast. Then you spend four hours fixing what you broke in four minutes. Lesson? Take five minutes to think. It’ll save two hours of swearing later.

And then, there’s the Polishness.
You know—seeing a manual, shrugging, tossing it aside. Service beats that out of you. Violently. Like a lobotomy. You learn that manuals are not the enemy. Overconfidence is.

Now, I even read IKEA instructions.

In the end, all of this bags, cables, improvised fixes, long nights - is a foundation.
The kind that lets you move forward. When you switch jobs, go into product, sales, strategy—suddenly, you see you’re one step ahead. Because you know what actually works. What doesn’t. What clients truly need.

Service isn’t a phase to skip. It’s the thing everything else stands on.

And even though it can be hell—back pain, ego bruises, the occasional corporate invoice—what it gives you is real. Tangible. Stories worth telling over a beer.
Sometimes with a happy ending. Sometimes with a stripped thread. But always with that little smirk that says, “Yeah, I fixed that.”

And after all that… everything else feels just a little easier.

If you are still here, let me know what do you think about this style of content 🙂 

Cheers, Jacek !