I've been writing code professionally for over a decade now, and somewhere around year three, I had this creeping realization that made me deeply uncomfortable: the stuff I was getting praised for, the reasons I was getting promoted, the skills that made managers fight to keep me on their team—almost none of it had anything to do with what I'd learned in bootcamps, online courses, or those 47 tutorial tabs I always kept open.
Don't get me wrong. I needed to know how to code. But the person who got promoted over me in my first job? She wrote messier code than I did. The guy who got hired at a senior level when I was still mid-level? His GitHub was less impressive than mine. The consultant who billed $300/hour while I was making $85k salary? I could code circles around him.
That's when it started clicking. The game I thought I was playing wasn't the actual game.
See, here's what nobody tells you when you're grinding LeetCode at midnight or finishing your fifth React tutorial: companies don't pay you for knowing things. They pay you for making their problems go away. And most of their problems aren't technical—they just manifest technically.
Let me explain what I mean.
Last year, I watched a junior developer get let go during a round of layoffs while someone with objectively weaker technical skills stayed. The junior guy was brilliant. Could implement algorithms I had to Google. Understood design patterns better than people twice his age. But he had this habit of going dark for three days while he perfected something, then emerging with a solution nobody asked for that didn't actually solve the problem they had. Meanwhile, the person who stayed? She had this almost supernatural ability to ask the right clarifying questions before writing a single line of code. She'd spend thirty minutes in a conversation that would save three days of work. She'd identify the actual problem hiding behind the stated problem. She'd push back on bad requirements before they became bad features.
That's not a skill you learn from documentation. That's not something covered in "Advanced JavaScript Patterns."
The uncomfortable truth is that most tutorials teach you syntax and patterns—the what and the how. But they don't teach you the why, the who, the when, and the "wait, should we even be doing this at all?" Those questions are where actual value lives.
I learned this the hard way during a project at my second job. We were building a dashboard that would let sales managers track team performance. I spent three weeks building this beautiful, real-time WebSocket implementation with animated graphs and a slick UI. I was proud of it. It was technically impressive. My code review got enthusiastic emojis.
Then I watched during the demo as the sales director's face fell. "This is great," she said, in that tone that means it's not great, "but can we export this to Excel? We do all our analysis in Excel."
Three weeks. Three weeks I'd spent building something technically sophisticated that missed the fundamental point. Nobody wanted a real-time dashboard. They wanted Thursday morning reports in a format they could manipulate in the tool they'd been using for twenty years. The actual requirement was so simple it felt boring, which is probably why I'd unconsciously decided to make it interesting with technology.
A senior developer would have asked about their workflow first. A senior developer would have learned they lived in Excel. A senior developer would have shipped the boring-but-correct solution in three days and moved on to something that mattered.
But I wasn't senior yet, not really, even though my title said otherwise. I was still thinking like someone who got paid to write code, not someone who got paid to solve business problems.
Here's what I wish someone had told me then: your job isn't to write code. Your job is to reduce organizational pain. Code is just one tool for doing that. Sometimes the right tool is a conversation. Sometimes it's a spreadsheet. Sometimes it's pushing back and saying "we shouldn't build this at all."
That realization changed everything for me. Suddenly I understood why certain people got invited to important meetings and others didn't. Why some people's opinions carried weight while others were just seen as "the implementers." It wasn't about technical skill. It was about judgment.
Judgment is probably the most underrated skill in our industry, and it's almost completely absent from education. Nobody teaches you how to smell a bad requirement. Nobody teaches you how to recognize when a technical problem is actually a people problem. Nobody teaches you the difference between "technically correct" and "correct for this situation with these constraints and these humans."
I worked with a guy named Marcus who had this gift for judgment that bordered on precognition. We'd be in a planning meeting, and someone would propose a solution, and Marcus would sit quietly for a moment, then say something like, "That makes sense, but have we thought about how the ops team is going to feel about being on call for this?" And the room would go silent because nobody had thought about that, and suddenly we'd realize we were about to create a system that would make people miserable and generate 3 a.m. pages for issues we could have designed around.
Marcus wasn't the strongest coder on the team. He was fine, solid, competent. But he had this holistic view of how systems lived within organizations full of humans with feelings and constraints and competing priorities. He thought about the downstream implications of decisions. He considered operational burden. He asked about monitoring and debugging before we'd written a line of code. He thought about the poor person who'd have to maintain this thing in two years.
