Rachel Botsman on Trust, AI & the Polish Engineer Who Saw Work as Harmony

Rachel-Botsman-GettyImages-951905804.jpg, large, Rachel Botsman, photograph by James Brickwood/Fairfax Media via Getty Images via Getty Images

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At a time when AI can generate answers before we have fully formed our questions, and institutions are struggling to be believed, Rachel Botsman’s work feels unusually timely. Known for defining trust as 'a confident relationship with the unknown', she has spent years studying the invisible forces that shape how we live, work and decide whom to believe.

During her visit to Poland with the Adam Mickiewicz Institute, Botsman turned to an unexpected figure: Karol Adamiecki, the Polish engineer whose harmonograms transformed work into visual scores of rhythm, synchronisation and human labour. In this conversation, she reflects on Adamiecki’s forgotten legacy, the roots of leadership, the future of cultural institutions, and why outsourcing thought to machines may be more than a technological shift.

A confident relationship with the unknown

Agnes Dudek: Your work moves between writing, teaching, design, public speaking and now installation-making. For readers who may be encountering you for the first time, how would you describe the central question that has guided your work?

Rachel Botsman: The thread that runs through my work is a fascination with the invisible forces that shape society and our lives, and with how we can make those forces visible to people. For a long time, that force was trust. Now, I am very interested in thinking and thought. The medium does not really matter to me. I am always trying to help people understand something that is hidden, something that may be changing, or something that is affecting their lives in many different ways.

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Rachel Botsman, Zachęta – Narodowa Galeria Sztuki, 2026, photo: Kuba Celej/IAM

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AD: Is that what brought you to Poland?

RB: It was a multitude of reasons. I am a huge believer in field trips and immersion, and I am always looking for the right opportunities to immerse myself.

More specifically, I had been researching what I would call artefacts, and I came across the Adam Mickiewicz Institute through projects such as Exercising Modernity and Records of Waiting. I was so struck by the thoughtfulness, the concept and the execution of that work. I thought: I have to find out who the people behind this are.

There was something in the sensibility – the design sensibility, but also the ethnographic process and the history – that felt very close to how I approach my own work. I felt there was a synchronisation there, and that it would be really interesting to explore.

AD: How did Karol Adamiecki become important to your work? What connection do you see between his ideas about harmony and your own work on trust, or your work more generally?

RB: I first came across Karol’s work almost like a detective narrowing things down. I was trying to understand where the language of business – concepts like productivity, efficiency and output – had come from, because these are not new concepts. And I thought: maybe if I can understand their origins, I will think differently about them.

So, I started to dig into questions like: who was the first person to visualise multiple roles? Who was the first person to think about ergonomics? All these questions. I was coming up with clusters of Americans, and then I would go deeper, and Karol came up. I am really interested in polymaths, particularly people who are musicians or artists but also think in a very scientific way, because that combination of visualisation, precision and data is so powerful. I was blown away by his harmonograms. I thought: these are works of art. They look like musical scores to me. I just thought: who created these?

Then, of course, I discovered that everything was in Polish, and I started reading what had been written about him. But when I dug deeper, I thought: this guy was way more influential than people think. Because I had studied the later layers of management history, I could see his influence. What I did not understand was how he was connected to the Americans. Was his work borrowed? Was it absorbed without recognition? Or was there some form of collaboration?

Those were the questions I wanted to understand. But above all, I wanted to understand the person and the mind that came up with this idea of harmonisation: that work, like a conductor, could be harmony, and that people – not just outputs, results and money – could be optimised if you could find synchronisation.

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Karol Adamiecki – professor at Warsaw University of Technology. Portrait photograph, photo: National Digital Archives (NAC)

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AD: How did you get around the language barrier?

RB: The lucky thing is that he was very visual. I think that if he had not drawn these things, we would have missed one another. But I could see what he was saying in his own language. I was so blown away that he was taking something as complex as a steel factory and distilling it into lines that someone who did not understand his language could still read. And I am kind of glad there was a language barrier, because I think I had to work really hard to understand the essence of what he was saying.

But the reason I wanted to come to Poland was that I hit a wall. There was only so far I could go. I think one of the best things to have come out of this trip is that, although not many people have studied him, we met some of the professors who have. It felt like they passed on this capsule of knowledge. But there are now so many threads to explore: his connection to some of the Americans, and his connection to some of these places. I think we are now going to find a different picture of Karol that maybe has not yet been gathered, because there is still a lack of global recognition of how influential he is and was.

