The Christmas I Thought Would Be Quiet

Some mornings, I sit at my desk with a tired heart, watching the monitor push back the gray light. I’ve been a web developer long enough for the keys to feel like an extension of my hands, yet I’m still surprised by how much of my life is woven into the pages I build.

I remember my first site a clumsy, loud creation born from midnight oil and instant noodles. It was messy, but it gave me the joy of making something exist where there was nothing before.

As years passed, that simplicity was replaced by frameworks, deadlines, and a growing sense of impostor syndrome. I watched others build "effortless" projects while I wrestled with the weight of my choices. I missed family dinners for big launches, eventually realizing that building things for the world doesn't matter if I stop showing up in my own life. Success felt like a borrowed coat I’d eventually have to return.

Healing wasn't dramatic. It was short walks, admitting I needed help during standups, and learning that being a "good" developer means staying kind while you learn. I started seeing the sacred moments: a client finally sharing their story or a friend using a tool I built to reconnect with others. These are the bridges that matter.

I used to think being a developer meant being the fastest and most prepared. Now, I know it means being present. My code carries my patience and my vulnerability. Tonight, I’m closing my laptop early to call my mother. The code will still be there tomorrow, and so will I softer around the edges, still building, and finally grateful for the balance.