Confessions of a Keyboard Glancer: How I Survived IT Without Perfect Typing

Let me begin with a scandalous admission:

I still look at the keyboard while typing.

Sometimes, when I look back at my IT career, I can’t believe I made it this far without ever mastering the sacred art of no-look typing.

Yes, I still glance at the keyboard. In 2025. When AI can write novels, compose symphonies, and possibly do your taxes. And here I am, sneaking peeks at the QWERTY like it’s a forbidden romance.

Let’s rewind to 1999.

We had just received a swanky new computer lab in school. It was the only air-conditioned room, which made it the VIP lounge of education. Not because we were tech-forward, but because air-conditioning wasn’t mainstream—and neither were computers. The lab was spotless. Our computer teacher enforced a strict ritual: wash hands with soap, remove footwear, and enter barefoot like monks entering a temple. All to prevent the spread of computer viruses. He was dead serious. We were terrified. Somewhere in our minds, we imagined a monitor bursting into flames if someone sneezed too close to the CPU.

Also, the occasional disappearance of mouse scroll balls was routine. Whoever invented that detachable marvel was a genius—but clearly didn’t anticipate the sticky fingers of 12-year-olds. And yes, 1.44MB on a floppy disk felt like wizardry. You could fit an entire universe in there—provided your universe was a Word document and two pixelated images.

But I digress. The fear was real. We didn’t know what a CPU was, but we were convinced the monitor was the computer. And if anything went wrong, it would be the first to explode.

Now, back to typing.

We had this bright kid in class. He had a typewriter at home. His visionary parents had done the unthinkable—they taught him how to type. Whenever he saw a keyboard, he transformed. He was the Typing Messiah, and we bowed to him like disciples witnessing divine click-clack enlightenment.

My first typing assignment? Two paragraphs from Encyclopaedia Britannica. I got mammals from Volume 5. The Typing Messiah finished in five minutes. The rest of us? Forty minutes of click…curse…clack…curse. Some didn’t finish. We were ready to surrender arms and admit defeat on day one of the war.

But then, our hero rose. He offered to teach us. We had found our saviour. Our Ctrl+Alt+Del to despair.

The next week, we entered the lab again. I had a Shakespeare title propped on my lap and began to crawl through the typing exercise like a wounded knight dragging his sword through mud. The room echoed with curses aimed at the inventor of the QWERTY layout. The scene resembled a battlefield of frustrated fingers and broken spirits.

But from one corner came the unmistakable sound of rapid-fire typing. We all knew who it was. We envied him but never resented him—he was the hero we needed.

When he finished in seven minutes, he walked around to help. I was the first one chosen. I felt like a Knight of the Home Row. He showed me the sacred placement: left fingers on A-S-D-F, right fingers on J-K-L-;, thumbs on the space bar. I felt like a pianist discovering that all ten fingers had a purpose. Until then, I had typed exclusively with my right index finger. My left hand? Cozy in my pocket. Because cold air from the air-conditioner kills viruses, obviously.

He typed like a pro—eyes off the keyboard, glued to the screen. I watched in awe. I marvelled more than I learned. And somewhere deep inside, a seed of insecurity took root. A voice whispered, “If you’re not perfect, why bother?” That voice was a drama queen.

Years passed. Typing became essential. I got faster but never mastered the no-look. Eventually, I stopped caring. My IT career flourished. Every now and then, a colleague would glance over my shoulder, and I’d instinctively hunch over like I was hiding state secrets—just to avoid being caught red-handed… typing like a T-Rex with trust issues.

My typing imperfection didn’t hold me back. What did hold me back on some instances, however, was inaction.

Today, I see people tripping over tech and giving up. In the age of AI, these stumbles are costly—not because people lack talent, but because they abandon the chance to leverage tools that could elevate their craft.

So, here’s my message:
If I could survive in IT without mastering typing, you can survive your journey with your quirks.
You’re allowed to be imperfect. You’re allowed to be messy.

Because messy is step one, or nine.

Messy is human.

Messy is progress in disguise.

“Messy is Fine” wasn’t just a personal epiphany—it was a breakthrough I witnessed while coaching a client. All credit to them for inspiring a mindset shift that I now carry forward.