Experience Memes

Take a vacation, touch some grass, maybe read a book. Come back to your IDE and suddenly you're staring at your own code like it's written in ancient Sumerian. That function you wrote two weeks ago? No idea what it does. That design pattern you were so proud of? Completely foreign. Your muscle memory has been factory reset and you're back to Googling "how to reverse a string" like it's day one of bootcamp. The knowledge decay is real and it's exponential.

Nothing quite like having a principal dev who's been maintaining that legacy COBOL system since the Reagan administration get schooled by the 23-year-old who just finished a React bootcamp. The confidence of fresh grads who think their 6 months of JavaScript experience qualifies them to refactor a battle-tested system that's been running production for 15 years is truly something to behold. Meanwhile, the senior dev is standing there thinking about all the edge cases, technical debt, and production incidents that aren't covered in the latest Medium article the junior just read. But sure, let's rewrite everything in the framework-of-the-month because "it's how it's done now."

Nothing triggers a real senior dev quite like seeing some fresh-faced 21-year-old on Instagram claiming "Senior Developer" in their bio. Kid probably just finished their bootcamp last Tuesday and suddenly they're out here acting like they've survived production incidents at 3 AM, dealt with legacy code from 2003, or had to explain to management why "just make it work like Facebook" isn't a valid requirement. Senior isn't just about knowing React hooks or writing clean code. It's about the battle scars—the time you accidentally dropped the production database, the merge conflicts that made you question your career choices, the technical debt you inherited from three developers ago who all quit. You earn that title through years of pain, not by watching YouTube tutorials and calling yourself a "10x engineer." But hey, LinkedIn influencer culture has everyone speedrunning their careers these days. Next thing you know, teenagers will be listing "CTO" because they deployed a Next.js app to Vercel.

Ten years in the industry and the only visible progress is a slightly fancier mousepad. Same grumpy expression, same outdated monitor, same existential dread—but hey, at least the desk accessories got a minor RGB upgrade. The real kicker? You're probably making 3x the salary now but still feeling just as dead inside. That's the senior developer lifecycle for you: more money, same problems, marginally better peripherals. Some call it career growth, others call it a slow descent into comfortable misery with better lighting.

First time programming: confident, stepping over obstacles with ease, avoiding every rake. Hundredth time: you've stepped on so many rakes you're basically a parkour expert at getting smacked in the face. The difference is that now you know exactly which rake is going to hit you, you just can't stop it. Experience doesn't make you immune to bugs—it just makes you better at predicting your own suffering.

Years of experience doesn't automatically translate to skill, and that's the uncomfortable truth nobody wants to hear at meetups. You can write spaghetti code for 20 years and still be terrible at it—time served doesn't equal mastery. Some people start coding at 8 and plateau by 18, while others pick it up at 30 and become wizards within months. It's like saying you're good at cooking because you've been burning toast since childhood. The real flex isn't how long you've been doing it, it's whether you actually learned anything during those years or just copy-pasted from Stack Overflow with increasing confidence.

The secret sauce of senior developers isn't magical knowledge—it's knowing exactly what to Google. That "10 years of experience" on my resume? That's just 10 years of increasingly sophisticated search queries. The beautiful irony is that while junior devs feel ashamed about searching for basics, the rest of us are frantically Googling "how to center div" for the 500th time. The difference? We've just gotten better at hiding our browser tabs during meetings.