AD: You have spent many years thinking about trust – in relation to technology, institutions, work and society. Why did trust become such a compelling subject for you?

RB: Because it is so hard to understand. I love things that are hard to understand. I love things that you cannot touch, and that everyone has a different belief around. I am really drawn to complexity. Every time I thought I understood trust, another context would appear and I realised I did not. First, it was: this is really interesting in terms of technology – how we trust technology. Then it was: this is really interesting in relation to news, media and misinformation. Then politics. Then institutions. We talk about institutions, but what is an institution, and how does it work? Then local trust became interesting, because during the pandemic everyone was suddenly trusting their neighbours. So every time I thought I was done with trust, and was going to break up with it, another thing came along that I did not understand.

I also get very frustrated with management speak, where something sounds glossy, but when you dig and prod, you realise it is not really there. That is why my work takes such a long time. I need to arrive at something I can distil down – like a definition. My definition of trust is 'a confident relationship with the unknown'. That is how I define trust.

AD: But how can we trust what we do not know? How can we feel confident in the unknown.

RB: That is the tension, right? If you know how something is going to turn out, or there is no risk, you do not need trust. But there are not many situations in our lives where we know how things are going to turn out.

So I am not saying you should trust someone when you do not know them, or trust a product when you do not know how it works. I am actually saying the opposite. The question is: what information do you need about this person, product or thing in order to give it permission to play in the unknown with you? Because if you always have to watch that thing or that person, or understand exactly how it works, that takes a lot of emotional and cognitive energy. What trust does is allow you to let go.

The easiest way to think about this is in relationships, where you put the work in. You really understand what that person is capable of doing. You understand where that person is going to show up, or where they might let you down. You understand that person’s interests, motives and even energy. Once that foundation is there, amazing things can happen in that relationship or situation.

AD: Has your research changed the way you work, or the way you relate to trust personally – not only in relation to Adamiecki, but more generally?

RB: Totally. I think I always know there is something in the work when I can feel shifts in myself, or when I talk about it and someone says: I can’t do the same thing in the same way, or think the same way. We trust on so many levels, to be honest. I think I was an over-trusting person. I did not think enough about context. I thought trust was something that just transferred from one situation to the next.

I did not think enough about what happens when I am making a decision under pressure, in a high-risk situation, and therefore cannot speed that situation or decision up. I also did not think enough about the moments when I become controlling and micromanage other people, and about recognising that this is actually because I am not trusting them. It is like a lens you cannot turn off, and it is quite useful. It also helps with recognising when people do not trust me, which is really hard. Sometimes you can say: actually, this has nothing to do with me. This is coming from the other person, and whatever I give or say to that person is not going to change it. In that case, giving it no oxygen is the best way. Or the flip side is: I did actually do something, and I need to repair that. So it is very helpful.

Finding balance

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Karol Adamiecki, professor at Warsaw University of Technology and director of the Institute of Scientific Organisation of Work, with American engineer Harrington Emerson, photo: National Digital Archives (NAC)

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AD: Let’s return to Adamiecki. As you mentioned, he developed the harmonogram – an early visual system for coordinating collective work over time. What does it allow us to see about work that a simple schedule or modern project-management chart does not?

RB: I think we have to take this back to the context of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Most people were looking at two variables: time and output. That was the goal in the era of industrialisation: how do you make this machine produce more? And humans were just there to move the machine. Adamiecki said: no, no, no. No organisation can exist on two variables. Even that, in itself, was so ahead of his time. He spoke a lot about rhythm and synchronisation, and recognised that in any system or organisation, if you do not have that rhythm, or do not know what that rhythm is, it is not going to happen by chance.

A lot of organisations think they have problems or inefficiencies, but it is because they have not thought enough about the fact that this person needs to do this at this time. And until this person has done this, another person cannot pick it up. That is why I think the orchestra is such a great metaphor for his way of thinking. The violins might be playing all the time, but now the trumpet is going to come in. And when the trumpet comes in, it is very intentional and very important. Most work does not work like that. People say: we are going to start at the same time each day, and we are going to take breaks at the same time each day. We think we have synchronisation because we have all these messages going on, so it feels like there is rhythm.

