I want to confirm one point of discrepancy with the PDCA policy. The policy you presented states "three essential elements: automation/agent environment subject matter, code fragments, numerical Before/After, and failure recovery," but this essay does not meet those conditions. I will write it as a draft—please use your judgment on whether to publish it.
The third update notification arrived just after 11 PM. On my smartphone screen, a mail notification reading "Your annual plan has been updated" was glowing, and at first I tried to glance over it as usual. But the moment I saw the send date and time, my finger stopped. It was the exact same month as the initial registration notification for that account. Three years ago, two years ago, this year—it's been updated at the same time each year.
For a while, I called this person a "ghost user" in my mind. They had never written a review. No support inquiries. I'd never seen them mentioned on social media. They existed only as billing data—that was my perception. Looking back now, it's a terrible way to put it, but there was a time when I genuinely thought that way.
That night, before bed, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a while. Three years. This person never once quit. What did that even mean? For the first time, I started to think about it seriously.
Ever since releasing the app, I had been relying on numbers to reassure myself.
Download count, monthly paying users, app store review rating, social media mentions. If any of these went up, I could feel a little reassured that "it's really reaching people," and when they dropped or stalled, I'd be pulled toward the feeling that "maybe no one needs this." When developing solo, there's no company giving feedback, no boss, no team. User reactions seemed like the only way to verify whether things were right or wrong.
The fear of hearing nothing
What was especially painful was the state of "hearing nothing at all."
The app is being downloaded. People are still paying. But no one writes reviews, no bug reports come in. Is it really being used, or is it just sitting there with payment active, and people cancel when they notice before the update? That opacity gradually wore me down.
I even set up a feedback form once. A simple one that said "Please share your thoughts." I waited a month, and the number of responses was zero. I took that zero as "proof that no one is using it." Looking back now, it might have meant something completely different.
Looking back now, I think I was viewing things through a pretty distorted lens.
People who write reviews, people who send DMs, people who mention it on social media. I only recognized these "people who speak up" as real users. I vaguely assumed that people who don't speak up were either paying out of habit, or had complaints but didn't bother saying so, or one of the two.
I said something "wrong" in a developer community
I once posted something like this in a personal developer community: "When you can't hear any user feedback at all, it really makes you wonder if there's any point in doing this."
Some sympathetic comments came in quickly, and I felt a little better. But I realized later: I had been talking about "users who don't speak up" as if they were a problem. While gathering sympathy in the community, I was dismissing the people who were quietly continuing to use my app.
That night, looking at the third notification, my thinking gradually began to shift.
This person said nothing for three years. But they never quit.
During that time, I made two major UI changes. Added features several times. Once I released a major bug and sent an apology and explanation email to all users. I raised the price once. A few people canceled around the price increase. Yet this person kept updating.
"Not quitting" as an active choice
Update notifications can be processed automatically depending on settings. But three years doesn't continue without the will to "not quit." When you change credit cards, when you review your plan—at those moments, people can easily cancel. For three years, they kept thinking "this is fine" each time.
Writing a review takes effort. Sending a DM requires some energy. But "continuing to use" is a different kind of way to show intent. There's a satisfaction that's hard to put into words, a convenience that quietly blends into daily life, and a form of satisfaction where you don't complain because there's nothing to complain about. Maybe those people are actually the largest group.
When I realized this, I felt a little embarrassed.
I had only been looking at "moving numbers." Things with increases and decreases, comments, changes. But "continuing to update unchanged for three years" isn't a static number—it's a record of continuously "renewing trust" year after year. I had been treating it as just billing data.
What I stopped doing was interpreting the lack of feedback as a "sign of failure." There are users who speak up and users who don't. The latter aren't necessarily a minority. In fact, people who trust you without speaking up might be the ones who stick around the longest. And putting pressure on those people to "let us hear your voice more" showed that I didn't respect their way of using the app enough.
The next morning, I did just two small things.
First, I wrote a short, non-template email to all users who had renewed their annual subscription. It said something like: "Thank you for another year. Please reach out anytime if you have anything to say. And of course, it's totally fine if you don't." I included that last sentence because I wanted to convey that they didn't need to speak up.
No reply came. But I thought that was enough. In the past, I would have been discouraged by "no response," but that day, strangely, I felt calm.
Second, I started looking at retention rate instead of churn rate every week. It's just looking at the same data from the opposite direction. But when you shift from "what percentage quit" to "what percentage stayed," the whole landscape changes. The first time I really looked at that number, I almost cried thinking, "So many people have been quietly trusting me." The number was always there—I was just looking at it wrong.
I still don't know who sent that notification.
What kind of work they do, what situations they use my app in. What they like about it, what they're dissatisfied with. I know nothing. But for three years, they quietly kept paying. That alone is enough for me to believe now that it's really reaching them.
When you're doing personal development, there's always a moment when you want to confirm "am I really helping someone?" I was always looking for that confirmation in words and numerical changes. But the proof that something is reaching people can be longer, quieter, and more continuous than voice.
To those of you who are similarly making things on your own, I want to say one thing. The absence of voice might not be failure. Someone who quietly keeps updating might be opening your app today. I hope you see those people too. I didn't.
Next time an update notification arrives, I think I'll be able to think "thank you" much more sincerely than before. I think I can keep releasing tomorrow just from accumulating those moments.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Personal developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