That's not innate talent. It's learned. But you don't learn it from courses. You learn it from touching hot stoves, from shipping things that seemed like good ideas but turned into maintenance nightmares, from being that person on call at 3 a.m., from watching projects fail not because of technical problems but because nobody thought about the human element.
And honestly? That human element is where most of the actual work lives.
I spent years thinking that if I just got better at coding, everything else would follow. Better at algorithms, better at system design, better at the latest framework. And sure, you need baseline technical competence. But I've seen teams full of brilliant engineers produce absolute garbage because nobody knew how to communicate, nobody wanted to ask "dumb" questions, everyone was optimizing for looking smart rather than being effective.
Communication isn't some soft skill you can ignore if you're technical enough. It's the skill. It's the thing that determines whether your technical abilities matter at all.
Think about it: you can build the most elegant solution in the world, but if you can't explain why it's the right approach, if you can't bring stakeholders along, if you can't write documentation that doesn't make people want to quit—your elegant solution might as well not exist. Or worse, it exists but nobody understands it, so they route around it, or they break it because they don't understand the assumptions, or it gets rewritten six months later by someone who didn't know what you were trying to do.
I learned this during a code review that still haunts me. I'd written this clever bit of code using some advanced TypeScript features that made the type system basically enforce business rules at compile time. I was really proud of it. It was the kind of code that would look great in a blog post about advanced type systems.
My coworker looked at it and said, "I'm sure this is impressive, but I have no idea what it's doing, and I don't have time to learn TypeScript at this level right now. Can we do this in a way the whole team can understand?"
My first reaction was defensive. The problem wasn't my code—the problem was that they didn't understand advanced types. But then I thought about it. We were a small team. We needed to move fast. We needed everyone to be able to touch any part of the codebase. My clever code had just created a bottleneck where only I could work on that feature. I'd optimized for personal technical satisfaction rather than team velocity.
So I rewrote it. Made it simpler. More obvious. A little more verbose, sure, but anyone on the team could read it and immediately understand what it was doing. Was it less impressive? Absolutely. Did it make the codebase healthier? Yes.
That's the kind of tradeoff nobody teaches you about. Code isn't written for computers—computers don't care how clever you are. Code is written for humans. The person reading your code six months from now (probably you) trying to fix a bug at 11 p.m. needs to understand it quickly. The new hire who joined last week needs to be able to modify it without breaking everything. The person reviewing your PR shouldn't need a PhD to approve it.
Writing simple, clear, obvious code is harder than writing clever code. It requires you to set aside your ego. It requires you to think about the reader, not the writer. It requires you to value maintenance over cleverness, team velocity over personal satisfaction.
And here's the thing that took me embarrassingly long to understand: people notice this stuff. Managers notice when someone writes code that the whole team can work with. They notice when someone thinks about maintainability. They notice when someone prioritizes team success over individual impressiveness.
This connects to something else nobody talks about: the political dimension of technical work. And I don't mean "office politics" in the sleazy sense. I mean understanding that organizations are made of people with different goals, different pressures, different incentives, and your ability to navigate that determines how effective you can be.
I used to think politics was beneath me. I was a developer. I just wanted to write code. Let other people worry about all that other stuff.
Then I spent six months building a feature that got killed the day before launch because I didn't understand the political landscape. There was a VP who'd been pushing for a different approach, and I'd built something that made his preferred approach look bad by comparison. I didn't know this. I thought I was just building what the product manager asked for. But by not understanding the broader context, by not knowing who the stakeholders were and what they cared about, I'd unwittingly stepped into a political minefield.
The work was good. The code was solid. But it didn't matter because I'd failed to understand that technical decisions happen within a political context. Someone who understood the organization better would have either built something different, or would have spent time getting buy-in from that VP early, or would have at least known that this was a risky project.
Now, I'm not saying you should become some manipulative political operator. I'm saying you should understand that organizations are complex systems of humans, and humans have motivations and fears and goals that go beyond what's technically optimal. Your job isn't just to build the right thing technically—it's to build the right thing in a way that the organization can actually absorb and use.
This means understanding who your stakeholders are. What keeps them up at night. What metrics they're measured on. What they're trying to accomplish. Because when you understand that, you can position your work in ways that help them succeed, which means they'll support you, which means you can actually get things done.
