When I look back at my early years as a frontend software developer, I don’t remember specific features I built or tickets I closed. Most of that is blurry now.
What I remember clearly is one mistake.
Not because it broke production or caused a big incident, but because it quietly shaped how I think about frontend work even today.
The mistake was simple:
I focused more on making things work than making them understandable.
At the time, I didn’t see this as a mistake at all. In fact, I thought I was doing well.
What I Thought “Good Frontend Work” Meant
Earlier in my career, my definition of good frontend work was very narrow.
Good meant:
- The UI works
- The feature matches the design
- The bug is fixed
- The ticket is closed
If the code compiled and the screen behaved as expected, I felt successful.
I didn’t think much about:
- Who would read this code later
- How easy it would be to change
- What would happen when requirements changed
I assumed those problems belonged to “future me” or someone else.
That assumption was the mistake.
How This Mistake Showed Up in My Code
At first glance, my code looked fine.
Components worked. State updated. Effects ran. Users could click buttons and see results.
But underneath, there were patterns that slowly caused trouble:
- Components doing too many things
- State scattered across different levels without clear reason
- Logic hidden inside effects
- Names that made sense only in the moment
None of this caused immediate failure.
That’s why the mistake was easy to ignore.
Why It Felt Like the Right Approach Back Then
At that stage, I was under pressure to deliver.
- Deadlines mattered
- Feedback came fast
- Speed was rewarded
When a bug appeared, the fastest fix felt like the best fix.
If adding a condition solved the issue, I added it.
If another state variable made things work, I added it.
If an effect fixed timing issues, I added it.
I didn’t ask if the solution made the code clearer.
I asked if it worked.
And usually, it did.
The First Signs of Trouble
The problem didn’t show up immediately.
It showed up weeks later.
I would open a file I wrote myself and think:
“Why is this here?”
I had to re-read my own code carefully just to understand what it was doing.
At first, I blamed time.
“I just forgot,” I told myself.
But it kept happening.
That’s when I realized something uncomfortable:
If I couldn’t understand my own code, others wouldn’t either.
When This Mistake Started Costing Real Time
The real impact became clear during changes.
Not new features.
Changes.
A small request like:
“Can we change this behavior slightly?”
Suddenly required:
- Touching multiple files
- Being careful not to break unrelated things
- Testing paths I didn’t fully understand anymore
What should have been a simple change became risky.
The code worked, but it resisted change.
How Bugs Became Harder to Fix
Bugs also became strange.
Instead of clear failures, I got:
- Bugs that appeared only in specific flows
- Issues that depended on timing
- Problems that disappeared when I logged values
Fixing these bugs felt like guesswork.
I wasn’t reasoning about the code.
I was experimenting with it.
That’s when I realized my earlier shortcuts were coming back to collect interest.
The Moment It Finally Clicked
There was one day when I had to debug an issue in a component I wrote months earlier.
I spent hours tracing logic.
Reading conditions.
Following state updates.
At some point, I stopped and thought:
“This code is doing too much.”
Not because it was large.
But because its purpose was unclear.
That moment stayed with me.
I realized I had been writing code for the machine, not for humans.
What I Was Actually Optimizing For
Without realizing it, I was optimizing for:
- Speed of writing
- Speed of fixing
- Short-term results
I wasn’t optimizing for:
- Clarity
- Ease of change
- Long-term understanding
The mistake wasn’t lack of skill.
It was lack of patience.
What Changed After That Realization
I didn’t suddenly become a great developer overnight.
But my questions changed.
Before writing code, I started asking:
- What is this component responsible for?
- What problem does this state solve?
- Can someone understand this without context?
While reviewing my own work, I asked:
- Is this obvious?
- Is this hiding complexity or revealing it?
- Would I trust myself to modify this later?
These questions slowed me down.
And that was a good thing.
Learning to Stop Early Instead of Fixing Later
Earlier, I would keep adding until things worked.
Now, I learned to stop earlier.
Instead of:
“Let me add one more condition,”
I started thinking:
“Why does this need a condition at all?”
Instead of:
“Let me manage this with state,”
I asked:
“Is state even needed here?”
This shift removed more code than it added.
Accepting That “Working” Is Not Enough
This was the hardest lesson.
Code that works is not necessarily good code.
Working code can still:
- Confuse readers
- Hide assumptions
- Create fragile behavior
Earlier, I treated “working” as the finish line.
Now, I see it as the starting point.
How This Mistake Still Shapes Me Today
Even now, I sometimes feel the old instinct.
When I’m tired.
When I’m rushed.
When I want to move on.
The instinct says:
“Just make it work.”
That’s when I pause.
I remind myself how expensive unclear code becomes later.
Not immediately.
Later.
That memory keeps me careful.
What This Mistake Taught Me About Frontend Work
Frontend development is not just about screens and clicks.
It’s about:
- Managing complexity
- Making behavior predictable
- Helping future changes feel safe
UI code lives close to users.
It changes often.
It’s touched by many people.
That makes clarity even more important.
A Small Habit That Came From This Lesson
One habit changed everything for me.
Before finishing a piece of code, I now try to explain it to myself in simple words.
If I can’t explain:
- What this does
- Why it exists
- What would break if it changed
Then the code isn’t ready yet.
This habit alone prevented many future problems.
Why This Was a Valuable Mistake
I’m glad I made this mistake early.
Because it taught me something deeper than syntax or patterns.
It taught me that frontend code is read far more than it is written.
And writing for readers is harder than writing for execution.
Final Thought
The mistake I made wasn’t using the wrong tool or pattern.
It was believing that working code was enough.
Today, I know better.
Good frontend code doesn’t just work.
It explains itself.
That lesson shaped how I write, how I review, and how I think.
And it’s still shaping me, one line at a time.
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