One morning, without being pushed by anything in particular, I suddenly opened my laptop. I didn't have a specific purpose. My fingers just naturally traced through old folders and opened a project directory that had come to a halt a few months ago. Familiar file names. Code that was only half-written. Notes on screen design that remained at "I'll do it later." The first thing that came to mind when I saw them wasn't guilt or impatience, but a strangely quiet sense of nostalgia.
For the past few months, I had been trying not to think about personal development projects. I was busy, sure, but to be honest, I was also a little hurt. Today I wanted to write about that. Not a failure diary or a confession, but simply a record of "the morning I started again."
The first thing I worked on was a small task management app.
I had been making it little by little between my day job, and I was finally at a stage where I could release it. When I showed it to a friend, they said this:
"Isn't what already exists good enough?"
I don't think there was any malice in it. Maybe they were giving me honest feedback. But at that moment, I felt something quietly wither inside me. I closed the screen, drank some coffee, and tried to think about something else. But somehow, an uncomfortable feeling remained in the center of my chest that wouldn't go away.
From there, the frequency of writing code gradually decreased. Repeating "I'm tired today" and "I'll do it all at once on the weekend," I eventually lost track of when I last touched it. Watching the GitHub grass wither away, I started thinking, "Maybe it's okay to just end it here."
I knew busyness was an excuse, even to myself
It's true that work became genuinely busy. From morning to night I was chased by other people's deadlines, and when I got home, I didn't want to think about anything anymore. Every time personal development came up in conversation, I was quietly shutting down somewhere in my heart.
But to be honest, it wasn't just that.
That phrase—"isn't what already exists good enough?"—had been sitting in the corner of my mind all along. I loved making things, but the question "is there any point in making this?" started coming first. I became afraid of the answer every time I made something. I think that was the hardest part.
That morning, I opened the folder completely by accident. I was looking for a different file and just happened to notice it.
At first, I was just looking at it with a "oh, this" kind of feeling, but as I read through it, a strange sensation welled up.
It was code I had written, yet it felt like someone else's
Have any of you experienced this?
Code I wrote a few months ago, but I couldn't immediately understand the intent. Why did I do this process here? Why did I name this variable that way? It took me a moment to decipher it, and I found myself muttering in my head, "Past me, you should have left better notes."
But at the same time, I thought, "Oh, this logic is actually pretty well written." I could see the traces of my past self thinking hard, and in those places, I felt a genuine sense of "good job." It's a little embarrassing to admire your own code, but it didn't feel bad. Rather, it felt like I was looking at my past self with a bit more respect, thinking, "This person really was thinking things through."
When I tried to write the "continuation," my hands stopped
Okay, let me write the rest. The moment I thought that, my hands stopped again.
I didn't know where to start. The context from back then had completely slipped from my mind, and I needed to first "decipher" things to resume. That turned out to be harder than I expected, and "maybe I should just give up after all" reared its head again.
But that's when I decided to stop "continuing." Instead, I chose to "start again."
This seems small, but it was actually a pretty big realization for me.
"Continuing" feels like resuming from where you stopped. You have to fill in the gap and move forward properly—there's a sense of obligation. It feels like you have to walk toward the goal your past self envisioned, following the plan. But standing in front of code I hadn't opened in months, carrying that responsibility felt harder than I expected.
"Starting again" is a bit lighter. You respect what your past self wrote, but you approach it from where you are today, tackling what you can. You're not remaking it from scratch—it's more like "today's me has entered here," quietly re-entering the space.
When I realized that difference, my shoulders relaxed a little.
I created just one small sense of accomplishment
Specifically, I added just one feature to the screen. It didn't have to be anything difficult. More like, "I wanted to add this but kept putting it off—let me try it today."
When I actually did it, it took 20 to 30 minutes. But that alone brought back the sensation of "oh, it's working again." Something changed on the screen, and it happened by my own hand. The code was alive. I could still make things. Just confirming that was enough for that morning. I didn't need grand resolutions or announcements to anyone. Nothing like that.
That same night, I looked at the personal development community I hadn't opened in a while.
Various people's posts were flowing by—"I released something," "I'm struggling because it's not working," "I decided to start from scratch again." While I had been away for months, everyone had been here, making things at their own pace, stopping and starting again. I realized that.
Reading about "things that didn't work out" gave me relief
To be honest, stories about things not working out hit harder that night than stories about success.
"I spent three months making something but it didn't resonate with anyone," "My motivation completely died and I've left it alone," "I'm pivoting again for the nth time." Reading those words, I quietly felt relief thinking, "It's not just me."
Even people who continue with personal development have periods where their hands stop, they change direction, and they still make things again. Confirming that obvious fact through the screen felt new somehow. I realized for the first time how much one person's "I'm stuck" can mean to someone else who's equally stuck. That night, I truly understood that.
I'm allowed to write about "things that didn't work out" too
After realizing that, my fear of sharing diminished a little.
I don't have to show only finished things or things that went well. Stopping midway, getting hurt and stepping back, but coming back again. That kind of real story might be what leads someone else to "start again." I understood that because I read someone's honest words that night.
I'm not trying to make this sound like a lesson.
It's just that for months I had been blaming myself for leaving the repository untouched. There was a part of me that kept thinking, "Why couldn't I keep going?" and "I should have pushed through back then," and those backward-looking feelings were stuck somewhere. But blaming myself didn't create anything. It just hurt.
That morning I opened the code, made one small feature work, and looked at the community for the first time in a while. Before I knew it, the feeling of "I want to make things again" had returned.
I think that happened not because I "continued," but because I "started again."
Those months of emptiness weren't wasted
Looking back now, I feel like the things I did, felt, and saw during that period of neglect will gradually seep into what I make going forward. I wasn't consciously putting them in, but humans absorb things just by living.
I can also take that comment—"isn't what already exists good enough?"—from back then in a slightly different light now. Maybe that's true. But even so, if I want to make something, I can make it. It doesn't have to resonate with anyone, and it doesn't have to be finished. As long as I have the desire to make something, that's reason enough. I finally came to think about it that simply.
During those months when I left the repository untouched, maybe I didn't need to blame myself. But at that time, I didn't know any other way to be.
If you have a project you're hesitant to open right now, I'd like you to peek at it without any sense of obligation. You don't have to continue, and you don't have to reread everything. Just looking at it and thinking, "Oh, I was making this," can sometimes get something moving. That's enough, I think.
For me, "starting again" was those 20 to 30 minutes that morning. No grand resolutions, no announcements to anyone—just making one small feature work. That's all.
Whatever form "starting again" takes for you. I think a morning will come when you suddenly feel like moving your hands. When it does, don't rush. You don't have to continue. Just starting again is enough.
Lily（@bokuwalily）― Personal developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI
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Lily（@bokuwalily）― After leading a marketing organization of 50 people as CMO, I now make iOS apps and web services individually. I consult on customer acquisition, user flow design, and AI implementation and business automation
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