But actually, if you mapped an organisation and said, Rachel should come in for two hours and do this, and then Agnes should come in and do this – it sounds privileged, perhaps, but it makes so much sense. Adamiecki said that everyone should not take breaks at the same time. It sounds like such an obvious thing to say, but that is what was happening.

So it was his ability to recognise the micro. On one of his charts, there is a boy who turned a screw. He was looking even at the boy who turned the screw. And if the boy turning the screw was not doing it before the man with the hammer, there was an inefficiency there. He brought it back down to the person: what that person was doing, when that person needed rest, the order and sequence of things, and whether moving one person from one part of the factory to another could increase productivity. So it was not that he was not concerned with productivity. He increased productivity sometimes sixfold, even tenfold. But he understood that the human being was at the centre of all that.

AD: That makes me think about the way we speak about productivity today. Many people feel that we live in a culture that overemphasises productivity, where it can be difficult to find balance and people may even feel guilty for resting or doing nothing. What do Adamiecki’s ideas suggest to you about our current productivity crisis?

RB: I think the problem is that we take a very hyper-individualistic approach to this. We think: what do I need for my work-life balance? And we assume that this will bring us the greatest benefit. But actually, if you looked at a whole team or a whole organisation, the picture might be very different. I remember reading a study from Sweden about the collective effects of vacation – how wellbeing can improve when many people are off work at the same time. It is a bit like Christmas, when everything shuts down. People feel better not only because they are on holiday, but because everyone else is too.

That is what Adamiecki meant by synchronisation. Sometimes, when we think, 'I really need to take Fridays off,' or 'I like half-days on Wednesdays,' that is me looking at my individual piece. But what if I looked at the whole team, still in a way that benefited me? What would that picture look like?

AD: Adamiecki is often described as one of the fathers of modern management, many ideas close to his were later overshadowed internationally by figures such as Henry Gantt and Frederick Taylor. If Adamiecki had been remembered as clearly as they were, do you think we might speak about work differently today – less in terms of control and productivity, and more in terms of harmony, rhythm and human flourishing?

RB: I think so. It is interesting: I have just read a book called Flourishing, and another book about restoring humanness in an age of automation, so I think Adamiecki would come back up now. His work feels highly relevant. People’s theories resurface when they have a new relevance.

I think capitalism, industrialisation, the way we think about those things – he would not have been able to fight against that. But maybe, in the same way that certain visual constructs, like the periodic table of elements, sit in classrooms around the world and can be translated into many languages, maybe harmonograms could have been used as a language, rather than project-management charts.

That is my feeling, my hope, my hunch: that maybe we can introduce these languages of thinking, in the same way that certain things transcend language and cultural understanding. That is what I saw when I restored the organisational chart from 1855. When people saw it, they said: leadership is at the bottom. They are the roots. We need to completely change our organisational chart, and perhaps our organisation. And you think: well, yes. Sometimes the visual prompt is enough to make people think differently about power. That is why I am really interested in finding a way to modernise Adamiecki’s harmonograms, to have artists interpret them, and to use the language of harmonograms. It does not have to be only about the management idea itself.

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Organizational diagram of the New York and Erie Railroad, 1855, public domain in the United States

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AD: That brings me to your installation, ‘Roots of Trust’, which was shown at the London Design Biennale. What first drew you to the 1855 organisational chart?

RB: I think it is an artefact that makes invisible things visible. It is astonishing to imagine this Scottish engineer, Daniel McCallum, general manager of the New York and Erie Railroad, sitting down and thinking: we have a problem. I cannot see everyone. This railroad is growing very, very fast. The telegraph has been invented, and now everyone has too much information and we do not know what to do with it. People are dying because people are not communicating. Time was becoming increasingly synchronised. How do I organise people?

I think that is astonishing: the idea that I can visualise this. So take the beauty away. It is actually the concept of saying: I can map roles. And through mapping roles, I can help people understand one another better. I may even be able to save lives. That is what initially drew me to it. I could not believe it had never been shown. I could not believe it was lost in archives and was really damaged. There were so many things. I did not intend to go this far with it, but I could not stop. Once I started to restore it and saw the level of detail, I wanted it to live beyond paper and become a beautiful object in itself – almost something ethereal and spiritual.

