Learning has never been a straight path for me; it’s been shaped by curiosity, the people I’ve met, and the fears I’ve learned (and still learn) to face. From discovering computers for the first time to watching others pursue mastery before me, this is my reflection on how discomfort, mentorship, and persistence all play their part in growth.
Early Encounters & Missed Turns
Growing up, I was lucky enough to be exposed to computers a Windows Vista, to be exact. My dad introduced me to Microsoft Word, and that small exposure felt magical. I spent hours poking at menus, typing, and undoing mistakes. It didn’t feel like a career path yet just a toy, a curiosity.
When high school arrived, the notion of computer studies was there, but I opted out. Part of me excuses it as fate; part of me knows I just didn’t believe I belonged. My brother once remarked that computer classes seemed tedious, not “worth it.” At the time, I accepted that remark without question. I also watched classmates who cared deeply about tech still drift into other careers; teachers, doctors, as if the spark had been dimmed somewhere along the way.
But one friend stood apart. He was an early adopter, experimenting with code, pushing boundaries even when the rest of us were content with textbooks.
The Gap Year & What I Learned from Him
We spent a lot of that gap year before college together. By then, he was already part of the Andela Community, tinkering with side projects, reading documentation, and engaging with dev circles. I watched him jump into frameworks and tools I’d barely heard of.
Watching him in his element was something else: flying through terminal windows, dropping terms like Docker, Kubernetes, and Kotlin like they were a second language. He didn’t just know computers; he understood their potential, their language, their logic.
But more than that, he showed me a path of devouring uncertainty rather than avoiding it. He seemed comfortable failing fast, exploring boldly, admitting “I don’t know,” then going to figure it out. He made learning look alive.
That contrast between those who drifted away and him who leaned in quietly rewired how I saw possibility. He didn’t hand me answers. He embodied a posture. And that posture nudged me: I wanted fluency too, not just surface comfort.
Mentorship, Noise, and the Challenge of Learning
If inspiration is a spark, mentorship is the fuel that keeps it burning. In tech, where everything changes, stacks evolve, and “best practices” expire, having someone with just a bit more visibility helps you cut through the noise.
Looking back, I realize that learning often begins as a deep, intentional desire to be better, but it’s also shaped by the people around us. I realize now that my first mentor wasn’t official; there were no check-ins, but he was my friend. Watching him work taught me more than I could have learned from any syllabus. I observed his habits, his curiosity, and his willingness to fail fast and recover even faster. Without ever intending to, he modeled what active learning looked like.
Over time, I realized mentorship isn’t always about direct instruction. Sometimes it’s quiet, the kind that happens through observation. It’s not just advice; it’s example. It’s the implicit permission to be curious, to fail, to explore tangents, and to ask “dumb” questions without shame. That form of mentorship shaped me long before I recognized it for what it was.
That realization became critical later, when anxiety and self-doubt crept in. Especially in software, the fear of not knowing enough, of falling behind, or of failing publicly it’s ever-present.
Then I came across an article that reframed my thinking: “Unnecessary Anxiety in Software Development” by SimpleThread. It argued that anxiety, rather than being an obstacle, can serve as a signal.
The author used a vivid metaphor: imagine walking across a narrow plank between two buildings. The task is the same as walking on flat ground, but the stakes or perceived danger make it terrifying. In development, we often work without safety nets: no tests, no staging, no guardrails. Naturally, anxiety rises because the environment amplifies the risk.
One insight stood out:
When working on anxiety, do the thing that feels bad and avoid the thing that feels good.
In other words, approach discomfort instead of retreating from it.
That line stayed with me because it echoed something I’d already seen in my friend’s behavior and something I still try, often imperfectly, to practice myself.
In hindsight, what I called friendship was also mentorship in disguise, a reminder that guidance doesn’t always arrive with a title. Sometimes it’s simply someone showing you, by example, that the uncomfortable path forward is still worth taking.
One insight stood out:
When working on anxiety, do the thing that feels bad and avoid the thing that feels good.
In other words, approach discomfort instead of retreating from it.
That line stayed with me because it echoed something I’d already seen in my friend’s behavior and something I still try, often imperfectly, to practice myself.
The Ongoing Conflict: Learning vs. Bills
Here’s a truth I don’t pretend to have solved: I still oscillate between wanting to learn and needing to earn. There are days when I’m turned toward a new framework, excited to build something just for fun. And there are days when I worry if those hours will ever pay the rent.
Learning feels risky. Investing time in something may or may not yield fruit. Meanwhile, bills and responsibilities demand immediate returns. That tension is real. But I try to remember: learning with intention, even if it’s slow, compounds. I don’t have to master everything, but I can commit to leaning in where curiosity and need intersect.
I also lean on small guardrails: naming what I want to learn, framing small experiments, pairing with others, and asking naive questions. These act like my safety nets. They reduce my internal cost of failure.
From Fear to Signal, From Anxiety to Action
The article argues anxiety isn’t always a foe; it can be a signal. Instead of ignoring it, I try to listen: What’s behind this worry? What do I fear missing? What’s the next small step I can take that moves me forward, not paralyzed?
This flip from avoidance to approach is hard. It doesn’t just require willpower; it requires strategy. Often, I remind myself: the blinders of fear are opaque. They hide solutions that are right in front of you.
Sometimes the move is structural: add tests, staging, peer review, guardrails in your workflow so that the stakes feel safer and you can experiment. Sometimes it’s personal: reach out to a mentor, share where you’re stuck, break a problem down, try something new, even if you expect failure.
Anxiety doesn’t disappear. But it becomes less of a tyrant, more of a map.
Final Thoughts & a Question for You
I don’t pretend to have mastered my path. I’m still juggling curiosity, fear, bills, and ambition. But I see how small, intentional choices seeking connection, leaning into discomfort, and naming my fears make the journey more meaningful.
Every time I ask myself whether I’ll pick the secure path or the learning path, I try to remember: growth happens where stability and risk overlap not at extremes, but in the tension.
How do you approach learning in the midst of your work, and how do you balance it with what life expects of you?
Inspired by Unnecessary Anxiety in Software Development by SimpleThread.
Top comments (0)