Building a Website While Rebuilding Myself

When I started building my website, I thought the hardest part would be the technical stuff. Syntax errors, layout issues, maybe a few bugs here and there. But I quickly realized the real challenge was just getting myself to sit down and start—especially while juggling everything else going on in my life. I’m self-taught, figuring this out while also trying to put things back together in my life—recovering from a breakup, moving back in with my parents after a tough roommate situation, and sitting squarely in the middle of a career identity crisis. On top of that, I’m managing executive dysfunction, anxiety, and a nervous system that’s been locked in fight-or-flight for years. My work ethic has always been tangled up with my emotional state. When I’m drowning, I shut down. When I’m hopeful, I overextend. For a long time, I blamed myself for not being consistent. Now I’m starting to realize—this isn’t laziness. It’s survival mode. And survival mode doesn’t leave much room for creative growth. One of the first big mistakes I made was skipping something I should have known with my background in graphic design: I didn’t fully plan out my website. I had a vague layout in my head and just started building. That led to a lot of reworking, second-guessing, and feeling stuck. In hindsight, a structured visual plan would’ve saved me time and mental bandwidth. Still, I keep showing up. Progress has been slow, but it’s mine. Every little thing I figure out—no matter how small—feels like reclaiming a part of myself. This isn’t just about learning to code. It’s about building something during a time when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. And that makes it matter more. One moment that really stuck with me was when I was trying to make a section of my site “stick” to the top of the screen after scrolling, while letting the rest of the content scroll past it. I overcomplicated it immediately. I thought I needed advanced JavaScript, animations, rewritten HTML, maybe some extra attributes or elements. In reality? Just position: sticky and a few carefully placed CSS properties. That was it. Looking back, it feels obvious. But in the moment, I had turned it into a mountain. And I’ve had other moments like that too—especially with JavaScript—where I spiral, overthink, and then finally figure it out. It reminds me that the hardest part often isn’t the code. It’s the emotional noise around it—the self-doubt, the perfectionism, the fear of not being “good enough.” Sometimes the problem isn’t technical. It’s internal. I’m pretty sure this applies to other things in life other than coding. And every time I figure something out, even something small, it’s proof I can. That I’m capable. That I’m still learning, still moving forward, even when it feels like I’m not. I’m not building my site as fast as I thought I would, and I don’t feel like a “real” developer yet. But every line of code I write, every bug I fix, every tiny “aha” moment—that’s progress. That’s me, showing up in the middle of a messy, uncertain season of life and choosing to keep going. If you’re in that place too—burnt out, overwhelmed, doubting yourself—I just want to say: your progress still counts. Your effort still matters. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s chaotic. You’re still building something valuable. Thanks for reading.

Apr 30, 2025 - 21:30

Building a Website While Rebuilding Myself

When I started building my website, I thought the hardest part would be the technical stuff.

Syntax errors, layout issues, maybe a few bugs here and there. But I quickly realized the real challenge was just getting myself to sit down and start—especially while juggling everything else going on in my life.

I’m self-taught, figuring this out while also trying to put things back together in my life—recovering from a breakup, moving back in with my parents after a tough roommate situation, and sitting squarely in the middle of a career identity crisis. On top of that, I’m managing executive dysfunction, anxiety, and a nervous system that’s been locked in fight-or-flight for years.

My work ethic has always been tangled up with my emotional state. When I’m drowning, I shut down. When I’m hopeful, I overextend. For a long time, I blamed myself for not being consistent. Now I’m starting to realize—this isn’t laziness. It’s survival mode. And survival mode doesn’t leave much room for creative growth.

One of the first big mistakes I made was skipping something I should have known with my background in graphic design: I didn’t fully plan out my website. I had a vague layout in my head and just started building. That led to a lot of reworking, second-guessing, and feeling stuck. In hindsight, a structured visual plan would’ve saved me time and mental bandwidth.

Still, I keep showing up. Progress has been slow, but it’s mine. Every little thing I figure out—no matter how small—feels like reclaiming a part of myself.

This isn’t just about learning to code. It’s about building something during a time when everything else feels like it’s falling apart. And that makes it matter more.

One moment that really stuck with me was when I was trying to make a section of my site “stick” to the top of the screen after scrolling, while letting the rest of the content scroll past it. I overcomplicated it immediately. I thought I needed advanced JavaScript, animations, rewritten HTML, maybe some extra attributes or elements. In reality? Just position: sticky and a few carefully placed CSS properties.

That was it.

Looking back, it feels obvious. But in the moment, I had turned it into a mountain. And I’ve had other moments like that too—especially with JavaScript—where I spiral, overthink, and then finally figure it out.

It reminds me that the hardest part often isn’t the code. It’s the emotional noise around it—the self-doubt, the perfectionism, the fear of not being “good enough.” Sometimes the problem isn’t technical. It’s internal. I’m pretty sure this applies to other things in life other than coding.

And every time I figure something out, even something small, it’s proof I can. That I’m capable. That I’m still learning, still moving forward, even when it feels like I’m not.

I’m not building my site as fast as I thought I would, and I don’t feel like a “real” developer yet. But every line of code I write, every bug I fix, every tiny “aha” moment—that’s progress. That’s me, showing up in the middle of a messy, uncertain season of life and choosing to keep going.

If you’re in that place too—burnt out, overwhelmed, doubting yourself—I just want to say: your progress still counts.

Your effort still matters. Even if it’s slow. Even if it’s chaotic. You’re still building something valuable.

Thanks for reading.