I've built the same app twice. I rebuilt the exact same thing from scratch. When I first released it, I thought it was "complete." But as I continued using it for several months, small discomforts accumulated, and one day the urge to "remake it" became irresistible. There were technical reasons, but honestly, the feeling of "I just don't like this" was stronger. This article is about what I discovered in that "second version." It's not about design—it's more about the heart. I'd be happy if anyone else creating something alone could relate to it even a little.
The Goal Became "Making It Work"
When I was building the first version, the only goal in my head was "just release it." As long as it works. If I can make it public, I win. That's what I thought.
Actually, on the day I released it, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I posted it on social media, had a few people use it, heard them say "nice," and I was satisfied.
But after using it myself for a while, small "something's off" feelings kept piling up. This screen, it's annoying to tap here every time. This flow isn't intuitive. But I was afraid to fix it, so I turned a blind eye.
The True Nature of "Being Afraid to Fix It"
I can say clearly now why I was afraid to fix it. I didn't want to "break something that was already complete." The fact of having released it became a kind of badge of honor for me, and I was reluctant to destroy that. I knew failures were accumulating, but I pretended not to see them.
Because I was desperate to complete it, I didn't have the space to think about what came after. Release became the goal, and I never imagined myself as a user continuing to use it beyond that point.
The trigger for the decision was something small. A friend asked me, "How do you use this?" and it took me 3 minutes to explain.
3 minutes. To explain something I created, it took 3 minutes.
That's when I first realized, "Oh, the structure is so broken that I can't just fix it." It wasn't about modifying parts—I felt the thinking itself was wrong.
I was scared, but I decided, "Let me build this from zero again." Not to deny my first self, but to use what became visible because I went through the first version, and create something this time.
Who Was I Building For?
While making the second version, I could see several mistakes my first self had made.
The biggest one was that "what I wanted to create" and "what I wanted to use" were misaligned from the start.
In the first version, adding features was fun. "This would be convenient too," "I want it to look like this"—I was absorbed as a creator. But looking at it as an actual user, there were too many features and I didn't know where to start. The screen was too busy, and you couldn't tell what the app was for at a glance.
"Creating" and "using" are completely different acts. My first self only thought about the former.
"I Can Fix It Later" Was a Lie
There's another painful realization.
In the first version, there were places where I thought "I can fix this later" and postponed them, but they were never actually fixed and were released as-is.
Things you put off almost certainly stay put off. I think this is a common thing in solo development, but I learned it firsthand. "Later" never comes. If it does come, it only comes in the form of "remaking it."
In the second version, I banned the phrase "fix it later" from my own vocabulary. If I felt uncertain about something now, I'd think about it right then. Just that alone completely changed how good it felt to create.
Am I Creating in a Way That Feels Good?
Setting aside technical talk, the biggest thing that changed while making the second version was my own feelings.
The first version was made under the pressure of "I have to release this." As I got closer to the end, the feeling of "I want to finish this already" grew stronger. That rush seemed to seep into every corner of the screen.
Strangely, I didn't feel rushed in the second version. The moment I chose the option to "do it over," some weird pressure disappeared. I progressed at a pace where I set no deadline and just built the parts I wanted to build each day.
The "atmosphere" of what was created was completely different. Even with the same features, the way whitespace was used, the choice of words, details had more breathing room. I think that wasn't a technological improvement—it was the difference in the mental ease of the person creating it.
I Changed the Definition of "Complete"
The goal of the first version was "all features working."
The goal of the second version became "something I want to use every day."
Just that changed the criteria completely. I stopped being afraid to reduce features, and I could delete things when I thought "I don't need this." I stopped adding unnecessary things.
When I changed the completion standard from "number of features" to "do I want to use this," it became so much easier to create. In solo development, the first user is often yourself. So whether you can use it comfortably is the most legitimate criterion, I think.
The Meaning of the First Version
When I decided to remake it, I felt a bit of self-loathing. I worked so hard, and I'm throwing it all away?
But thinking about it now, there would be no second version without the first. It's obvious, but it's really true. Because I made the first version, I understood "what felt off." Because I kept using it, the sense of "I hate this" developed.
Failure is only visible after actually trying it. There's a kind of failure that you can't see just by thinking about it. And I don't think that failure is shameful—it's "something only the person who did it can understand."
"People Who Can Make a Second Version" Are Strong
As I continue solo development, I feel that "abandoning something you've completed" is one of the most courageous choices. But I'm a little proud of myself for being able to choose it.
Remaking isn't defeat. It's digesting the first version carefully and moving to the next stage.
The sense of "I can make this again" is also proof that you've learned something.
If you have a sense of "something's off" about what you've made, that instinct is probably right.
You don't need to remake it immediately, but it's good to note that feeling. Just putting into words "what I hate about this" and "what feels wrong" will help when you take your next action.
While making the second version, I felt many times, "Because I had this note about the discomfort, this time was so much easier." I think learning from failure comes from the habit of remembering it.
What I realized from making the same thing twice is that "whether you can create comfortably" matters more than "design correctness" for continuing long-term.
No one can create something perfect on the first try. So if you can avoid being ashamed of the first version and apply it to the second, that's enough.
The fact that you keep creating is already strength. I have deep respect for people who, like me, keep creating.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Solo developer. Creating iOS apps and web services with AI as my partner.
