Bart has degrees in archaeology and a master’s in history. Michal earned both his undergrad and master’s in forestry. They graduated from Jagiellonian University in Kraków—founded in 1364, steeped in so much academic tradition that Copernicus studied there. A place that’s produced popes, poets, scholars. And, increasingly, tour guides.
Because in Poland, public university is free. Accessible. Almost expected. But a degree—even from Jagiellonian—doesn’t guarantee a future. Some locals call it the “University of Unemployment.”
Bart found work—in archaeology—but the job paid minimum wage. When he told his boss he couldn’t survive on it, the response was brutal: “There are a hundred like you waiting in line.” So, he reinvented.
Michal had a different kind of dream. He wanted to go back to his village, work the land, restore the forests he’d grown up in. But forestry jobs in that part of Poland were as mythical as unicorns. He reinvented too.
They did what most people won’t admit they need to do: rebuild when their plans collapse.
Choose purpose over pride. Start again without a map.
Bart started walking tourists through Kraków—telling stories with depth, context, a little sarcasm, and a lot of heart. He wasn’t just pointing out landmarks. He was reclaiming his field. On foot. In motion. With tips.
And what struck me most?
And they were good at it. Really good. Engaging. Sharp. Deeply human.
This wasn’t just a pivot. It wasn’t “making do.”
It was building something new.
Michal’s reinvention? Somehow even heavier.
He became a guide at Auschwitz.
Let that land.
From trees to trauma. From nature to genocide.
He studied. Learned the names, the silence, the weight of the place.
And became someone who could carry it—not academically, but aloud. To strangers. Daily.
That’s reinvention.
🔄 How Do You Reinvent?
You start by letting go of the script.
Not the values. Not the work ethic. But the expectation that the system you were trained for still exists. Because sometimes it doesn’t. And that’s not your fault. It’s just your starting line.
You listen—not just to what others are telling you is next, but to what you still want to give. What you still have to offer. What skills might carry over, even if the title doesn’t.
You learn. Not in a classroom, necessarily—but in motion.
Bart learned how to translate historical knowledge into conversation, into pacing, into presence.
Michal learned the history of a place he hadn’t studied—and how to tell it with reverence and weight. He didn’t dilute his voice. He sharpened it.
You accept that growth won’t look the way you expected. That it may require stepping into places you didn’t imagine for yourself—with humility and grit.
Reinvention is not failure. It’s adaptation.
And in a world changing faster than most systems can keep up with, reinvention is no longer optional. It’s what keeps you relevant. Connected. Contributing.
It’s what keeps you from disappearing.
So, if you’re standing in a place you didn’t expect, with skills that feel like they don’t belong anymore—don’t shrink.
Reinvent.
Because the world needs people who know how to start again.
