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Cancellation requests arrive in a staff chat with the customer's signed paperwork attached — except the link was usually dead by the time anyone clicked it. I replaced it with one that never expires and still can't be guessed.
Customers had to check three different places to find out what happened to their requests, and most gave up and phoned the call centre instead. I merged them into a single list where every request looks the same and shows exactly which step it is on.
In Uzbekistan, Telegram is where people already are all day, so asking them to open a browser and log in somewhere else costs real customers. I put the whole insurance site inside the chat window instead.
When a request failed, our customer area would show a developer's error text, a spinner that never stopped, or an empty page that looked like the customer had no policies at all. I replaced all of it with one honest answer.
A policy isn't really sold when the customer pays — it's sold minutes later, when it's actually issued, long after the browser has closed. Our marketing numbers never saw that step, so I built the part that reports it back.
The cabinet's "My family" form was four fields long and had a problem in every layer: you could add yourself as your own relative, it demanded an ID nobody remembers, impossible dates crashed it, errors ignored your language, the dropdown wouldn't close, and backspace didn't delete. This is the whole repair — backend rules, state-service integration, and frontend polish — of one deceptively simple form.
On a fast connection, the site opened as a gray void for seconds, then images crawled in one by one. The fixes turned out to be small. The work was proving why every slow thing existed —because each one, it turned out, was somebody's earlier fix.
Booking a doctor on a corporate medical policy meant messaging a Telegram bot. I moved that into the cabinet — a five-step form that reaches the operators' group in seconds. The interesting part was deciding how little the browser is allowed to say.
People who cancelled a policy through the website kept seeing it listed as active, because the national registry doesn't reliably report cancellations. I fixed the status at its source, and made every new cancellation announce itself to the office in Telegram the moment it is submitted.
Corporate health cover belongs to the employer, not the employee, so it never showed up in anyone's personal account. I built the missing link: your card, your remaining limit and every visit you've claimed, sitting alongside the rest of your policies.
Corporate medical insurance existed in people's accounts as a name and nothing else. I built the endpoint behind it and wired the cabinet to it, so the page now answers the questions people actually have: what's covered, how much has been spent, and what happens next.
Signing in to the cabinet meant a biometric face scan — and three hours later you had to do it again. The session length wasn't the bug; the missing half was renewal. Now the site quietly renews itself for fifteen days, and the hardest part was making sure it never renews twice at once.
We retired the registration form on an insurance site - now your first face scan simply creates your account. Then a real user got locked out by an account they made back in 2023, and the fix taught me more than the feature did.
Our insurance site logs people in with a face scan through MyID, Uzbekistan's national ID system. A face proves who you are - but not how to reach you. I rebuilt the login so that every sign-in also checks whether the phone number on the account is still real.
A three-day sprint on the gross.uz personal cabinet: switching it to a single trustworthy data source, finding policies users didn't know they had, and polishing the interface until it feels like an app instead of a website.