"What kind of work do you do?" That single question was surprisingly difficult for me. It's a perfectly normal question that comes up naturally in conversation. But every time Lily heard it, she would always hold her breath just a little. Not an office worker. Not a freelancer. And yet, not someone who could confidently say "I'm an independent developer" with any real track record to back it up. The reality was simply that she spent her days quietly, steadily building smartphone apps all by herself. Yet when it came time to put that into words, something would catch in her throat. This article is about a small inner journey—the path to finally being able to say clearly "who I am." If it reaches someone who has felt a similar catch in their throat, I'd be happy.
"IT-related work"—a convenient fog
One winter, I attended a fairly large gathering through a friend's introduction. It was all people I'd never met before, and as we sat around a table introducing ourselves in turn, the conversation came around to "What kind of work do you do?"
What came out of Lily's mouth was: "IT-related work."
It wasn't a lie. But it wasn't the whole truth either.
The phrase "IT-related work" has a strange power. It's hard to dig deeper into it. People get a vague sense of understanding, and the conversation smoothly moves on to the next topic. That night, I managed to get through with it. But on the train ride home, alone with my thoughts, I kept turning that phrase over and over in my mind. Why couldn't I have just said "I make apps"?
"How many people are using it?" scared me
The reason I couldn't say it was because I was afraid of the chain of questions that would follow.
If I said "I make apps," the next question would be "What kind of app?" Answer that, and it would continue with "Where can I download it?" And once the conversation had progressed to a certain point, there was almost always one question that would come up:
"How many people are using it?"
At that time, Lily's app had maybe dozens of users, if that. Almost no revenue. When that question came in a situation like that, I just wanted to disappear. The more honest the words "I make apps" were, the smaller the numbers that followed, the more miserable I felt.
So I didn't say it from the start. I hid in the fog of "IT-related work." That way, I wouldn't get hurt.
For a while, Lily learned a slightly more honest way of putting it: "I make apps as a hobby."
When you put the word "hobby" at the beginning, strangely, it becomes easier. If it's a hobby, it doesn't have to be good. If it's a hobby, it doesn't have to make money. If it's a hobby, it's not embarrassing if there are few users. That one word becomes a cushion, allowing me to land on "Well, it's just a hobby" no matter what question comes up.
But one day, I suddenly realized something. Was making apps really just a "hobby" for Lily?
The first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning is the app. During work breaks, on the train, in the bath—I'm constantly thinking "What should I do with this feature?" or "If I changed that screen's text this way, would it communicate better?" When feedback arrives from a user, I check it even in the middle of the night because I'm curious. Clearly, this wasn't the intensity of a hobby.
It felt like the word "hobby" was covering something up, making that seriousness seem a little thinner. The excuse I'd prepared to avoid getting hurt was making something I cared about look small—by my own hand. When I realized that, I felt a little sad.
"What? That's amazing!"
The turning point came suddenly. But it wasn't a dramatic scene.
I was talking with someone I knew at a nearby café, and the conversation turned to work. For some reason, the word "hobby" didn't come out that time. The cushion I usually reflexively added was gone before it could reach my lips.
"I make apps."
I regretted it the moment I said it. Here comes the next question. I'll have to explain again. Here comes the time to shrink back. I braced myself—and then the other person's face brightened a little, and they said:
"What? That's amazing! What kind of app?"
Their eyes were genuinely interested. Not holding back a laugh, not pitying me—just purely wanting to know.
From there, the words came naturally
From that point on, words came out in the most surprising way. Why I felt a certain problem and started making the app. The days I got stuck on the design and how hard it was. That quiet week after I first released it, when no one downloaded it. And then that moment when the first review came in—that trembling joy.
It all became words, properly.
When they said "Not many people make things by themselves like that. I think it's amazing," I felt something small inside my chest make a sound, even as I blushed. It wasn't just that I was happy to be recognized—it was more like I felt myself stop making excuses to myself.
The walk home that day was a little different.
Just by saying the words "I make apps," my feelings changed so much. It wasn't just that someone had recognized me and I was happy—something inside me had quietly shifted.
Naming yourself comes first; achievements follow
Lily had always thought "I'll say it once I'm more established." Once I have more users. Once I'm making revenue. Once I've built up achievements I can actually tell people about—then I'll be able to say it proudly.
But in reality, it's the opposite. Words often come first, and reality chases after them.
By saying "I make apps," something inside me switched. The recognition that "this person is someone who makes things" formed not just in the other person's mind, but in my own. And that gradually influences my daily actions and habits. The way I approach things changed just a little bit before and after saying those words. It's like—I wanted to live up to the person who said "I make apps."
I think embarrassment is normal
That said, I still feel embarrassed sometimes.
After saying "I make apps," if someone asks "So how many people are using it?" my stomach still tightens. There are moments when my voice gets smaller and I say "Not that many yet…" I sometimes wish I could say a bigger number.
But I've come to think that's okay. Embarrassment is also proof that you're taking something seriously. If you didn't care about something, you wouldn't feel embarrassed. The desire to hide something that isn't going well is because it matters to you.
When you continue with personal development, you sometimes lose track of where "completion" is.
Even after release, fixes continue. Add a feature, and new problems appear. Users increase, and then comes the anxiety about when they'll stop increasing. It's an endless middle.
What Lily thinks is that maybe being a maker is like that. Not becoming someone who "finished making" but staying someone who "keeps making." "I make apps" is present tense. Not finished—still making. That's starting to feel right to me.
Words nurture you
You don't need credentials, achievements, or certifications. The words "I make apps" are something you can use starting today.
What Lily realized is that by continuing to use those words, your sense of identity gradually grows inside you. Words that felt borrowed at first become your own each time you use them. The embarrassment of calling yourself a "maker" slowly transforms into pride. I think that accumulation of time is what builds you as an independent developer.
Among those reading this article, there may be people like Lily who still can't quite say "I make things."
No achievements. No revenue. Haven't even released yet. Single-digit users. Even at that stage, you are "someone who makes things."
If you spend time thinking about making something. If you're drawing blueprints in your head. If you've thought over and over "It would be great if something like this existed." Then you're already making it, Lily believes.
The words "I make apps" aren't a report of achievements—they're a declaration of where you stand.
When someone asks you, I hope you'll try being just a little more honest today. Take away the word "hobby" and simply say "I make things."
The other person's reaction will probably be warmer than you expect. Lily felt that way. And more than anything, you'll feel something small being born inside you. Something very quiet, but very real.
What you're making today is worth putting into words.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Independent developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
