Would it seem strange if I said I was happy to receive a bug report? A few weeks after releasing an app, one afternoon a notification arrived on my smartphone. A message from an unknown user: "The ○○ feature isn't working properly." At first, Lily froze looking at the screen. But it wasn't anger or panic—strangely, her chest felt warmly lit from within. This article is the story of how I, unable to articulate that sensation well, finally managed to organize my thoughts over several days. If you're doing personal development, you might have encountered a similar moment. Or you might encounter one in the future. I'd be happy if you'd read this.
The app Lily created was a small application for recording daily habits. It had no major features, a narrow target audience, and was born from the commonplace motivation of "I made it because I wanted to use it myself." Shortly after release, she introduced it a few times on social media, but the impressions were modest, and downloads hovered in the double digits.
Then one day, while things continued this way, a message arrived in her email. It said: "On the habit recording page, when the date changes, sometimes the previous day's data disappears." The message was politely written, and the sender had even included the steps to reproduce the issue.
The First Five Seconds
To be honest, for about the first five seconds, there was a sense of "oh no, I messed up." There was embarrassment about releasing a bug, and a bracing for the possibility of being scolded. But reading the message again, something clicked into place.
This person was using Lily's app.
Moreover, they were using it enough to notice behavior that only appears if you use it daily—the kind of thing you'd only catch by checking what happens when the date changes. It was a quiet joy, not anger or panic, but rather "oh, so someone was paying attention."
If you're doing personal development, I think you understand this feeling. You design alone, code alone, decide on design alone, release alone. You might consult with someone, but you end up bearing all the final decisions and feedback by yourself, every single day.
In Lily's case, development time was only at night after work and on weekends. Tired as she was, she'd open her screen and gradually stack up small features. It wasn't a burden because she was doing it by choice, but there was always this lingering sense of "I wonder if this is actually reaching anyone."
The Silence Without a Voice
Just because you release an app doesn't mean someone will send you feedback. The app store reviews stayed at zero at first. The analytics showed numbers moving, but there was no sense of actual people behind them. Numbers are strange that way—you can see them but feel nothing.
Before the bug report arrived, Lily was gradually getting used to that emptiness. She kept telling herself, "Well, it's enough that someone is using it," but I think she was actually a little lonely.
The bug report filled that emptiness in an instant.
Unless it was an angry message, Lily realized that a bug report is actually something very much like a gift. Someone took the time, wrote out the reproduction steps, and sent it. That must mean there's an underlying expectation of "I want this to get better." If they'd given up on it, they wouldn't report it in the first place.
The Bug Taught Me Something
There was another thing she realized. Reading the bug report, Lily understood which user behavior she hadn't anticipated. "Changing the date" is something that only happens if someone uses the app late into the night. In other words, there were people using it that way.
The bug taught her about a usage pattern she hadn't thought of during the design phase. This was information that no amount of imagination could have produced. Design documents, user interviews, persona development—none of it could match the actual behavior of real users, and for the first time, that really sank in.
Once her emotions were sorted out, Lily got to work fixing the bug. She found the cause fairly quickly. When she wrote the date-switching process, she'd forgotten to account for the case of data being saved after midnight. I'll spare the technical details, but it was a classic "I only tested during the hours I use the app" mistake.
What Mattered More Than the Fix
More than the fix itself, what Lily prioritized was the reply. She sent a short message as quickly as possible: "Thank you for the report. I plan to release a fix within a few days." Even though she didn't know exactly how long it would take, she wanted to signal "I received this" first.
The reply that came back was just one line: "Thank you, I'm looking forward to it." Just that, and yet Lily felt oddly energized the whole day. She never imagined before release that the words "I'm looking forward to it" could carry such weight.
One Thing Changed
From this experience, Lily changed one habit. She added a single line to the release notes: "Bug reports and feedback welcome here." Previously it had said something vague like "Contact us," but she changed the wording to make it easier for people to send reports. It wasn't a major change, but she thought that just putting "bug report" front and center might lower the psychological barrier.
It was a small change, but after that, a few more reports started coming in. Each time, Lily felt genuinely happy. She thought she might get used to it, but she hasn't. Every time, her chest warms up just a little.
Personal development is fundamentally lonely. Lily doesn't think that needs to change, and she doesn't think it should. There are good things about working in a team, and there are good things about working alone. You don't need to aim for something that resonates with everyone, and you don't need to pursue startup-style rapid growth. She believes there's value in continuing to make things you love at your own pace, with your own judgment.
But even in loneliness, moments of "connection" do come. The bug report was one of them. When a user says "this is broken," that's a moment when communication is happening through the product.
Expressing Gratitude in Words
What Lily continues to do now is to respond with specific words of thanks whenever she receives a bug report or feature request. She doesn't abbreviate phrases like "that helped," "I hadn't noticed that," or "so that's how you're using it." She tries to be a little more thoughtful.
Sometimes when she's busy, her replies are shorter. But she feels it's important for the person who sent the message to feel "this reached you," so she just tries to be a little more careful. It's not a calculation about whether thanks will lead to continued engagement or word-of-mouth—it's simpler than that. She's genuinely happy, so she wants to express it.
Since that day of the bug report, Lily's approach to development has shifted slightly. Before, a sense of obligation—"I must make something good"—often came first. Now, the feeling "there are people using this" comes to mind first.
The pressure hasn't disappeared entirely. But when the starting point of your motivation changes, the weight of the next step feels different. Instead of "I have to," she can now move from "I want to keep going." When she comes home tired at night and opens her screen, the thought "someone might be using this today too" becomes a small push forward.
If you're doing personal development and feeling a bit tired, wondering if what you're making is reaching anyone—I won't tell you not to fear bug reports. But if one does arrive, try looking at it from a slightly different angle. There's the most certain proof you could ask for: "there is someone using this."
Lily is still in the middle of her journey. Nothing is finished, and there's plenty she wants to fix. But today too, thinking that someone might be using it, she'll open her screen just a little.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Personal developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
