Around midnight, when there was supposedly just a little time left before releasing the app I was working on, I opened the code and a completely different idea popped into my head. "I could probably make a habit tracker," I thought. What I was working on at the time was a task management app. I'd been implementing it bit by bit for nearly half a year, and the basic features were mostly complete. All that was left was to polish the UI and put it on the app store—or so I kept telling myself. But before I knew it, I was creating a folder for a new project. This essay is about that night. Or rather, about how that night has repeated itself many times, and I'm finally trying to face it head-on. It's about my own way of "making things"—carrying guilt, unstoppable excitement, and excuses for myself, all while continuing to move my hands.
There's a unique sensation to the moment when a new idea comes to you. A kind of lightness, you could say. It feels completely different from the "heaviness" of touching an app that's still in progress.
That task management app had so many loose ends. The notification logic was complex, and every time I fixed it, something else would break. I'd redesigned it many times, but the feeling of "this isn't it" never went away. Every time I opened the code, I'd let out a small sigh.
Then the "habit tracker" idea came. A simple mechanism, something I'd want to use myself. The sketch expanded in my head, and even as I tried to stop myself with "but right now...," my hands were already moving.
The next morning, there was one new folder, and the window for the old project was closed.
The problem started the next day.
When I opened Xcode, the old app was still there in my project list. Every time I saw the filename, I wanted to look away. I thought "I'll come back to it someday," but it felt like "someday" would never come.
When you do personal development, do you understand that feeling of unfinished projects piling up? Open your GitHub repository list and there are projects where commits have stopped. All of them are "in progress," and there's not a single completed one—when I was in that state, I really couldn't trust myself anymore.
"Maybe I'm someone who can't keep going," I thought. "Maybe I don't even want to finish things in the first place."
Blame Kept Me Frozen
Oddly enough, the more I blamed myself, the more my hands stopped moving. Maybe I was trying to create evidence that I was "reflecting" by continuing to blame myself. I felt guilty about moving toward new projects, but I didn't have the energy to go back to the old ones either. All that increased was the time I spent aimlessly scrolling through social media.
Blaming yourself is not a substitute for making things. It's obvious, but it took me a long time to realize it.
I wasn't really facing the question "Why do I start making something else halfway through?"
My First Excuses Were Thin
"The new idea has more market potential." "That app had weak design to begin with." "It would be better to remake it with my current skill level."—I could come up with excuses like that endlessly. The more rational they sounded, the more I doubted them myself.
But as I piled on the excuses, some "real truths" started to mix in.
I Gradually Became More Honest
"I wasn't having fun making that app anymore."
It took me about half a year to admit this to myself. I thought the feeling of "not having fun" was self-indulgence. A professional would finish it. If I couldn't keep going, my willpower was weak. With that kind of thinking in my head, I was suppressing the honest feeling of "not having fun."
But the truth was, that task management app was never something "I wanted to use" from the start. It was something I started because "there seemed to be demand" and "someone might use it if I made it." I think as I worked on it, that gradually became painful.
"Not having fun" might not have been a reason to quit—it might have been a sign.
After repeating this a few times, I noticed a pattern in myself.
When I jump at a new idea, I usually have a concrete "reason to make it." I feel inconvenienced, I want this kind of experience, I want someone to use it—there's a small motivation first, and then the shape of the app becomes visible to match it.
On the other hand, projects that lose momentum halfway through often seem to have had thin "reality of motivation" from the start. Things I started just because "I could make it" or "there seems to be demand." That's not necessarily bad, but I think I lack something inside me that lets me push through when I hit a wall.
The Impulse Was Information
Maybe that impulse to "jump at it again" was actually an honest signal saying "this is what I really want to make."
That doesn't mean I should follow every impulse. But I decided to stop blaming the impulse as "weak willpower." I started pausing before jumping in and writing down "why do I want to make this?" in a memo. Just that much made it possible to see whether the impulse was "real or not."
There are still several apps sleeping unfinished in repositories.
I realized that whether to call that "failure" or "reference material" is up to me.
Design Notes Left in a Tab
I found design notes from an app I'd stopped halfway through left in a Notion tab. When I opened it for the first time in half a year, the implementation that seemed too difficult back then seemed like something I could do normally now. The architecture sketch, when I looked at it now, wasn't bad at all.
By stopping partway through, my "resolution" of that project had actually increased. By stepping back, I could see it objectively, and I'd come to understand "this was the problem."
Not every project works out that way. But at least I can say that abandonment ≠ waste. It's a bit too clean to say "that time led to where I am now," but that time definitely existed and left something behind.
I'm probably not the type to carefully complete one thing.
It was a bit embarrassing to admit that. When I read articles from people doing personal development, I often see phrases like "finishing is what matters" and "it doesn't mean anything if you don't release it." I really think that's true. But when I applied it to myself, there was a period when aiming to be "someone who finishes" actually made my hands stop.
The time I spent moving toward a new idea while making something was more progress for me than the time I spent frozen in guilt in front of an unfinished app. At least my skills were growing. My interest in making things continued.
Of course, the importance of finishing hasn't changed. But rather than using up all my energy in self-hatred over not being able to finish, I'd rather choose to keep making things tonight too.
I Switched to Releasing Small
After changing my mindset, I consciously started "releasing small." Instead of waiting until all features are complete, I release as soon as one feature works.
The first version was really minimal, embarrassingly simple. But that was the decisive difference from the apps I'd left behind, and "existing" turned out to have more meaning than I'd thought.
While writing this essay, my notes for new ideas keep growing.
Last night, I had a moment where I thought "it would be convenient if there was an app like this," and I wrote it down in Notion before bed. Even though the app I'm working on now is still unfinished. I thought "here we go again," but I didn't want to lose that moment's sensation.
I think there will be nights ahead when unfinished projects pile up. Nights when I jump at new ideas, feel guilty, and keep making things anyway.
But I can accept a little now that this is my "way of making." It's not a perfect process, but it's real for me, and there are things I can only make by moving this way.
If this essay reaches someone who feels "I've started making something else again," I'd be happy. I can't tell you to let go of the guilt, but I think there's real meaning in continuing to move your hands while carrying it.
Tonight, something is about to start again.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Personal developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
