You ever read code and feel like someone left the lights on for you?

That happened to me last week, I opened a file I hadn’t touched in months. I was bracing myself, you know, the way you do when walking into a messy garage. But it was… clear. Modular. Named like someone actually cared. And I laughed, because the “someone” was me. Six months ago, me had a good day.

Funny thing is, I don’t remember writing it. But I do remember trying to make it readable. Like I wasn’t just solving a problem, I was writing it down for whoever had to walk in after me. Including, apparently, future me with a newborn at home and barely any sleep.

It’s easy to forget, but most code isn’t written for machines. Machines don’t care if your function is named f(). Humans do. And most of the time, the human reading your code is not some genius with context fresh in their head, it’s someone overwhelmed, undercaffeinated, on a deadline, trying to fix a bug they didn’t cause.

Readable code is empathy made visible.

When you name things clearly, break logic into digestible pieces, add just the right comments, not to show off, but to leave a trail, you’re doing something radical: you’re being kind. You’re saying, “I see you. I’ve been you. Let me make this easier.”

People call it clean code, good practice, maintainability. But underneath, it’s really about respect. You’re respecting the craft, the future, and the stranger (or teammate, or future self) who’s going to live with your choices.

And yeah, it takes longer. Slapping code together is faster, just like tossing everything in a drawer is faster than folding your clothes. But systems, like bedrooms, get visited more than they get built. And eventually, somebody’s got to live there.

I’ve come to believe this isn’t just style. It’s ethics. We think of ethics in terms of big choices, privacy, security, fairness. But this is smaller, quieter. You’re in a room no one sees, writing something no one may notice unless it breaks. And still, you choose clarity. That’s integrity.

Readable code won’t get you applause. But it might save someone a panic attack. It might keep the system stable. It might make a new developer feel less stupid.

That’s not nothing.

It’s a quiet way of saying, “I’ve got you,” in semicolons and line breaks.

And that, to me, is enough.