AD: It is really quite stunning on first impression. Looking at it from afar, I would not have guessed that it was about management. I thought it looked like something much more mystical, really. You mentioned that in this chart, leadership appears at the roots. What does that inversion suggest about leadership, responsibility and care?

RB: I think too much of leadership is perceived as a triangle: I am at the top, so I make decisions, then I communicate those decisions, and everyone is going to follow. That is not how human beings work. But equally, you can look up to leaders and say: well, I am not responsible, because you are at the top of the organisation. I cannot think of functions in that way. It is not the way to think about systems or organising people.

What really struck me was that leadership was the roots. It was the anchor, the foundation, the energy, the stability – rather than being top-down, but also not being in the centre. Sometimes I think we have tried this with organisations where everything is too distributed, or there is no power, and people do not have clarity. I have been in organisations where there are no titles, no roles, no reporting structures. It is chaos. So this was not a lack of clarity. It was incredibly clear: we are still the president, we are still the board, but we are not sitting on top of you. We are here to help you figure out the resources and the decisions, to keep you safe and enable you to do your jobs. That is a very different way of thinking about leadership and power.

AD: You mentioned that you have always had a strong interest in art, and ‘Roots of Trust’ also feels like a shift towards visual and material forms of enquiry. Is that something you would like to develop further, or was this installation more of a one-off project?

RB: I have never really seen myself as an artist. I could not write as a child. I was not very articulate, but I would think in images. Then I figured out that education was a game I could play. I went to Oxford and switched to fine art. In my 20s, I was with artists. I started out making art, and many of my closest friends are still designers and artists, now really successful in their careers, which is wonderful. So I was sort of the anomaly in the group. There is a tension there. Not like Karol, but some of the thinkers in my new book were perceived as scientists, when actually the way they were thinking was through art. They might not have said: I am a scientist. They might have said: I am an artist.

For a long time, I was comfortable with art being the process that happened behind closed doors. But now I think: do you know what? I want people to see the work. The art can be the work. So yes, hopefully I can bring more of these artefacts to exhibitions. I think it is a way in for people who are not going to read these books, or for whom these subjects might seem dry and inaccessible. It is a way to change the narrative around them.

Rachel Botsman, Zachęta – Narodowa Galeria Sztuki, 2026, photo: Kuba Celej/IAM

AD: Your recent work suggests that trust is also spatial – that it depends on where and how people meet. At a time when people feel increasingly isolated or atomised, what role can cultural spaces, such as galleries, festivals or libraries, play in creating real forms of connection?

RB: That is such a beautiful question. I am a huge believer in physical space to hold people, and in the idea that the design of physical space has so much influence on conversations, energy and interaction. That can mean obvious things like a workplace, a school classroom, a park, your own office or house, or a bank – whatever it might be. I love museums and institutions, but most of them are not designed for communal experiences. That is part of the problem, I think. They are designed for you to walk in. I read somewhere recently that the average person stands for 28 seconds in front of a piece of art. And it is made even worse now with the phone: 'I saw the Rothko, now on to the next room.'

So how do we think about these spaces becoming experiential, reflective, expansive and communal, rather than: I am going to visit, I will be done in an hour, I will post on Instagram and go home? It is something I think institutions have not solved. They have done a lot of work around digital access: you can view the collection online now, or they have a strong social media presence. But what does the relationship between culture, people, community and place really mean?

These institutions are often very privileged in the buildings they occupy and the assets they have. But those things should not take over. These places should be spaces to convene, to have conversations, and to feel things that you would not feel elsewhere. That is where I think institutions really need to work, because they have lost their role in a lot of people’s lives.

AD: That is true. Perhaps this is why we need cultural spaces more than ever – not only as institutions, but as places for human contact.

RB: You can go and have whatever the cultural experience might be, and it can be so restorative, so replenishing. There are very few things that can do that. There is that wonderful term, 'collective effervescence'. This is going to sound like a strange analogy, but I got really into long-distance running, and I was so fascinated by marathons and events, and by how communal they are. I kept thinking: why are these things so popular?

And then I realised: because it is one place in people’s lives where everyone shows up. Everyone is there to support one another, and everyone is in it together. I do not think people experience that in many other places in their lives. So if you can get a thousand people on a park run on a rainy day, why can’t you get people into a local museum? That is my challenge to cultural institutions.

