I used to fear error messages way some people fear spiders or public speaking. That harsh red text felt like a programming teacher standing over my shoulder, pointing out every mistake with enthusiasm of a particularly cranky seagull protecting its nest.
For years, my relationship with errors was purely adversarial. They were enemy—roadblocks, failures, evidence of my inadequacy as a programmer. I'd see that crimson text and immediately feel my shoulders tense, my jaw clench, and my ADHD brain start spiraling into a dozen different anxious thoughts about what I'd done wrong this time.
But like most transformative moments in programming, my perspective shift didn't happen in a classroom or tutorial. It happened during one particularly stubborn Thursday afternoon, wrestling with a bug that would teach me to see error messages not as harsh critics, but as patient teachers waiting to help.
Bug That Changed Everything
Picture this: It's 2:30 PM on a Thursday. Oregon Coast fog is rolling in outside my window, and I'm three hours deep into what should have been a "simple" database integration. My coffee has gone cold twice, and I'm staring at an error message that makes about as much sense as assembly instructions written in ancient Greek.
at DatabaseService.processUserData (database.js:47:23)
at UserController.getUserList (controller.js:15:12)
at Router.handle (router.js:89:5)
My first instinct? Pure frustration. "What do you mean 'undefined'? I just defined it three lines ago!" I muttered to my empty coffee mug, as if it could offer sympathy for my plight.
Moment Everything Clicked
Hour Four: I'm ready to throw my laptop into Alsea Bay. But then something shifts. Maybe it's ADHD hyperfocus finally kicking in, or maybe it's just stubborn programmer in me refusing to be defeated by a single line of JavaScript.
Instead of cursing at error message, I actually read it. Not panicked skimming I usually do, but a careful, word-by-word examination like I'm studying a treasure map.
"Cannot read properties of undefined (reading 'map')"
Suddenly, error message wasn't yelling at me—it was telling me a story. It was saying: "Hey Ken, I tried to call 'map' method on something, but that something was undefined. Here's exactly where it happened, and here's trail of function calls that led us here."
From Fear to Friendship
Old Ken
- Saw errors as personal attacks on my competence
- Panicked and started changing random things
- Avoided reading error messages carefully
- Felt shame and frustration with every bug
New Ken
- Treats errors as helpful debugging companions
- Reads error messages like detective clues
- Actually grateful when errors are descriptive
- Sees bugs as learning opportunities
My New Error Message Philosophy
That Thursday afternoon taught me that error messages are like lighthouse beacons in fog of complex code. They're not there to make you feel small—they're there to guide you safely to shore. Each error is programming language's way of saying:
"I wanted to help you, but I got confused. Here's exactly where confusion happened, and here's what I was trying to do when things went sideways."
Now when I see an error message, especially a really detailed one, I actually feel a little surge of gratitude. compiler or interpreter took time to tell me precisely what went wrong, where it happened, and often even suggests what might fix it. That's not criticism—that's collaboration.
What I Learned ( Hard Way)
Read Error Messages Like Poetry
Every word matters. That stack trace isn't gibberish—it's a breadcrumb trail leading you home. Start from bottom (where error originated) and work your way up to understand flow that led to problem.
Appreciate Descriptive Errors
A detailed error message is a gift. Languages and frameworks that give you precise, helpful errors are doing you a favor. Compare JavaScript's helpful messages to C's cryptic segmentation faults, and you'll quickly learn to appreciate verbosity in error reporting.
Errors Are ADHD-Friendly Learning
My ADHD brain loves immediate feedback loop that errors provide. Unlike abstract tutorials, errors give you a specific problem to hyperfocus on, with clear success criteria: make red text go away. It's like a coding video game with instant feedback.
Silent Failures Are Real Enemy
most terrifying programs are ones that fail silently. Give me a loud, obnoxious error message over code that quietly does wrong thing any day. Errors that scream are errors that care about your program's health.
Riding Waves of Failure
Living on Oregon Coast teaches you to respect power of waves—they can knock you down, but they can also carry you to incredible places if you learn to work with them instead of against them.
Error messages are like programming waves. They might knock you down initially, but once you learn to read their patterns and respect their power, they become force that propels you toward better code.
That Thursday afternoon bug? It turned out to be a simple async timing issue— API call hadn't resolved yet when I tried to map over data. But journey to that solution taught me something far more valuable than fix itself: errors aren't my enemy; they're my most honest coding partner.
Fix That Started It All
const userData = await fetchUsers(); // This is undefined initially
return userData.map(user => user.name); // Error happens here
};
const userData = await fetchUsers();
if (!userData || !Array.isArray(userData)) {
console.warn('No user data received');
return [];
}
return userData.map(user => user.name);
};
Simple fix, profound lesson. error message told me exactly what I needed to know—I just had to learn to listen.
Anchoring These Insights
These days, when I'm pair programming with other developers, I notice how they react to error messages. ones who've learned to love errors—who read them carefully, who appreciate their specificity—are invariably stronger programmers. They've learned what that foggy Thursday taught me: programming isn't about avoiding errors; it's about dancing with them.
My INTP mind loves logical precision of a good error message, while my F-leaning heart appreciates care that went into making it helpful. And my ADHD brain? It thrives on immediate, actionable feedback that turns abstract problems into concrete puzzles to solve.
So next time you see that crimson text pop up in your console, try shifting your perspective. Don't see an accusation—see an invitation. Don't see failure—see a teacher patiently waiting to help you write better code.
What's Your Error Message Story?
Every programmer has that moment when their relationship with errors shifted from fear to friendship. What was yours? Was it a particularly helpful stack trace that saved day, or a cryptic message that taught you to dig deeper?