The Lost Art of Careful Craftsmanship: Lessons from My Uncle’s Workshop

There’s an increasing number of young professionals who struggle with the grind of our work. They get simple but necessary tasks — tasks that transform indicators, rework detections, or retrieve and process data — but they return flawed results, late and incomplete. Some even let AI do the work without checking if it’s correct. And when I ask why, the answer, directly or indirectly, is often the same: “I want to do the exciting stuff.”

But the truth is, 97% of what we do in cybersecurity is not exciting. It’s slow, repetitive, and requires patience. We grind through logs, extract data from reports, and refine rules. Most of the time, we don’t see the direct impact of our work. A signature written today might detect something crucial in a customer’s system six months from now, and we’ll never even know. But every small piece matters.

What saddens me is not just the impatience, but the lack of care. The unwillingness to put thought and effort into something seemingly simple. The failure to reflect on how to make a task better. This goes against something deeply ingrained in my upbringing — a principle that I believe is also deeply rooted in both German and Japanese culture.

In German, my grandmother would always say: “Mach es gescheit.” It’s hard to translate precisely, but it means: Do it properly. Not just complete a task, but do it in a way that is solid, thoughtful, and more than just “good enough.” It doesn’t mean perfection — it means putting care into what you do, even if no one else will notice.

The Japanese have a similar philosophy, one that I greatly admire. There is a word, “shokunin” (職人精神), which means more than just “craftsman.” It describes someone who dedicates themselves fully to their craft, always refining, always improving. Even in the smallest tasks, a shokunin finds a way to do things better, not because someone told them to, but because they take pride in their work.

I was reminded of this when I thought about my uncle, who was a carpenter. When I was a child, I watched him finish his masterpiece for his final exam — an intricately crafted dresser. After days of sanding, polishing, and checking every tiny detail, he wasn’t done. He took out a small, hand-carved wooden rose, which he had made separately, and carefully placed it on the dresser’s ledge.

It wasn’t required. No one had told him to add that ornament. But he did it because he cared. Because he wanted his work to be more than just acceptable.

And this is what I want to see in young professionals today. It’s not about making flashy things, or chasing after excitement — it’s about taking pride in your craft, even in the smallest details. Because in the end, that’s what makes a difference.

So my advice is this: Whatever you do, do it gescheit. Do it like a shokunin. Put care into your work, even if no one else will see it. That’s how you grow. That’s how you build trust. And in the long run, that’s what will set you apart.