Outsourcing thought

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Rachel Botsman, Zachęta – Narodowa Galeria Sztuki, 2026, photo: Kuba Celej/IAM

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AD: Your next project turns towards thinking itself – what happens to human thought in an age of frictionless answers, AI tools and intelligent machines. I was struck by what you said during your talk about ‘outsourcing thinking’. In creative work especially, what do we lose when technology makes it too easy to skip the difficult parts – the trying, failing, revising and making by hand?

RB: This is very hard to describe, because when we think of cognitive decline, we tend to think of Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s or memory loss. And that can definitely happen when we outsource our thinking to AI tools, but I think there is something else going on. It is strange to remember that it was only in the 1960s or 1970s that people started to think of exercise as good for their health. That seems crazy now. Before that, exercise was something for the army or for elite sportsmen. I think that is where we are with our thinking habits. Very few of us understand how the brain works. Very few of us understand the link between our hands and our heads, or our feet and our heads.

If you do not understand why outsourcing thinking means you are not working that muscle, it is very hard to say: this is really important, and this is something I should not do. It might be very easy to go to any large language model and say: can you draft an email? Can you write my presentation? At first, it feels like relief. It feels like magic to people. But then dependency, even addiction, happens so fast, because it becomes so hard to go back to what the mind perceives as hard work.

What has happened is that the muscle has been weakened. The connection is broken, literally in the brain. I really think this is one of the greatest threats not just to humanity, as people often describe it, but to health and wellness. You are literally not going to be working those synapses. We can see how fast this is happening. I also find it interesting that people lie about it: ‘No, I didn’t use it’. But you did, because I can tell. So then that creates shame, and it creates a trust breakdown in many ways.

Everyone is rightly worried about how AI is going to replace jobs. But there is not enough conversation in workplaces about what it is doing to people’s thinking. I have friends in organisations where people are being told: do not ask me, ask the AI agent, because they are trying to train the agents to do the job. What is going to happen to that person’s thinking? Is that person going to be valuable in two years’ time? We have been sold this technology as progress, but it is also one of the most extractive industries we have ever seen. If it were sold as extraction – extraction of energy, extraction of your data, but also extraction of your cognitive capabilities – you would see it very differently.

AD: It is striking to think about what this does to adults who have already learned to read, write and think without AI. But what about children who grow up with these tools from the beginning? What might be at stake for a generation that has never known thinking without AI as an option?

RB: I tried an experiment where I thought: I am just going to use it for two weeks. I am not going to write. I am not going to think. And I felt sick. I actually felt sick by the end of the two weeks. It was a very strange feeling. So I am not surprised that, in some places, there is a move back towards analogue learning. I think in Sweden, for example, there has been a move back towards analogue learning. I think it is called 'from screen to leaf'. The idea is: let’s get children to 16 thinking with textbooks and handwriting. Modernisation can happen once those brain cells are formed.

I think the same thing is going to happen in workplaces. Attractive workplaces may become quite analogue. We may have non-digital days. AI may be banned for certain areas of work. So I think it is being sold as technological progress, when in fact it may be a complete rewiring of the brain.

AD: That would be a frightening way to describe it – a complete rewiring of the brain. Perhaps people would be much more cautious if it were framed that way. Your work now seems to be moving towards thinking itself, and especially towards what happens when thinking can be outsourced to intelligent machines. How do you see the relationship between trust and thinking?

RB: I honestly do not know. I do not think there is a literal connection, apart from the fact that they are both things you cannot touch. They are both complex, and both very hard to distil down. But they are also both connected to paradigm shifts. I have a feeling that, if in 18 years’ time we are still talking about thinking, I will be able to look back and say: when I first started studying this, it was the year when the first social media companies were launching. We did not even have a smartphone.

So maybe it is about tuning into a very deep pivot – something that will become a paradigm shift. Maybe it is not that the topics are directly connected. It is more that this is a big game changer. I hear a lot of people talking about the future of work, or whether we can trust large language models, but I think there is actually something more interesting going on. Maybe that is why I am drawn to it.

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Agnes Dudek and Rachel Botsman in front of Karol Adamiecki’s former home in Warsaw, photo: Culture.pl

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AD: You spoke a little about archives and historical objects, which I found fascinating. You suggested that archives feel newly compelling partly because they offer a sense of preserved, material knowledge at a moment when we question almost everything we see. Do archives have a new importance in the age of AI?

