"How many people are working on this?" That's what I was asked about three months after releasing the app. A direct message came from someone who had read my release announcement posted on an indie developer community's SNS. Along with thoughtful feedback, the message contained a straightforward question: "With this many features, I thought maybe you were working as a team."
Honestly, my hands froze for a moment when replying. A mix of pride, embarrassment, and indescribable emotions washed over me all at once. When I typed "Just one person," I felt oddly afraid to hit send.
This is my story, starting from that moment. If you're doing indie development, you might encounter similar situations. If reading this makes you think "yeah, I get that," I'd be happy. That's the spirit in which I'm writing.
The question "How many people?" arrived as a compliment. But the way I received it was complicated.
I should have just been happy about it, but there was this subtle discomfort with being told "You did well for just one person." I didn't understand what that was for a while.
Later, I realized something: maybe I had been hiding the fact that "I'm doing this alone" somewhere deep down. I polished the landing page copy, obsessed over tiny UI animations, responded carefully to support inquiries. By "showing no weakness," what I'd created ended up looking "team-like."
It should have been something to be proud of, but there was this subtle discomfort with being read in the context of "it's amazing for just one person, really." Have you had a similar experience?
After getting that DM, I stopped to think about it. Why did it look that way? The answer was surprisingly simple: "because I was doing everything myself."
Design, code, user interviews, SNS posts, customer support—all of it, just me. But I approached each one trying to reach the quality level of "work with a dedicated person." I'd reference how organizations with division of labor operate, and switch my mindset as I went: "today I'm thinking as the design person," "today I'm moving as the operations person."
I also made full use of tools. I automated notifications and scheduled processes so things would run even while I was sleeping. That might have created "the impression that multiple people were working."
How automation changed the numbers
For example, I used to send welcome messages to users manually. Around the time registrations exceeded five per day, I couldn't keep up, and responses were taking an average of 2-3 days. After automating it, messages started arriving within minutes of registration.
When a user told me "I was surprised it came back so quickly," I laughed a little. I couldn't quite bring myself to say "it's automated."
But this wasn't something I did to create a "team-like" impression. I did it simply to compensate for the limits of being one person. It just happened to look "professional" as a result.
As a reality of indie development, I want to write this honestly.
One night, the data synchronization process stopped in the production environment. Three inquiries from users came in rapid succession around 1 AM. There was no one I could ask, "Hey, can you take a look at this?" I traced through the logs alone, found the cause, fixed it, and sent an apology message to all users the next morning. I did it all by myself.
Honestly, that was the moment I most thought "if only I had a team." Not in a technical sense, but maybe I just wanted someone to say "that was rough."
Why I kept going anyway
The next morning, a user who had contacted me sent back a reply: "Thank you for the quick response." That three-hour night felt rewarded, and somehow I bounced back.
I keep a record of the failure in my notebook. "Why it stopped," "how I fixed it," "what I changed to prevent it from happening again." Every time I look back at it, there's the fact: "I didn't give up that night." That's become more of a support than I expected.
The night of failure is lonely. But the record of overcoming it is something only I can accumulate. That gradually becomes my own foundation.
There was a period when I seriously considered "should I look for a co-developer?" Every time I saw someone in the community posting about recruiting collaborators, I felt a little envious.
But after thinking it through several times, I realized that "moving forward alone" was right for me at this stage. The reason is simple: I needed to be able to make decisions at my own pace and rhythm. I felt that the cost of "coordinating with someone else" would slow down development speed at this stage.
This isn't a rejection of teamwork. It's just that, considering my current stage and the nature of what I want to build, I concluded "one person is faster."
Small things I changed after making peace with it
After making peace with it, what changed was the tone in my voice when I said "just one person." Before, I'd said it somewhat apologetically, but gradually I became able to say "I'm doing it solo" matter-of-factly.
As a simple statement of fact, flatly. It's just that, but it was quite a shift for me. When the tone of your words changes, how people receive it changes, and more importantly, your own feelings change.
I'll be honest. That "slight loneliness" I felt in the moment when someone thought I was working as a team—I still can't fully put it into words.
The pride is real. But that silence after someone asks "that's amazing, you have a team?" and I answer "no, just me." I'm happy when they're surprised, but there's this awkward pause that follows.
I think the loneliness of "doing this alone" is hard to convey even when you talk about it to someone. The work isn't painful. The tools are great. But there's no one beside you to share in real-time the feeling of "things are going well right now." That lingers as a subtle weight sometimes.
I don't want to deny it or resolve it—I just wanted to acknowledge "yeah, that's a thing." That's all. Just knowing that someone somewhere in the world is continuing while carrying these feelings can make things a little easier.
If you're reading this, you might be in the middle of making something too.
If the day ever comes when someone asks "how many people are working on this?" I hope you'll say with pride, "just me." It looks team-like because you've been so careful in your creation. It's not deception or performance—it's just what your accumulated work looks like.
That complex mix of pride, embarrassment, and a little loneliness is probably something only indie developers understand. That's why I wanted to write about it honestly here.
"Making peace with being alone" and "convincing yourself that being alone is enough" are completely different things. The former is a direction you chose; the latter is giving up. As long as you're choosing, there's a future ahead.
The day will come when someone thinks what you're making is "amazing." When that day comes, be someone who can say "just me."
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Indie developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
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Lily (@bokuwalily) — Indie developer / AI adoption and business automation consultant. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI while consulting with companies on AI adoption and automation.
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