Around 2 AM, there are moments when I find myself thinking something. "If I quietly deleted this app tomorrow—would anyone notice?" It's a frightening question. But once it crosses your mind, it doesn't easily fade away. Staring at the screen, I found myself facing that question for a surprisingly long time. When you're doing solo development, don't you have nights like this? Creating alone, releasing alone, watching the numbers alone—and as you do, a feeling gradually wells up: "Is this actually reaching anyone?" This is a story from one of those nights. I'll write as honestly as I can, including some embarrassing failures.
It was autumn last year. A few months had passed since release, around the time the initial momentum was settling down. Active user numbers were flat, and there hadn't been new feedback for a while. There wasn't anything particularly wrong, but there wasn't anything particularly exciting either—it was one of those quiet plateau periods.
One night, I had the admin panel open and found my hand reaching toward the back of the settings for no particular reason. When the word "Delete" entered my field of vision, I suddenly thought:
What would happen if I pressed it?
I was too scared to press it, but my finger stayed frozen as I kept turning that question over in my mind. Would someone think "Oh, this doesn't work anymore"? Or would it quietly disappear without anyone noticing?
To be honest, I thought "probably no one would notice"
If I'm being honest about what I was thinking that night, the answer was "probably no one would notice." There are monthly active users. But I didn't know if they were people who would actually be troubled if this app disappeared. The numbers were just numbers—I couldn't quite grasp the reality that there were actual lives behind them.
It was a sad night. I didn't have the sense that what I'd created had entered someone's daily life. And that scared me.
I think individual development is an environment where sparse feedback is the norm. If it's a corporate service, there's a dedicated team and systems in place to gather user voices. But as an individual, users tend to either quietly keep using it or quietly leave—often without even finding a contact method.
The structure makes it hard for voices to reach you. So you can't tell if you're reaching people. I don't think this is because my app is weak—I think it's a kind of inherent quietness that comes with the form of individual development itself.
When You Only Look at Numbers, the Sense of Impact Dries Up
Dashboard numbers—DAU, MAU, retention rate. These matter. But when you stare at numbers every day, at some point "people" disappear from view. Not the churn rate as a percentage, but the actual moment when someone used the app and the feeling they had when they closed it. When you can't see that outline, the sense of impact as a creator gradually thins out.
I think what I was really scared of that night was this: not the fear of deleting the app, but the fear that came from not having the sense that "no one might notice if I deleted it."
I Was Comparing Myself
To be completely honest, during that period I was often looking at other people's development diaries and number reports. Reports of growing downloads, posts that went viral on social media, glowing comments—every time I saw them, I compared them to my own quiet situation.
Comparing is natural, I think. But when you use other people's "excitement" as your standard, your own "quietness" starts to look more and more like a deficiency. I think that was at the root of my anxiety that night.
Some time after that night, I decided to change my approach slightly. I would actively look for "proof that it's actually reaching people." Nothing grandiose—really small things.
The Weight of One DM
First, I started adding a line to my release notes. Something like "I made this feature with this intention in mind. If you try it, I'd love to hear what you think." Just one line.
Then, after a while, I got a DM from someone. It was short: "I use this feature every day." Just that. But that one sentence hit me harder than I expected.
The word "every day." The fact that this app had entered someone's routine—whether it was morning, night, or afternoon. The "life" that was completely invisible in the numbers was compressed into that short sentence. It wasn't so much happiness as it was the feeling of finally "seeing a person."
"Continuing to Use It" Over Stars
I also realized something else: "continuing to use it" affects me more than "star counts or review numbers."
Rather than becoming a big topic and gaining a surge of new users, having one user who's been using it for the past three months—that's what gives me the sense of "actually reaching people." It might be obvious, but when you're chasing numbers, it's surprisingly easy to forget.
I started receiving the retention rate not as a "number" but as the fact that "this person opened the app again today." Just that shift changed something.
I Changed How I Looked at Things
There was one more thing I tried during this period. Once a week, instead of checking user growth or decline, I set aside time to check only "how many people have continued using it since last month."
Not whether it's growing, but whether it's persisting. When I look at that, I don't get the flashiness, but I do get the sense that "there are people who are actually here." It's a mundane habit, but I think this was a big part of why questions like that night stopped coming up.
As for how I answer that question now—I think "probably a few people would notice."
Not a definitive answer, but "probably." I don't think I'm having a huge impact on everyone. But there are probably a few people whose daily routines have quietly incorporated this app. If it disappeared, they'd think "Huh?" That's enough for me now.
The Sense of Impact Isn't Something You "Receive"—It's About How You "Receive It"
One thing I was mistaken about was thinking that the sense of impact was something "users give you." I thought if feedback came, I'd feel it; if reviews appeared, I'd feel it.
But I realized it's also about how I receive it. Whether I process the fact that someone opens it every day as "XX% retention rate" or as "this person came here again today." The same data carries completely different weight.
There's a kind of muscle for receiving, and it doesn't develop unless you're conscious about it. Since that night, I've been trying to build that muscle little by little.
"Reaching People" Is Already Happening
I realized something else: from the moment the app is released, reaching people is already happening. No voice comes back, but someone's eyes have already touched it, someone has already tried it, someone is already using it.
The reason I couldn't feel it wasn't because it wasn't reaching people—it was because I didn't have the systems or habits to receive "proof that it reached people." After reframing it that way, I felt a little lighter.
That night's "what if I deleted it?" was a frightening question. But thinking about it now, I think it was also a very honest one.
It exposed everything—where my anxieties lay, what I was seeking, what I felt was missing. By facing it without running away, I was able to sort out a little of "the true nature of the sense of reaching people."
The answer wasn't "getting big reactions" or "being used by lots of people." It was "becoming part of someone's life"—that was the true nature of the sense of impact I was seeking. It's small, but it's real.
Individual development isn't flashy. No press releases, no ads, no press conferences. Quietly release, quietly improve, quietly be used. That "quietly" sometimes feels lonely.
But now I think "quietly" doesn't necessarily mean "not reaching anyone." The voice doesn't have to be loud. Having one person who uses it every day is small, but it's something very real.
That night's question still doesn't have a complete answer. But my finger doesn't stop anymore. It's not so much that I have one fewer reason to delete it—it's that I have one more reason to keep creating.
Tomorrow, someone somewhere might open the app. Believing in that "might," I'll keep quietly stacking improvements. If this reaches you, someone staring at a screen in the middle of the night, I'd be happy.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Individual developer. Creating iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