I worked with a developer named Sarah who was a master at this. She'd always frame her technical proposals in business terms. Not "we should refactor this because the code is messy" but "refactoring this would reduce our bug rate, which would free up the team to ship features faster, which would help us hit our Q3 goals." She spoke in the language of business value, not technical purity.
And it worked. Her refactoring proposals got approved. Her architectural changes got budget. She had this reputation as someone who got things done, not because she was more technically skilled than everyone else, but because she understood how to navigate the organization.
That's not manipulation. That's just understanding your audience. It's the same skill that makes you a good technical writer—you adjust your message based on who's receiving it. You don't explain your React optimization the same way to another frontend developer as you would to the CFO. They care about different things. They need different information to make decisions.
And speaking of decisions—nobody teaches you how to make decisions with incomplete information, under time pressure, with real consequences.
In tutorials, everything is clear. The problem is well-defined. The solution is known. There's a right answer. Real work is not like that. Real work is making your best guess with 60% of the information you wish you had, knowing that waiting for perfect information means you'll miss the deadline, knowing that doing nothing is itself a decision with consequences.
I've seen brilliant engineers paralyzed by uncertainty. They can't start coding until they understand everything. They need the perfect architecture. They need to evaluate every possible library. They need to consider every edge case. Meanwhile, the startup down the street ships something imperfect but functional, learns from users, iterates, and wins the market.
There's this balance between moving too fast (and creating technical debt that kills you later) and moving too slow (and becoming irrelevant). Finding that balance is an art, not a science, and you only learn it through painful experience.
I remember a project where we spent three weeks debating the perfect architecture for a feature. We considered microservices, event sourcing, different database options, the whole nine yards. We had whiteboard sessions. We wrote documents. It felt productive. But we hadn't written a line of code.
Meanwhile, our competitor launched their version. It wasn't as architecturally pure as what we were planning. But it existed. And they started getting user feedback. And they iterated. And by the time we finally launched our "perfect" solution six months later, they'd already iterated through five versions based on real user feedback and had a much better product despite starting with a worse architecture.
The lesson isn't "never think about architecture." The lesson is "bias toward action." Start with the simplest thing that could possibly work. Ship it. Learn from it. Iterate. Perfect is the enemy of shipped.
But here's where it gets tricky: sometimes you do need to slow down. Sometimes taking on technical debt is borrowing from your future self at predatory interest rates. Knowing when to move fast and when to move carefully—that's judgment again. That's the skill that separates senior people from everyone else.
A good rule of thumb I've developed: if something is hard to change later, invest in getting it right up front. If something is easy to change later, ship the simple version and improve it based on real usage. Your database schema? Think carefully. Your UI component names? Just pick something and move on.
This connects to another underrated skill: knowing what matters. Not everything matters equally. Not every decision is worth the same amount of thought. Not every piece of code needs to be perfect.
Junior developers often treat everything as equally important. They'll spend three hours naming a variable and then rush through the actual logic. They'll bike-shed on code style while missing a fundamental architectural flaw. They haven't yet developed the instinct for where to focus attention.
Senior developers know what matters. They know which battles to fight. They know when "good enough" is actually good enough and when you really do need to get it right. They know how to triage ruthlessly.
I learned this from a CTO who had this phrase he'd use: "Is this a one-way door or a two-way door?" A one-way door is a decision that's hard or impossible to reverse. Those need careful thought. Two-way doors can be walked back through if you don't like what's on the other side. For two-way doors, just pick something and move on.
Most decisions are two-way doors. But we treat them all like one-way doors because we're afraid of being wrong. Overcoming that fear—being comfortable with uncertainty and comfortable with being wrong and adjusting—that's huge.
And you know what's related to being comfortable with being wrong? The ability to take feedback without becoming defensive.
This is such a basic thing, but I've seen it tank so many careers. Someone gets feedback on their code, their design, their approach—and instead of listening and learning, they argue. They explain why the feedback is wrong. They get defensive. They take it personally.
I get it. I really do. You worked hard on something. You're proud of it. Someone says it's not good enough. That feels bad. But how you handle that moment determines whether you grow or stagnate.
The developers I respect most are the ones who can hear "this isn't quite right" and respond with curiosity instead of defensiveness. "Oh, interesting—what would you do differently?" Instead of "actually, I did it this way because..." They're genuinely trying to learn rather than protect their ego.
