Everyone Needs a README for Their Life

Kevin Moe Myint Myat — Sun, 24 May 2026 09:37:01 +0000

"If you don't document it, the next person inherits your confusion—and that next person is often you, six months later, in a different city, wondering why you made the choices you made."

I have cloned repositories where the code ran fine and the README was empty. I have also lived stretches of my life that way: functional on the surface, undocumented underneath. People could interact with me. I could show up, work, laugh, travel, answer messages. But if you asked what I was for—what I needed, what I was building toward, what would break me if mishandled—the answer was buried in commit history no one had time to read.

A README is not a résumé. A résumé is marketing. A README is orientation. It is the file you open first so you do not have to reverse-engineer the entire system before you touch anything.

Everyone needs one for their life.

What a Life README Actually Is

In software, a good README answers a small set of honest questions:

What is this?
Why does it exist?
How do I run it without breaking something?
What are the known issues?
Who do I contact when I am lost?

Translate that to a person and it becomes less glamorous but more useful:

What am I trying to become, not just what am I doing this quarter?
What do I need when I am overwhelmed—space, structure, a walk, a call, silence?
What are my non-negotiables?
What patterns have already failed in production?
Who is allowed to see the raw logs?

Most of us never write this down. We assume people will infer it. They cannot. They guess. And guessing is how relationships, jobs, and friendships ship with hidden breaking changes.

The Sections We Skip

Installation

Every project has prerequisites. So does every life.

Mine are not impressive on paper: sleep that is not borrowed from tomorrow, a morning without notifications, a place that feels like mine for at least a few hours, one honest conversation per week. When those are missing, the build fails—not dramatically, but quietly. I become a version of myself that answers messages and misses the point of my own days.

Your installation steps will look different. The point is to know them. If you do not, you keep trying to run at full performance on a machine that needed a reboot three versions ago.

Dependencies

No one is a standalone repo.

I depend on a small circle of people who tell me the truth without making it a performance. On routines that hold when motivation does not. On places that reset my nervous system—water, old streets, a desk by a window. On work that feels like craft, not only survival.

Dependencies are not weaknesses. They are architecture. Pretending otherwise is how you end up with a system that only works in the lab of your own isolation.

Known Issues

A README that hides bugs is worse than no README at all.

I do not handle uncertainty gracefully when it arrives as silence. I over-prepare when I feel unmoored. I can mistake motion for progress. I have left places too quickly and stayed in others too long because I confused endurance with alignment.

Naming your known issues is not self-flagellation. It is version control for the soul. It lets the people who love you file accurate bug reports instead of guessing what went wrong.

Environment Variables

Some settings should not be hard-coded.

Where I live changes what I need. What season it is changes my capacity. Whether I am building, healing, or returning home changes the correct response to the same email.

If you do not document your environment variables, you will judge yourself by a configuration that is no longer active. You will wonder why last year's discipline feels impossible this year, without noticing that last year you had different inputs entirely.

Changelog Culture

We treat personal growth like it should be invisible. As if becoming someone new requires pretending the previous release never shipped.

I prefer a changelog mindset.

v2018–2023: Chased mastery in syntax and systems. Learned that craftsmanship without rest becomes performance.

v2024: Migration arc. Learned that belonging is not a place you arrive at once.

v2025–2026: Reconstruction. Learned that stability is not the absence of movement—it is knowing what you are rebuilding and why.

A changelog does not apologize for old versions. It explains them. It helps you stop fighting ghosts in your own repository.

Contributing Guidelines

Not everyone should have commit access to your core branch.

Some people are read-only collaborators: wonderful at a distance, dangerous with write permissions. Some seasons require protected branches. Some feedback is a pull request you review in the morning, not a hotfix you merge at midnight because someone made urgency sound like love.

Write your contributing guidelines:

Who gets to influence major decisions?
What kind of criticism is useful versus performative?
How do you want to be approached when you are struggling?
What does no look like when you are tired of being polite?

Clarity here is not coldness. It is maintenance. It keeps resentment from becoming the default CI pipeline.

Quick Start (For the People Who Love You)

If you are close to me and you want the short version:

Tell me the truth early, while it is still small.
Do not confuse my calm with indifference.
Ask what chapter I am in before offering advice from a chapter you remember.
If I go quiet, I am probably processing—not punishing.
Remind me of the README when I forget it exists.

That last line is the whole practice. You will forget. I will forget. The README is the artifact we return to when the system behaves in ways no one expected.

Why This Matters Now

We live in an age that automates the easy parts—boilerplate, drafts, summaries, suggestions. Which means the hard part is increasingly context: knowing what you are, what you are not, what you are for.

AI can help you write code faster. It cannot tell you what your life is trying to build unless you have already said it somewhere honest.

An empty README is not humility. It is debt.

Write yours—not for LinkedIn, not for posterity, not as a performance of self-awareness. Write it for the next you, who will land in a new city, a new job, a new season, and need to know how to run without breaking what took years to compile.

Write it for the people who love you and deserve more than archaeology.

Write it because your life is not a throwaway script. It is a system people inhabit with you, depend on, and sometimes have to restart when you go offline without warning.

Everyone needs a README for their life.

Start with one true sentence about what you are for.

The rest can be incremental commits.

Drafted in the belief that clarity is a form of kindness—to yourself, and to everyone who has ever had to guess.

Life is like a FTP Server

Kevin Moe Myint Myat — Sun, 24 May 2026 09:05:59 +0000

Still Online

These days, my life moves between Nha Trang and Jakarta.

One city uploads silence into me.

The other floods me with traffic, neon reflections, unfinished ambition, and noise that never fully sleeps.

Somewhere between the two, I stopped feeling like a person with a permanent address.

I became infrastructure.

An always-online system running quietly in the background of different countries.

People think remote work is freedom.

But after enough airports, temporary apartments, café workstations, and hotel check-ins, your life starts resembling an old FTP server more than a home.

/work
/clients
/drafts
/archive
/unfinished
/dont_open
/final_final_v2_REAL

Some folders are clean and organized.

Others contain emotional debris from years ago that you forgot to delete.

Old photographs.

Expired visas.

Screenshots from conversations that no longer matter.

Ideas written at 3AM during thunderstorms in Jakarta.

Half-working side projects from beach cafés in Vietnam.

Every city leaves files behind.

Nha Trang

Nha Trang stores slower memories.

Morning coffee near the coast
Ocean wind entering the room during deployments
The strange peace of hearing motorbikes fade into the distance after midnight

Jakarta

Jakarta stores heavier ones.

Rain against skyscraper windows
Laptop heat in crowded cafés
Quiet burnout hidden beneath professional Zoom calls

Sometimes I feel like my entire identity is synchronized across devices.

Fragments replicated between locations.

No true main server anymore.

Just mirrors.

Backups.

Temporary sessions.

Even relationships feel networked now.

Some people get read-only access.

Some disappear after timeout.

Some still exist somewhere deep in the archive after years of inactivity.

And me?

I continue maintaining uptime.

Replying to messages.

Pushing commits.

Joining calls from different countries while pretending the system is stable.

But occasionally, late at night, I wonder something strange:

What if remote workers slowly become distributed systems themselves?

Human beings converted into portable environments.

Carrying entire lives through laptops, cloud storage, hotel Wi-Fi, and encrypted passwords.

No permanent geography.

Only active connections.

Maybe that is why certain cities become emotional servers for us.

Nha Trang holds the softer parts of me.

Jakarta holds the restless ones.

And somewhere between those two endpoints, packets of memory continue travelling back and forth across invisible lines.

Still syncing.

Still unresolved.

Still online.

DEV Community: Kevin Moe Myint Myat