RB: I love that question! Yes, because you could argue that historical artefacts that have been carefully preserved, where a lot of investment has gone into verifying their source, where they have come from, and the whole history and narrative around them, are not just reliable sources. The past may have more to tell us than the information we are generating right now.

So I think there is something really important, from a truth and information point of view, around museum archives. And then I think there is so much to learn from the way information is presented and designed, from the materials used, and from asking why. Why did we spend so much money making books so interactive? Well, reading was a physical experience, not only a mental experience. Books were trying to spread knowledge. They were trying to take knowledge away from the elite.

So actually handling an artefact and seeing its size matters. To give you an example, I was in the V&A just before I came to Poland, and I saw da Vinci’s notebooks. I do not know if you have ever seen images of da Vinci’s notebooks, but they are very meticulous. He wrote in mirror script, in reverse. In real life, they are smaller than a playing card. They are tiny. So you ask: why were they tiny? How did he write that meticulously? Well, he wanted them hanging off his belt. So it was kind of like his phone.

But then that prompts another question, because you see the physicality of something and you realise: it was not a notebook in the way we think of a notebook. It was an extension of himself, his hand and his thoughts. So yes, I think archives are super interesting for museums to think about in terms of re-engaging people in history, narratives, prompts and conversation.

AD: I would like to tie some of these threads together. Many people no longer know who to trust for knowledge. Institutions and experts have lost authority, while AI systems can feel strangely convincing. How can we learn to trust expertise again without simply accepting whatever an expert, influencer or machine tells us?

RB: I wish I had the answer to this question. I really do. I think part of the problem is that experts are often perceived as carrying an agenda. Scientists, journalists, historians – whoever it might be – are seen as having particular intentions. And when you start questioning someone’s intentions or agenda, it becomes very hard to trust what they are saying. So I am not surprised that people struggle to trust experts. But what worries me is that we need to trust. Something will fill that vacuum.

One thing that fills it is influencers: people with a very thin lineage of expertise whose ideas can suddenly be disseminated very quickly. I have a teenage son, so I am very aware of this right now – how quickly those voices can influence young people’s lives. And people often do not recognise the difference between influence and trust. The difference is huge. Then there is AI. People think: I have no idea what information to trust, but this thing in front of me seems really reliable. It is always on. It cites good resources and references. So I will just ask it and take the answer at face value.

I do not know about you, but when I use it for research, I sometimes remind myself by asking it a question about something I have real, deep expertise in. And it spits back rubbish. That is the reminder. If I ask it something I do know about and it gets it wrong, why should I trust it when I ask about something I do not know?

AD: I really like that distinction between influence and trust. That is something I will take away. For my last question: what has Poland added to your thinking so far – not only as a place you were visiting, but as a source of intellectual, visual and organisational history?

RB: Beyond Karol, yes. The first thing – and I am almost embarrassed to admit this – is that I realised I had a Western European bias. I kept seeing maps showing Poland’s borders being redrawn again and again, and people felt it was important to explain that history to me. But I grew up in Australia and have lived in the UK – both island countries where, in my own experience, borders were never something I had to think about in that way. Recognising that I had a Western European bias was quite confronting.

I also felt that Poland has such a deep respect for its heritage and history. It will not forget where it has come from, but it is clearly pointing forwards. It was funny, actually, because when I came home, there was a big piece in the weekend paper about all these Brits moving to Poland. You just see it popping up everywhere. There is this forward energy. I have been so worried about the lack of identity, narrative and vision in the UK, but also about the fact that we are forgetting heritage and the past. In Poland, I could feel this everywhere: we will not forget where we come from, these are our roots, but now we need to point forwards and revitalise different things.

That really stuck with me.

Rachel Botsman is a leading expert, author and artist whose work explores trust in the modern world. She was the first Trust Fellow at Oxford University’s Saïd Business School, where her work has challenged how people think about trust and related questions of power, influence, truth and belief. She has been recognised as one of the world’s 30 most influential management thinkers by Thinkers50, named one of the Top 10 most influential voices in the UK on LinkedIn, and honoured as a Young Global Leader by the World Economic Forum. Her writing has appeared in The Guardian, Financial Times, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Harvard Business Review and WIRED. She is also the host of the podcast ‘Rachel Botsman’s Trust Issues’.

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