This applies to code review, but it applies to everything. Feedback on your communication style. On your time estimates. On your approach to a problem. On your behavior in meetings. All of it is information you can use to get better. But only if you can hear it without your ego getting in the way.
I had a manager early in my career who told me I interrupted people in meetings. My immediate internal reaction was "no I don't" followed by a dozen examples of why I was actually just enthusiastic and engaged. But I forced myself to shut up and actually watch myself in the next few meetings. And sure enough, she was right. I was cutting people off constantly. I was so excited to contribute that I wasn't letting anyone finish their thoughts.
That was hard to see. But once I saw it, I could fix it. And fixing it made me more effective in meetings, made people more willing to engage with me, made my ideas land better because people didn't feel steamrolled.
But I almost missed that entire growth opportunity because my first instinct was defensiveness.
Here's something else about feedback: you need to learn how to ask for it. Not just wait for it to be given. Actively seek it out. Because the feedback that's freely offered is usually either the really obvious stuff or the relatively safe stuff. The really valuable feedback—the stuff that could actually change your trajectory—often stays unspoken because it's awkward to bring up.
"What's one thing I could do differently that would make me more effective?" That's a magic question. Ask it of your manager. Ask it of coworkers you trust. Ask it of people who've worked with you on projects. You'll get answers that surprise you. And some of those answers will be game-changers.
But you have to actually want to hear the answer. You have to be genuinely open to it. People can tell when you're asking because you're supposed to ask versus when you're genuinely trying to improve. If they sense defensiveness, they'll give you something safe and useless. If they sense genuine openness, they might tell you something valuable.
This ties into something broader about self-awareness that I think is maybe the most important meta-skill for a career. You need to be honest with yourself about your strengths, your weaknesses, your gaps, your blind spots.
I spent years thinking I was good at estimating work. I wasn't. I was consistently optimistic by a factor of two or three. But I didn't realize this because I'd always have an explanation for why this particular estimate was wrong. The requirements changed. There was an unexpected complexity. Someone else blocked me. Always something external.
It wasn't until a manager showed me a spreadsheet of my estimates versus actuals over six months that I had to confront the pattern. Oh. I'm just bad at this. It's not bad luck. It's a skill gap.
Once I admitted that, I could address it. I started tracking my estimates versus actuals myself. I started building in buffer. I started breaking work down into smaller pieces to get better visibility. I got better at estimation—not perfect, nobody's perfect, but functional.
But I couldn't improve until I stopped making excuses and got honest with myself.
Self-awareness also means knowing your working style. Are you better in the morning or afternoon? Do you need long blocks of uninterrupted time or can you context switch easily? Do you process by talking or by thinking quietly? How do you respond to stress? What kinds of problems energize you versus drain you?
None of this is in any tutorial, but it massively affects your effectiveness. I'm a morning person who needs long blocks of uninterrupted time for complex work. Once I understood that, I started protecting my mornings fiercely and scheduling meetings in the afternoon. My productivity jumped. But I'd spent years fighting against my natural rhythms because I thought I should be able to work effectively anytime.
Understanding yourself also means understanding your triggers. What makes you anxious? What makes you shut down? What makes you procrastinate? Again, not tutorial material, but hugely relevant to actually getting work done.
I have a really hard time starting work when the scope is unclear. I'll procrastinate forever if the problem is too fuzzy. Once I realized this about myself, I built in a forcing function: before I start any significant task, I write a one-paragraph description of what done looks like. That tiny bit of structure is enough to get me unstuck. But I had to notice the pattern first.
All of this—the communication, the judgment, the self-awareness, the political understanding—it adds up to something that companies desperately want but can barely articulate: professional maturity.
Professional maturity isn't about age. I've worked with 22-year-olds who had it and 45-year-olds who didn't. It's about taking ownership. It's about thinking beyond your immediate task to how your work fits into the bigger picture. It's about making life easier for the people around you. It's about being someone people want to work with.
Here's what professional maturity looks like in practice:
You don't just complete tasks—you ask whether the task makes sense. You push back on bad requirements before they become bad code. You identify problems early when they're cheap to fix rather than late when they're expensive.
