The Art of Survival: Manfred’s Code for a Life in Motion.

It’s a sunny morning in France when Frank sits down with Manfred, a 64-year-old software programmer from northern Germany. Outside, autumn leaves swirl in the wind; inside, the conversation is alive with something timeless — not nostalgia, but perspective.

Manfred is semi-retired now, working for a Swiss train manufacturer. But when he started, his hands were busy with wires and switches, not code. “My first job was as an electrician,” he begins, his tone calm, steady — the voice of someone who has seen entire worlds of work rise and fall. “I installed washing machines, worked on construction sites. During my apprenticeship, I helped build the electrics for our local indoor swimming pool. Now they’re tearing it down. Its lifespan was the same as my working life. It’s ironic.”

There’s a quiet poetry in that image: a building’s story mirroring a human career. Both constructed with intention. Both impermanent.

From Bricks to Bytes

Manfred recalls the abrupt transition from the comfort of home to the hard edges of professional life. “It was not easy,” he admits. Apprentices were “cheap labour,” and the hierarchy was rigid. Yet even then, he noticed loopholes — little spaces of freedom that rewarded curiosity more than compliance.

His father was a bricklayer. “You took bricks and concrete and built walls,” he says. “Nothing changed.” But when Manfred entered the workforce, the world was already shifting underfoot. “When I started, Microsoft Windows didn’t exist,” he laughs. “Now, each version forces you to adapt. But change itself? That hasn’t changed.”

It’s a simple truth disguised as a paradox: change is constant, so adaptability becomes the only stable skill.

The Leap into Code

By the late 1980s, the electrician was restless. “After years on construction sites, I started thinking about my future. Becoming self-employed didn’t excite me,” he says. Then came chance — a magazine about computers and programming. “I found it to be my future. But you have to be open to the new path.”

He didn’t have the qualifications to attend university. Instead, he found state training programmes, spent evenings learning code, and taught himself by writing small programs for friends. “It was pioneering spirit,” he says with a smile.

What he discovered was creativity — the invisible architecture of logic. “It’s like being an author,” he explains. “I write a programme that isn’t read, but used. You can see the results when other people use it.”

For Manfred, that’s the joy — the invisible impact of invisible work.

Experience, Not Authority

Now, decades later, Manfred brings something else to the workplace: perspective. “A new colleague started; he’s half my age, full of enthusiasm, all the solutions,” he says. “I gave him advice based on experience — more measured, long-term. He accepted it. But you can’t be dictatorial. The skill is in how you convey the message.”

That’s the real survival skill — not knowing more, but knowing how to share what you know.

He has learned that influence isn’t control. It’s the art of being heard without shouting. “My opinion, my experience, making suggestions,” he says. “That’s how you build trust.”

The Constant Student

If one theme runs through Manfred’s life, it’s curiosity. He talks about Compuserve — one of the early online communities where programmers shared code, questions, and breakthroughs. “It helped me get my previous job,” he recalls. “But more importantly, it kept me learning. In my field, constant learning is essential.”

Even now, semi-retired, he keeps testing himself, not out of fear of obsolescence, but out of habit. “My job today is very specialised,” he admits. “Without a degree, it’s almost impossible. But I got it because of my attitude and life experience. The technical skills can be learnt. What defined me was my USP — my uniqueness — and the chemistry with my boss.”

He pauses. “The results of my work make me happy. People use it, comment on it. That motivates me.”

It’s a quiet kind of success — measured not in titles, but in usefulness.

Failure as a Compass

“The basic requirement,” Manfred says, “is to accept failures as opportunities.”

He recounts moments when he had to start again — a failed code, a wrong approach, an idea that didn’t land. “Sometimes it’s the fourth attempt,” he admits. “But you learn to reset your brain, or to talk to someone with a totally different perspective.”

Failure, in his world, is a mirror — reflecting what you didn’t yet know.

He laughs remembering a project for a pizzeria. “I bluffed my way through the negotiations, but delivered six months later. We became friends. Sometimes you need to take risks, but then you have to knuckle down. It keeps you focused.”

It’s not luck. It’s courage wrapped in curiosity.

What Endures

So what advice would he give the next generation?

“Make mistakes,” he says simply. “Nobody is perfect. It’s not the end — it’s the beginning of the next step. Accept that starting at zero might be the best option. Stay the course. Grow. Develop.”

He’s thoughtful when the conversation turns to AI — the new “electricity” of our time. “I use AI to support my programming,” he explains. “The results are mixed. It helps me evaluate my work, but the human check is still important. Only the human knows what the outcome should be.”

He doesn’t see it as a threat, but as continuity — another version of progress, another “Windows 3.1” evolving quietly. “AI will help humans do things better,” he says. “But it won’t replace us.”

Reflection

When Manfred speaks of adaptation, he’s not talking about technology — he’s talking about life. The courage to start again. The humility to learn. The wisdom to share without lecturing.

His swimming pool may be gone, but his current still flows.

And perhaps that’s the real code to survive:
stay curious, stay kind, stay open to the next version of yourself.