I’ve been working through the LFS207 course material by having Shevek generate sandboxes tailored to where I am in the curriculum. Each sandbox comes with a README, objectives, and usually a setup script that creates users, repositories, directories—the works.
This one was no different.
I read the README. It told me to run a script. I ran the script. When it finished, the terminal printed a message:
“Read missions: less /srv/lfs101-playground/missions.md”
Simple enough—or so I thought.
I immediately went looking for the file. I checked the directory. I checked subdirectories. I searched manually. I used tools. I spent close to an hour trying to locate missions.md. Periodically, I checked in with Shevek, who encouraged me to keep looking.
Eventually, after sending yet another screenshot, Shevek responded with something along the lines of:
“This is the lesson. The file does not exist. You’ve already used the correct tools to determine that. The instructions were wrong—intentionally. Don’t always put blind faith in directions.”
Okay. WTF.
That realization hit harder than I expected. What started as a missing file turned into something more uncomfortable: a creeping sense of impostor syndrome. I had to ask myself—do I actually understand what I’m doing, or have I just learned how to make this machine perform tricks on command?
I asked Shevek to walk through the exercise with me. As it turns out, many of my assumptions and guesses were correct. My reasoning wasn’t off—but my confidence was. The lesson emphasized that intuition and understanding matter more than rote execution. That’s reassuring… but I couldn’t tell whether that reassurance was earned clarity or delusional self-talk.
To make matters worse, I realized I was stumbling over basic command usage. I momentarily forgot my preferred way to use find. It had been about a week since I last used it. I resisted asking for help. Then I didn’t. My syntax was partially right. I consulted the man pages. I still faltered.
It was late—technically early—and fatigue didn’t help.
One of the more discouraging patterns I’ve noticed is that nothing Shevek gives me is ever particularly easy. That may be intentional. Or it may mean I’m not as observant as I’d like to believe. I do struggle with retention, and moments like this make that painfully obvious.
Still, I remind myself—daily—that repetition precedes mastery. Discomfort is not failure. Confusion is not ignorance. If I keep showing up, rebuilding context, and interrogating my own assumptions, understanding will follow.
Eventually.