You communicate proactively. If you're blocked, you say something immediately, not three days later when someone asks why the work isn't done. If you're going to miss a deadline, you raise that flag as soon as you know, not the day before the deadline. If you see a risk, you mention it, even if it's not technically your responsibility.
You make decisions within your scope and escalate appropriately when something is outside your scope. You don't bother your manager with every tiny choice, but you don't make major architectural decisions in a vacuum either. You calibrate based on the situation and the risk.
You document things. You write clear commit messages. You comment the confusing parts. You update the wiki. You do the boring work that makes everyone else's life easier even though it doesn't feel like "real" coding.
You help others succeed. You do thoughtful code reviews. You mentor junior developers. You share knowledge. You make the team better, not just yourself.
You manage up. You keep your manager informed without requiring them to micromanage you. You understand that their job is hard too and you make it easier when you can.
You build relationships. You get to know people in other departments. You understand that the person in DevOps who you're friendly with will be a lot more helpful when you need something at 4 p.m. on a Friday than the person you've only ever interacted with through terse ticket updates.
You think about the business. You understand that the company needs to make money. You understand that every decision has trade-offs. You think about costs, both obvious and hidden. You don't just optimize for technical elegance—you optimize for business value.
None of this is glamorous. None of this is what people imagine when they think about being a developer. But this is the stuff that determines who advances and who stays stuck.
I've seen this play out so many times. Two developers with similar technical skills. One advances quickly, gets promoted, gets interesting projects, gets raises. The other plateaus, gets frustrated, maybe eventually leaves. The difference is rarely technical. It's this other stuff.
And the frustrating part? The person who plateaus often doesn't understand why. They think they're being passed over despite their technical skills. They don't realize that technical skills are table stakes. Beyond a certain baseline, they're not the differentiator.
What companies pay for—what they really value—is people who make their lives easier. People who reduce risk. People who create clarity in ambiguity. People who can be trusted with important work. People who make everyone around them more effective.
That's the real skill set. And it's barely mentioned in job descriptions because it's hard to articulate. "Must be able to write clean code" is easy to put in a job posting. "Must have the judgment to know when perfect is the enemy of good" is harder to quantify.
But that's what the interview process is trying to assess, even if they don't say it explicitly. The behavioral questions. The system design problems where there's no single right answer. The questions about how you handled conflict or dealt with ambiguity. They're trying to figure out if you have professional maturity.
And here's the thing about professional maturity: you can develop it. It's not some innate trait. But you have to be intentional about it. You have to pay attention to the meta-level of how work happens, not just the work itself. You have to learn from your mistakes and the mistakes of others. You have to be willing to be uncomfortable as you try new approaches.
When I started actively working on this stuff—really paying attention to communication, to stakeholder management, to the human dynamics of teams—my career trajectory changed. Not overnight. It took time. But opportunities started opening up. People started seeking out my input. Managers started pulling me into earlier-stage discussions. Projects got less frustrating because I was better at preventing problems rather than just reacting to them.
And I kept coding. I kept learning new technologies. I kept my technical skills sharp. But I stopped thinking of those as the main event. They're necessary but not sufficient. They're the baseline, not the differentiator.
I wish someone had told me this ten years ago. I wish someone had said "yes, learn to code, but also learn to communicate, to navigate organizations, to manage stakeholders, to work with ambiguity, to balance competing priorities, to give and receive feedback, to understand the business context." I would have saved myself years of confusion about why technical excellence alone wasn't enough.
But maybe I wouldn't have listened. Maybe this is something you have to learn through experience. Maybe you have to spend a few years being frustrated that your brilliant code isn't getting you where you want to go before you're ready to hear that there's this whole other dimension to professional success.
If you're reading this and you're early in your career, I hope you take this seriously. I hope you don't make the mistake of thinking that one more tutorial, one more certification, one more framework is going to be the thing that unlocks the next level. It's not. The next level comes from developing these meta-skills.
Pay attention to how senior people operate. Not just what they code, but how they communicate. How they run meetings. How they handle conflict. How they make decisions. How they manage their time. How they interact with non-technical stakeholders. That's where the real learning is.
Ask questions. Not just technical questions about how to implement something, but questions about process, about context, about why. "Why are we building this?" "Who's going to use this?" "What happens if we don't build this?" "What are the alternatives?" These questions seem simple, but they reveal so much about how to think about work at a higher level.
