Why a middle-aged man with too many ideas started Haru Space

I do not know much about design. Technically, I still feel that I have plenty of gaps. Yet when I look back, I have spent a long time walking a path connected to IT.

From starting as a junior developer to taking on an SWA role, I rarely had the luxury of looking at only one side of the work. I have served as a PM and PL, sat in proposals and sales, and dealt with backend, frontend, infrastructure, frameworks, and interfaces whenever the job required it.

Experiencing many things does not mean I am excellent at all of them. If anything, going deeper into each area made the limits of my knowledge more obvious. Still, I think I learned a little about where different roles get stuck and why people can use the same words while understanding them differently.

The AI era made me doubt myself for a while

When I saw AI produce code and organize documents at remarkable speed, I was fascinated at first and then a little deflated. I wondered whether the habits and experience I had built over so many years would continue to matter, and whether starting something new at this point would have any meaning.

My view changed with time. I did not need to compete with AI to become a faster typist. What mattered more was that I could bring out the problems I had witnessed, the gaps between roles, and the awkward workflows from real projects, then use AI to turn them into something I could test.

So today I am less a person who claims to understand all of technology and more a middle-aged man with too many things he wants to try. Ideas I once left in my head because I lacked time or ability can now become small results that I can inspect.

The most persistent problem in the industry was documentation

The problem that bothered me longest was not a glamorous technology or a difficult development methodology. It was documentation.

The reason behind a meeting decision would lose a piece when it reached the next person. By the time it reached the person after that, it could become a very different story from the original intention. Sometimes there was no record at all. Even when someone invested time in a carefully organized document, it was often ignored or forgotten amid busy schedules. In practice, not many people went back to read it.

It was difficult to blame this only on people’s effort. Documentation was always pushed aside as an extra task to do after the real work, and only the people who already knew where a file lived could find it again. The document remained, but the context behind the decision disappeared, and the same questions and mistakes returned.

I saw this scene repeatedly while moving between roles. A developer explained why something had been built a certain way. A planner explained why a requirement existed. With time, only the result survived, leaving the next person to reconstruct the reasoning.

AI and vibe coding lowered the barrier to keeping a record

When I began using AI seriously and encountered vibe coding, the first change was not merely faster code. Organizing scattered thoughts, summarizing long conversations, and finding something again became much easier.

A few rough notes could become the structure of a document. I could identify missing questions and keep code beside the reason for a decision. Small features that I once finished without an explanation could now carry a record of why they began and what they were meant to test.

That does not make an AI-organized record automatically true. AI can misunderstand context and produce an answer that sounds convincing while being wrong. People still need to verify and decide. What clearly changed was the burden of starting a record and the effort required to retrieve it later.

That change mattered to me. I could move away from the belief that I needed to master design before making a screen or command every technology before starting a service. I could get help where I was weak while keeping responsibility for the standards that mattered to me. A small project of my own finally felt possible.

That is why I started Haru Space

Haru Space did not begin as a plan to complete a huge platform in one attempt. It began as a small project to approach, in my own way, the documentation problem that had bothered me for years.

I wanted trusted people to talk comfortably without letting the useful thoughts in those conversations disappear. Records should be findable again. Small ideas should be able to move through documents and experiments toward real outcomes. The people who helped should not vanish behind the final result.

At the same time, I do not want every conversation to become a public record. There needs to be a clear boundary between a comfortable private discussion and something released to the world. AI may help organize, translate, draft, and review, but people must decide what to publish and accept responsibility for it. I want to protect this principle before adding more features.

The roadmap contains many directions beyond this starting point: safely sharing knowledge made together, testing small ideas, and making sure useful contributions are not forgotten. A large plan does not mean I should build everything at once. I intend to use it in small pieces, correct what is wrong, and keep asking whether there is a good reason to continue.

I want to preserve the feeling at the beginning, not just the finished service

Even as I write this, I still do not know much about design and still feel technically incomplete. I will get stuck while building. I may change plans that seem right today.

This time, however, I did not want another idea to end inside my head. With AI’s help, I want to take out the things I have postponed one by one and record not only the result but also the reasons, failed attempts, and changes along the way.

I do not yet know how far Haru Space will go. I hope it can become a place where explanations are distorted a little less when they reach the next person, where a good record leads to a real next action, and where people can begin with the smallest version of something they have wanted to make.

That was the feeling held by one middle-aged man with too many ideas when Haru Space first began.