I still read that DM from that day from time to time. When the notification came in, at first I thought it was some kind of error report. An unfamiliar icon, an unfamiliar name. But when I scrolled through the screen, there was a short message: "I use this all the time. If it's okay with you, I'd really appreciate it if you could add a feature like this." To be honest, what I felt first wasn't joy but rather "what do I do?" This essay is a story that began with that "what do I do?" When you're doing personal development, the moment when your app blends into someone else's daily life comes suddenly and unexpectedly. In that moment, joy, bewilderment, and a small sense of responsibility all come rushing in at once. I wanted to honestly write down and preserve that feeling.
I started making that app purely because I was struggling with something. I wanted to record the small amount of time I spent studying after work, but all the existing apps had too many features, and I'd feel exhausted every time I opened them. So I thought, why not just make one myself, and I started.
The first version was really rough. It had only the bare minimum screens, and design barely existed. But it met my standard of "as long as I can use it, that's enough," so I was satisfied with it. As I gradually improved it each night, I found myself growing attached to it without realizing it.
I released it on a whim. I only made one announcement on social media with "might as well," and the response was just a few likes and short comments from friends. I thought that was enough. Make it because you want to make it, use it because you want to use it. I wasn't thinking beyond that, and I didn't think I needed to.
I Noticed It Late at Night
That DM came on a late weeknight. I was preparing for the next day and absentmindedly looking at my smartphone when I got a notification from an unfamiliar icon. Looking at the sender's profile, it was an account living in a completely different context from me. They didn't seem to be in IT or part of the developer community—just an ordinary user.
The message was simple. They wanted me to make it easier to reset the timer. There wasn't a detailed explanation of the situation, but I could somehow sense what kind of scene was making them feel inconvenienced.
"Panic" Came Before "Joy"
To be honest, my initial feelings were complicated. Of course I felt happy. But at the same speed, anxiety ran through my head: "Is my app working properly?" "Did they run into a bug somewhere?" "How should I even respond in the first place?"
That's when I first truly felt the reality that someone was using it. There was a weight I hadn't felt on the day I pressed the publish button, and suddenly it was there. It's like my app had changed from "something like my personal diary" to "a diary that others read too."
I have no way of knowing what kind of daily life the person who made the request lives. Is it during work breaks? Before bed? During their commute? But they're definitely using it, and somewhere in their daily life, something I assembled bit by bit late at night exists.
That fact carried far more weight than I had imagined. In a good way, and in a slightly scary way too.
The Excuse of "For Myself" Disappeared
Until then, I could leave bugs unfixed for days. The excuse "it's not like anyone else is using it anyway, I can do it this weekend" had unconsciously become a get-out-of-jail-free card. But the moment I read that DM, I couldn't use that excuse anymore.
What was born in its place was a strange kind of sense of responsibility. Less like pressure, more like a natural feeling of "I need to do this right." If my app had entered someone's daily life, I didn't want to betray their trust.
At the same time, the vague "meaning of making things" that had been unclear until then became a little clearer. Being used by someone means your time and thoughts quietly blend into a stranger's daily life. It was, how do I put it, a quieter and deeper sense of emotion than I had imagined.
I Decided to Reply First
After much deliberation, I replied to that DM. I thought "thank you, I'll consider it" would be too curt, so I wrote, "Could you tell me a bit more?" I wanted them to explain what kind of situation made them want to reset, and which part of the current operation felt tedious.
Actually, this was the most nerve-wracking part. The idea that replying would "start a dialogue" felt like something really significant. But when I worked up the courage to send it, the reply that came back was very thoughtful and warm. Along with a specific explanation of "in this kind of situation, this part is tedious," there was a line that said "but overall I really like it," and that hit me in a way I can't quite describe.
I Implemented It Without Aiming for Perfection
A week later, I implemented it within my capabilities. Looking back, not aiming for perfection was the right call. I made something simple that worked first, then sent another DM. "Try it out. If it's not quite right, let me know again."
A few days later, I got a reply saying "it's much easier to use now, thank you," and I can't quite put that feeling into words. I hadn't been paid, hadn't received any special evaluation, yet I felt very fulfilled. It was less like a small sense of accomplishment and more like the feeling of "we really connected."
Since then, something in my head has shifted when I'm implementing something. Where I used to only think "is this easy for me to use?" now I naturally add the perspective of "if someone were using this, how would they feel?"
That wasn't a burden—it actually gave me direction. When I was unsure what to prioritize making, thinking "how would the person who sent me that DM use this?" often made the answer surprisingly clear. I learned for the first time that when you can see the user's face, decision-making becomes easier.
You Don't Need to Start with "For Someone Else"
But there's one thing I want to be clear about. You don't need to start out thinking "I want to help someone."
That wasn't the case for me, and I think the fact that it wasn't is partly why I was able to keep going. The motivation of "making something I want" is pure and strong. That purity can later connect with helping someone. The order can be reversed, I think now.
The feeling of "for someone else" can come later. It's enough if it catches up with you eventually. Starting with "for myself" might be what's important for continuing to make things for a long time.
To be honest, I still feel a little nervous when I open a new DM or reply. The feeling of "what if it's a bug report?" "what if they say it's hard to use?" "what if it's something I can't handle?" hasn't completely gone away.
But I'm starting to think that nervousness isn't a bad thing. Being nervous means someone is receiving it, and being received means what I made really exists.
Before that DM came, my app only existed inside me. It was in my computer, in my smartphone, and that was the end of it. But now it quietly exists somewhere in a stranger's daily life too. I don't know if that person opens the app today, but it might be there.
That alone feels like reason enough to keep creating.
Next time a request comes in, I think I'll be able to feel joy a little more honestly. Because I feel like I've gotten to the point where I can think "thank you" before "what do I do?" And then again, I'll reply, ask, and create. That repetition, I think, is what gradually nurtures my app.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Independent developer. Creating iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