Volunteer for things outside your comfort zone. Offer to do the demo. Offer to write the documentation. Offer to onboard the new hire. These feel like distractions from "real work," but they're actually skill-building opportunities. They force you to communicate, to think about user experience, to see the system from different perspectives.
Find mentors. Not just for technical skills—you can get that from Stack Overflow—but for navigation. Find people who are where you want to be and ask them how they got there. Most people are surprisingly willing to help if you're genuinely curious and respectful of their time.
And be patient with yourself. This stuff takes time. You will make mistakes. You will misread situations. You will over-communicate or under-communicate. You will misjudge priorities. That's fine. That's how you learn. The key is to actually learn from it rather than just chalking it up to bad luck or other people's failures.
One more thing that's important but rarely discussed: taking care of yourself. Burnout is real. The pressure to constantly be learning, to always be available, to ship faster, to do more with less—it's real and it's intense. And if you burn out, none of these other skills matter because you won't be functional.
I learned this the hard way. I spent two years working 60+ hour weeks, always available, always responsive, taking pride in how much I could handle. And then I hit a wall. Hard. I couldn't concentrate. I couldn't solve problems that would normally be easy for me. I was irritable and exhausted and making mistakes. I needed three months of deliberately working normal hours and taking real time off to recover.
Companies say they want work-life balance, but the incentive structure often pushes in the other direction. The person who's always available gets the urgent project. The person who responds immediately gets seen as reliable. It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking that working harder is the path to success.
But sustainable success requires boundaries. It requires saying no sometimes. It requires protecting your time and energy. It requires recognizing that you're not a code-producing machine—you're a human with finite resources that need to be managed strategically.
The most effective people I know aren't the ones working the most hours. They're the ones who work sustainably, who have lives outside work, who come to problems fresh rather than exhausted. They might produce less in any given day, but they're consistent day after day, year after year. That consistency compounds.
And honestly, having interests and relationships outside work makes you better at work. It gives you perspective. It prevents you from tying your entire identity to your job, which makes you less defensive when things go wrong. It exposes you to different ways of thinking. It makes you more interesting to work with.
So yeah, develop these professional skills. But also go rock climbing or play music or read novels or volunteer or whatever brings you joy. Don't let the grind consume everything. The people at the top aren't there because they sacrificed everything else—they're there because they figured out how to be effective without sacrificing everything else.
Looking back on my career so far, the pattern is clear. The growth didn't come from the tutorials. It didn't come from the frameworks I learned or the languages I mastered. It came from the messy human experiences. From shipping things that failed and understanding why. From working with difficult people and learning how to navigate that. From making mistakes and learning to take feedback. From slowly, painfully developing judgment about what matters and what doesn't.
The tutorials gave me the basics. They got me in the door. But everything that happened after that—all the real learning, all the actual growth, all the skills that companies actually value and pay for—that came from doing the work and paying attention to the meta-level of how the work actually works.
If there's one thing I want you to take from this, it's this: technical skills are necessary but not sufficient. They're the price of entry, not the path to success. Real success in this industry comes from the combination of technical competence and professional maturity. And professional maturity isn't something you can learn from a tutorial. It's something you develop through experience, through intentional practice, through paying attention to the game beneath the game.
So yes, keep learning. Keep coding. Keep your technical skills sharp. But also develop the rest of it. Learn to communicate. Learn to navigate organizations. Learn to manage stakeholders. Learn to think about business value. Learn to work with ambiguity. Learn to give and receive feedback. Learn to make decisions with incomplete information. Learn to take care of yourself sustainably.
That's the real curriculum. That's what companies actually pay for. That's what will carry your career forward when everyone else with your same GitHub stars is wondering why they're stuck.
And if you're reading this thinking "but I just want to code"—I get it. I felt the same way. But here's the secret: developing these skills doesn't mean you code less. It means you get to code on more interesting problems, with more autonomy, with better compensation, on better teams. It means you spend less time frustrated by organizational dysfunction and more time actually building things that matter.
The choice isn't between being technical and being professional. It's between being technical in isolation or being technical in a way that creates real value in the real world. And the real world is messy and human and political and ambiguous. The developers who thrive are the ones who embrace that rather than resist it.
So embrace it. Learn the skills they don't teach in tutorials. Become someone who doesn't just write good code, but who makes good things happen. That's what companies are actually looking for. That's what they'll pay for. That's what will build the career you want.
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