This week—and really, the couple of weeks leading up to it—the spirit of our project could be summed up in a handful of chaotic exclamations:
Oh! Yes! (Um Oh Ah Yes) Oh no! NO! Come on! Please!
And my favorite: Oh boy.
(Somehow, “Oh boy” became a bit of a thing.)
It’s the unexpected, uncontrollable shout when attempt No. 382 finally lands after 23 near-misses and 200 absolute misses. A jolt that hits you in the chest, shakes your bones, and feels like proof you’re alive.
In my posts Try and From Gratitude to Guidance, I wrote:
Hope is not a strategy.
I still believe that. But it’s not the whole story.
So let me contradict myself—or maybe just add some twang:
Hope is not a strategy… if hope is your only strategy.
Because the truth is: hope is always there.
It’s in the quiet moments where you slap pray emojis in Slack. In the whispered “please, please, please” as you hit run. In the way your fingers cross themselves, as if the superstitious crossing of fingers somehow helps your code compile.
It’s irrational. Illogical. But it’s human. And you can’t help it.
It doesn’t change your code. But it changes you.
Beyond the prayer hands, hope sneaks into the daily grind too. It buoys morale when doubt seeps in. It cuts the sharp edge of fear, slows the thrash, buys just enough breathing room to take another swing.
And when—against all odds—it works?
(O.M.G.)
That feeling. When the bat doesn’t just kiss the ball—it collides. A loud crack that echoes across the field. A game changer.
The hush when the room holds its breath. The shiver as the countdown hits zero. The eruption when the thing actually lands. Not as the plan. Not as the only thing.
But as the spark that keeps you building, keeps you bracing, keeps you steady until the wheels finally touch down.
OH NO... OH YES... OH BOY!
This is the soundtrack of making. This is the sound of fighting the fog. This is the messy, ridiculous human noise of building anything that matters.