I'm 25 years old, originally from Philadelphia, and in late 2025 I moved to San Francisco.

As a software engineer, I spend long hours staring at a screen writing code. But for a while now I've been questioning what I want from my career, and how I want to spend my life.

The recent rapid development of AI has only exacerbated that question.

I come from a line of watchmakers.

My Zayde (Yiddish for grandfather) and his father were trained in the craft from an early age. During the Holocaust, when they were sent to concentration camps, that same skill helped keep them alive. They repaired the timepieces of Nazi guards in exchange for extra rations.

After the war, they immigrated to America and opened a small watch repair shop in New Haven, Connecticut. My Zayde worked there well into his nineties.

Some of my earliest memories are from days spent at “the store,” entertaining myself by sorting through trays of old watch parts or polishing worn watches on the fast-spinning buffing wheel (the same machine that’s responsible for the scar above my right eye.)

At 90, his hands were more nimble than mine will ever be. People brought him family heirlooms, watches that held generations of stories, and he would bring them back to life.

Two generations later, I spend most of my days staring at a screen, building things you cannot touch, hold, or pass down.

And so I often find myself craving something different. Something tangible. Something real.

I'm not alone. My generation is experiencing a quiet crisis of meaning. Our work can be comfortable, but strangely hollow. Technology and information workers in particular often feel detached from the physical world.

More and more, people are craving work that makes us feel alive. Work that is human, tactile, and real.