You used to love this work.
Learning something new felt like a high. Getting stuck was a puzzle, not a threat.
Now? You mostly do what you already know how to do.
You avoid the messy stuff. You stay in the lanes you paved.
No one notices. You still ship. You still mentor.
But the part of you that used to chase the edge? He’s been quiet lately.
You haven’t failed.
But you’ve definitely stopped growing.
The Quiet Quit No One Talks About
Let’s talk about Senioritis.
Not the high-school variety with flip-flops and truancy. This one’s sneakier. And it wears a lanyard.
This isn’t burnout. You’re not staring at a wall wondering if you’ve forgotten how to code.
This isn’t boredom. You’re still building things, technically.
This is momentum by inertia.
It’s the creeping comfort of being very good at things that no longer challenge you.
You’re the codebase’s dependable uncle - solid, predictable, mildly under-stimulated.
You’ve optimized yourself into a rut.
You ship features like clockwork. You fix bugs without flinching.
You’re a productivity machine - and you’re dead inside.
High output. Low voltage. And nobody even knows, because you’re crushing it, right? Right??
Why It’s So Easy to Miss
Here’s the messed-up part: you look fine from the outside.
You still mentor, still review, still deliver.
You haven’t dropped any balls. You’re juggling flaming swords - just... the same three swords you’ve been juggling for years.
There’s no emergency. Just a slow leak in the soul.
For me, it started when I became a dad.
Suddenly, all my peak creative hours were spent negotiating over whether socks are “scratchy” or “betrayals.”
I didn’t flame out. I adapted. But it wasn’t easy.
At first, I couldn’t tell the difference between survival and stagnation.
I was still performing - but I wasn’t progressing.
And figuring out what I even wanted from this career again? That took time, reflection, and a few late-night existential spirals fueled by lukewarm coffee and baby monitors.
This is how Senioritis gets you: it doesn’t roar. It whispers.
It tells you, “This is just what being experienced feels like.”
And you believe it - until one day you realize you haven’t felt curious in six sprints and you’re arguing about linting rules like it’s foreplay.
What Coasting Really Looks Like
It starts subtle. Harmless even. But one day you look up and realize you haven’t felt challenged since that time you tried to explain recursion to your grandma while building IKEA furniture blindfolded and on fire.
You don’t get confused anymore. That should be a red flag, not a badge of honor.
You keep saying yes to projects you can deliver in your sleep - which is ironic, because sleep is exactly how they make you feel.
You avoid pairing unless you’re at the helm. You avoid anything where you might look like you don’t know something.
You haven’t opened a new tool, poked a new API, or wandered outside your comfort zone in months. Maybe years.
You show up to design meetings just to quietly disassociate until someone mentions deadlines.
And your code reviews? Efficient, emotionless, and about as thrilling as filing tax returns. You read, you approve, you move on. A Jedi with no Padawan. A wizard hoarding spells.
You’re not lazy.
You’re just Frodo halfway to Mordor, wondering when it stopped feeling like a quest and started feeling like a mildly cursed commute.
Why Growth Needs a Redefinition
Somewhere along the line, growth got tangled up with ambition.
“Growth” started to mean climbing ladders, chasing titles, or learning the fifth hot framework of the year while whispering “kill me” into your IDE.
Let’s reset.
Growth isn’t about leveling up like you’re in some corporate RPG.
It’s about not letting your curiosity rot.
You don’t need to chase every shiny tool or become a TikTok thought leader.
You just need to keep something inside you awake.
Something that still wants to tinker, to poke, to ask “what if?” without spiraling into a cost-benefit analysis.
You’re allowed to grow slowly.
You’re allowed to grow quietly.
But you are not built to go still.
Stillness feels safe, but it’s just drift with good PR.
But That’s Not Why You Got Into This
Let’s interrupt the stagnation pattern - with tools designed for minimal drama and maximum wake-up juice.
1. The Scare List
Write down three things that make you slightly queasy:
- That weird new protocol you’ve avoided like it owes you money
- That junior engineer who intimidates you with their enthusiasm
- That cross-functional meeting full of “stakeholders” and doom
Pick one. Schedule time with it this week.
The goal isn’t mastery - it’s reintroducing your nervous system to discomfort that isn’t your toddler screaming during a Slack call.
2. The Personal Changelog
Once or twice a month, write down:
- One thing you learned (yes, TikTok hacks count)
- One thing you taught (even if it was “how not to write tests”)
- One mistake you owned (bonus points if it still makes you wince)
This isn’t for performance reviews. It’s for tracking your own evolution, one small mess at a time. Like a stat screen in an RPG where you’ve been quietly leveling up your resilience, empathy, and ability to hold your tongue in meetings.
You’re a changelog, not a product brochure.
3. The Newbie Mindset Hour
Carve out an hour a week to build something pointless, from scratch, just so you can feel alive again.
No pressure. No deliverables. No client breathing down your neck.
Build a tiny CLI game. Make a website that only tells you what day it isn’t. Fork a project you don’t understand just to break it.
This is yoga for your brain - awkward, humbling, and good for your flexibility. Especially the emotional kind.
4. Feedback Beyond Code
Ask someone - not about your Git hygiene - but about you.
- What’s it like to work with me?
- Do I bulldoze or disappear?
- What could I do more - or less - of in meetings?
But don’t just ask anyone. Talk to people who get it. Who know you. Who can say, “Yeah, you’ve been phoning it in a bit,” and still grab lunch with you afterward.
Feedback is a mirror. And sometimes that mirror says, “Buddy, your growth curve’s flatter than your standing desk.”
Keep the Lights On
You don’t need a grand reinvention.
You just need to stop snoozing with your eyes open.
Stillness isn’t peace.
It’s stagnation in sweatpants.
So move. Just a little.
Or a lot. Or sideways. Or diagonally like a confused bishop.
Say “I don’t know” out loud.
Ask a weird question at standup.
Take on the ticket that makes you gulp instead of smirk.
Talk to the design team like they’re people, not a separate species.
Because the best engineers aren’t the ones who peaked.
They’re the ones who kept poking at the edges.
They got older, sure.
But they also got weirder, braver, and better.
Because they stayed in motion - even if that motion sometimes looked like flailing.
And flailing, my friend,
beats calcifying. Every time.
Other chapters for the chronically competent:
- Thick Skin, Open Mind - for staying upright when the feedback hits nerves
- Refactor, Recharge, Repeat - on not mistaking motion for growth
- Lead Without a Title - for remembering influence isn’t something you wait to be handed
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