When We Become Cheerleaders for Our Own Demise
I published a blog post a few hours ago about something called "vibe coding" - basically developers who've stopped understanding code and just throw prompts at AI tools, testing only if the output "feels right". It is getting decent traction, but then something weird happened.
The harshest critics weren't senior developers or security experts. They were junior developers - often the exact ones most at risk of being replaced by the tools they were defending so passionately. Kids fresh out of bootcamps telling me I was "stuck in the past" for suggesting they should actually understand the code they're shipping to production.
The pushback wasn't just in the comments. Someone I don't know shared my original post, "Vibe Coding Will Rob Us of Our Freedom" on Reddit's r/programming. It was removed by moderators for being "clickbait" title and an "unpopular topic". It seems I'd touched a nerve. Some of the feedback I got elsewhere made me think even more.
It reminded me of something, and it took me a while to put my finger on what. Then it hit me: Stockholm syndrome.
Here were people defending - almost evangelizing - the very thing that could make them obsolete. And not just defending it quietly, but attacking anyone who dared suggest there might be risks worth considering.
I've been thinking about this pattern a lot lately, and once you see it, you can't unsee it. It's everywhere.
There's the gig economy worker who gets aggressive if you criticize the platform that pays them below minimum wage and offers no benefits. "It's freedom!" they'll insist, while working 70-hour weeks just to pay rent. The open office enthusiast who swears the noise and lack of privacy make them "more collaborative", even as their productivity tanks and stress levels soar.
Hell, I see it in tech all the time. The developer who defends the surveillance capitalism of their favorite platform. The startup employee who brags about their "unlimited PTO" policy - you know, the one where nobody actually takes vacation because there's no clear boundary between work and life.
But why does this happen? Why do we become cheerleaders for our own demise?
I think it's because recognizing a threat means admitting vulnerability, and that's terrifying. It's much easier to reframe yourself as an "early adopter" or a "forward thinker" than to face the possibility that you might be getting screwed.
There's also the sunk cost thing. Once you've publicly embraced something - especially if you've built part of your identity around it - backing down feels like admitting you were an idiot. Better to double down than face that uncomfortable truth.
And then there's the illusion of control. When you're using a powerful tool, you feel powerful, even if you're actually giving up agency. The junior dev cranking out AI-generated code feels like a wizard, even though they couldn't debug a simple loop if their life depended on it.
But here's the thing that really gets me: every time we choose the comfortable lie over the uncomfortable truth, we pay a price. The programmer who never learns to actually program. The worker who accepts worse and worse conditions because they've convinced themselves it's "flexibility". The person who trades privacy for convenience without really understanding what they're losing.
It's not just about individual careers or rights. It's about collective autonomy. Every time a generation stops understanding the tools they use, they become dependent on whoever controls those tools.
I'm not saying we should reject all new technology or that change is always bad. But there's a difference between tools that empower us and tools that replace us. Between systems that make us more capable and systems that make us more dependent.
The trick is having the guts to look honestly at which is which.
Last week I was talking to a friend who runs a small construction company. He was telling me about how all the big contractors in town are pushing "smart" building systems that require constant cloud connectivity and subscription services. Meanwhile, he's still using techniques that have worked for decades, tools he can fix himself, materials he understands completely.
"They keep telling me I'm behind the times" he said. "But when their fancy systems go down, who do they call?"
Maybe being "behind the times" isn't always a bad thing. Maybe sometimes it means you still own your tools instead of renting them.
The next time you catch yourself getting defensive about something - really defensive, like you're personally offended that someone would dare question it - maybe pause for a second. Ask yourself: am I defending this because it's actually good for me, or because I'm scared to imagine alternatives?
Because the first step toward freedom is always the same: admitting you might be wearing chains.