A Sharp Fragment in a World of Systems
Last updated: January 20, 2026 Read in fullscreen view
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A senior backend developer can be exceptionally good at what he does.
He masters databases, APIs, performance tuning.
But he is blind to frontend.
He cannot design UI.
He knows nothing about marketing.
Sales frighten him.
He is a sharp fragment -
but still, only a fragment.
Meanwhile, an AI-enabled generalist can:
- Design system architecture in the morning
- Create UI mockups at noon
- Write marketing copy in the afternoon
- Deploy, automate, and set up customer support by night
Experts are not collapsing because they are less skilled.
They collapse because they suddenly realize they are a hammer -
excellent at driving nails -
while their competitors have become a mobile factory.
Biological Limits
The sense of helplessness comes from confronting one’s own biological limits.
Traditionally, you cannot fully learn design, marketing, business, and operations in a single lifetime.
The brain has limited capacity.
Each domain demands thousands of hours.
And you only get one life.
Unless you are some mythical, once-in-a-generation full-stack prodigy.
AI has changed this.
AI has lowered the barrier to entry of almost every domain to near zero.
AI users do not need the depth of a lifelong specialist in each field.
They only need sufficient understanding to connect things -
to assemble fragmented knowledge into a coherent whole.
The specialist stands still and realizes he resembles a T-Rex:
powerful, sharp teeth, terrifying strength -
but arms too short to do anything except bite.
Meanwhile, smaller creatures are using tools
and quietly building civilizations.
Painful, but Necessary
This collapse is painful.
But perhaps it is necessary.
Resentment is poison we drink ourselves, hoping others will die.
Pride in the depth of the well you dug means little
when the world needs people who can channel water from a hundred rivers.
The sword is still beautiful.
Still refined.
Still proof of thousands of hours of disciplined practice.
But the gun has been invented.
The question is no longer “Who is better?”
The real question is:
Does the swordsman have the courage to let go of the sword -
not to erase the past,
but to free his hands to hold a new weapon?
Or will he clutch the blade, climb back into the mountains,
and wait for the world to return to a time before gunpowder?
Ten years of experience can be a launchpad -
or a grave.
That depends on whether you treat it as your identity,
or merely as a completed chapter.
The Hardest Skill: Letting Go
What truly blocks adaptation is not lack of intelligence,
nor lack of talent -
but attachment.
Attachment to:
- a single skill
- a professional label
- the identity of “I am a backend expert”
- the ego built around past mastery
The deeper you cling to one skill,
the heavier it becomes.
The heavier it becomes,
the harder it is to move.
Paradoxically, those who let go faster learn faster.
When you are not emotionally invested in defending a skill,
you can:
- learn without fear
- experiment without shame
- discard tools without regret
Non-attachment does not mean disrespecting the past.
It means refusing to be imprisoned by it.
Skills should be tools - not chains.
Those who accept impermanence adapt with ease.
Those who cling to permanence fossilize.
Closing Reflection
I once was a swordsman.
But I have not held a sword for more than a decade.
So I feel no nostalgia.
In truth, a swordsman who learns to use a gun
often surpasses ordinary shooters:
- discipline
- aggressiveness and combat instinct
- strength and speed
And when the distance closes,
he still knows how to fight with a blade.
The future does not belong to those who abandon their past.
It belongs to those who can put it down - voluntarily -
and pick it up again only when needed.
That freedom
is the real upgrade.
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