12:49 a.m.
I could hardly focus my eyes. I’d been sitting at my desk since 4:45 the previous morning — more than twenty hours of nearly continuous coding. The last two hours had been spent staring at the same stubborn section of code, trying to figure out why the report wouldn’t load. No linter errors. No console issues. Nothing visibly broken — just a refusal to function.
I’d combed through every line, refreshed everything, and even restarted the server out of desperation. The interface wouldn’t crash. It just wouldn’t work. I was starting to question whether I was even looking in the right place. And then, at 12:52 a.m., I saw it — a single missing letter. I’d meant to write an asynchronous call but forgot the “a.” Perfectly valid syntax either way, just not the behavior I needed. I fixed the typo, saved the file, and reloaded the page. It worked instantly.
The technical failure was minuscule. The emotional aftermath? Yeah, not so much.
It’s strange how something as small as a letter can feel like a referendum on your competence. I’ve written thousands of lines of code that work beautifully (or at least work). I’ve solved problems that genuinely make my clients’ lives easier. I’ve hired eight people in the last two weeks. People are paying me real money to build real tools that serve real businesses. But all it takes is one bug — especially one caused by something I should have seen — to make me feel like I’ve tricked everyone. Like I’m one bug away from being exposed.
I’ve built this company from scratch. I’ve architected systems and delivered work I’m proud of. And yet, more nights than not, I wrestle with the fear that I’m not actually qualified to be here. That if anyone looked too closely, they’d realize I’m just making it up as I go. That I’ve built a Potemkin village of functioning interfaces and structured codebases that could collapse if someone leaned too hard on the facade.
It’s not that the work is fake. It’s just that the fear doesn’t care.
That night, long after the system was fixed and the screen stopped glowing, I found myself laying in the dark asking questions I usually outrun with more work.
Why do I keep pushing myself this hard?
Why am I still at my computer after midnight again?
Why do I feel like every mistake is a threat, not just a glitch?
The answer, if I’m being honest, is fear.
Fear of being seen as unqualified.
Fear of letting a client down.
Fear of building something that only looks right from a distance.
And so I hustle. Not just because there’s work to do — but because the motion keeps me from hearing that voice. The one that doubts. The one that wants proof, not progress.
But the hustle doesn’t fix it. It just buries it. Until the next missed letter brings it roaring back.
I’ve started noticing that the harder I work to prove I’m enough, the less I actually believe it. (How’s that for ironic?) The busier I stay, the more that doubt festers beneath the surface. It’s as if I think enough hours, enough output, enough usefulness will silence the fear. But fear isn’t quieted by accomplishment. It’s quieted by presence. By naming what’s really going on underneath the performance.
The funny thing is, my clients aren’t asking me to be perfect. They don’t know about the typo, or the two hours it stole from me. All they know is that the report works, the tool does its job, and their lives are easier because of it. The pressure to be flawless doesn’t come from them.
It comes from me.
Most days, I feel like a fraud. Days when the tech stack overwhelms me, or a small mistake costs me more time than I care to admit. But I’m learning to see those moments not as signs of failure, but as reminders. Not of what I lack — but of what I’ve survived. What I’ve learned. What I’m still building.
The typo is fixed. The code works now. The night eventually ended. But the question lingers — what are you really afraid of?
And the answer, more and more, is this: I’m afraid that if I stop, it’ll all fall apart. But maybe the opposite is true. Maybe if I stop — even briefly — I’ll see that it’s already standing.
Maybe I don’t have to hustle so hard to belong.
Maybe I already do.
And that is enough.
Thanks for reading, and before you go. . .
I’m Aaron Pace. I write from the middle of things — life, business, fatherhood, faith, and the slow work of becoming someone I can live with. Not as an expert, but as someone trying to pay attention.
If this piece resonated with you, I’d be honored if you followed along here on Medium. I write — not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m finally moving again.
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