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When I was working as a freelancer, I firmly believed that technical skill was everything. I thought true ability was defined by who could write better algorithms, who knew more programming languages, and who could solve more complex problems. And I was confident in my own abilities. Because of that, I often dismissed the opinions of those who seemed less technically capable than me, and I was convinced that my judgment was always right. Whenever someone gave me feedback on my code, my instinctive reaction was to get defensive. Back then, this is how I behaved:
1. I would interrupt others and point out their weaknesses while they were speaking. (I didn’t listen.
2. When I asked questions, I pretended to know the answers because I was afraid they’d realize what I didn’t know. (Fear of asking.)
3. I would immediately refute others’ opinions. (Blaming others.)
4. I insisted on my ideas and told others to just follow them. (Cutting off conversation.)
At the time, I thought this was what it meant to be “professional.” I believed that results mattered more than teamwork, and that in the end, results were something I achieved on my own.
But one day, everything changed. I had the chance to work with one of the most well-known developers in Korea. Let’s call him T for convenience. From the moment I met him, T left a good impression. He was always neatly dressed, had a constant smile, and got along effortlessly with everyone.
To be honest, though, I had a bias: I assumed that people who were that “sociable” usually lacked technical skill.
Then, I attended a development meeting with T. As usual, I strongly pushed my own opinions and, truthfully, was prepared to ignore whatever T had to say. But that day, T defied everything I thought I knew about what a developer should be.
1. T listened to me carefully and never interrupted.
2. When he didn’t know something, he wasn’t embarrassed—he simply asked me openly.
3. If there was something good in my idea, he praised it first.
4. He expressed his own thoughts clearly, but always followed up by asking for my opinion again.
But what truly humbled me was the fact that his ideas were more logical and realistic than mine. That night, I couldn’t sleep—my pride was bruised, and I felt completely defeated. “How could this happen? Did I really lose? How could such sharp insight be hidden behind that gentle voice and constant smile?”
The next day, T said something to me that I’ll never forget:
“We’re a team. What matters is solving the problem, not who’s right or wrong.”
In that moment, it felt like I’d been hit over the head. I realized I hadn’t been collaborating with my team—I had been fighting them. I always needed to be right, always needed to win. But what truly mattered was solving the problem, and teamwork meant using each other’s strengths to achieve better results. That was the first time I really understood what collaboration was.
After that, I started to change. I listened to others without cutting them off. When I didn’t know something, I asked without feeling ashamed. Most importantly, instead of dismissing people with different perspectives, I tried to understand the reasoning behind their thoughts.
Of course, I’m still far from perfect. But now, I try to prioritize “us” over “me.”
Teamwork isn’t just about working together. It’s about growing together, failing together, and searching for answers together. And it all begins with mutual respect and sincere conversation.
I now know that technical skill alone doesn’t make someone a great developer.
A true professional not only has technical expertise but also understands people and knows how to lead a team. That’s what I learned from T—and what I’ll keep learning moving forward.
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