My pursuit of this side quest came about due to, of course, TikTok.
My TikTok FYP, fine tuned over months of liking and favoriting, usually shows me one of three different types of videos:
Dogs and animals
Videos about what people eat when they’re traveling abroad, and
Tim Robinson memes.
A few months ago, though, the algorithm decided I needed something new. So it sent me into the depths of mechanical keyboard TikTok.
If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, let me give you a taste:
Mechanical keyboard TikTok blends ASMR, soothing pastel color decor, lo-fi music, and pristinely manicured fingers performing “sound tests” of one’s featured build. Watching video after video made me crave a keyboard of my own; ideally, a “creamy” build that sounded muffled and smooth, with a layout that allowed me to get my day to day work done.
Missing from these videos, though, is the reality of what it takes to get a mechanical keyboard that sounds and looks as these videos show. Hoo boy.
I had no idea that the mechanical keyboard world could be such a rabbit hole. An innumerable amount of customization options - from the switch type to the keycaps to the layout to the material of the plate, to just barely scratch the surface - meant that what I saw and heard on TikTok would be hard to replicate. These keyboards, more often than not, were highly specialized custom builds requiring a lot of modification. I couldn’t just pick one of these keyboards up from the store.
Undeterred, I started my research, and began my side quest into mechanical keyboard modification.
What it was like: My Chrome browser history is now littered with terms like “stock creamy keyboard” “creamy 100% keyboard” and “is modifying a mechanical keyboard hard.” I learned about the differences between hot swappable switches and those that require soldering. I learned about the differences between linear, clicky, and tactile switches. I learned about the reputable companies and the ones that were, well, less so.
After weeks of mulling over the overwhelming amount of options, I made my pick. I purchased:
A Keychron Q13 Pro, Alice layout (that’s that split, ergonomic kind - I’m old enough where I need to take care of those shoulders!)
An acoustic foam add-on set
Gateron Pro Milky Yellow switches.
The keyboard I purchased would come fully assembled and ready to go, but would require some adjustments before it would sound and feel like what I’d dreamed. I was nervous about biting off more than I thought I could chew, but reassured myself that I could figure it out: I’m someone who isn’t afraid of solving hard problems, I told myself.
I’d need to add the acoustic foam into the body of the keyboard and change out all of the switches. I can do this.
When my package arrived, I immediately got to work.
I plucked off a keycap and tried to remove the stock Red switches so I could replace them with the Milky Yellows I’d purchased.
No movement, even with the required tool. Hmm. I pulled harder. Nothing.
No matter, I’d get started on the other task at hand: adding the acoustic foam to muffle the sound even more.
I flipped the keyboard on its face, unscrewed the bottom plate, and peeled it off to reveal a board peppered with circuits and microchips.
I immediately became even more nervous. These chips seemed very small and very fragile. The switches felt impossibly difficult to extract and replace with the new ones I’d purchased. What if I broke something before I even had a chance to use the keyboard? Feelings of inadequacy and inexperience started to creep up: Why did I think I’d be able to do this?
I’m no stranger to those thoughts, which is unfortunately one of the many downsides of perfectionism. When faced with a challenge or experience outside of our comfort zone, it becomes so easy to feel like we’re stepping into a place where we don’t belong or shouldn’t be. It becomes far easier to stay in that cocoon, avoiding anything that might result in a making a mistake, or - even worse - failure.
What helped me move forward:
I was aware of my immediate reaction: the desire to retreat, the fear of failing, and
I had an expert in computer modification (my husband) steps away from whom I could ask for reassurance that I wasn’t breaking my keyboard.
He confirmed that I wasn’t pulling on a part too hard, or that I could temporarily remove a piece without causing permanent damage. I felt more and more emboldened that, yes, yanking that hard is sometimes needed. That gut check was all I needed. And I got to work: I added the foam, pulled off keycaps, muscled out the stock switches, added my new Milky Yellows, and replaced the keycaps.
Soon, I was done. And the keyboard is exactly how I want it to sound and feel.
What I learned: It’s never easy to try things that we’ve already decided don’t come naturally to us. I’m not a computer builder and never have been. I have no interest in tinkering generally, and while I’m fascinated with how machines work (show me an episode of How It’s Made any day), I’m glad to let the experts take the reins of doing the work.
The self-story that I had about myself - that mechanical keyboard crafting was far beyond what I’d be capable of - has a lot of layers to it. Perfectionism, fear of failure, fear of losing the money I’d spent on this keyboard and accoutrements.
But I was able to surmount that story. I was able to write a new self-story: I’m new to this but I can figure it out, and I don’t have to do it alone.
I don’t know that I’ll dive more deeply into the mechanical keyboard world than I already have; I’m not keen to start soldering chips in my condo, and I’m happy with the keyboard that I have. But you never know. Maybe I’ll want a thocky keyboard next?
