At 2 AM, all the lights in the room are off, and only the monitor glows white. Color swatches line the entire screen. A color somewhere between blue and green tones—ambiguous, indescribable. Is this the right one, or is the slightly darker one next to it better? Lily remained frozen there. There was no one to ask. The team, designer friends, people who understood the product context—none of them would be awake at 2 AM. She could throw "What do you think of this color?" onto social media, but she already knew from experience that "I think it's nice" from people who don't know the background isn't very helpful. I think anyone doing personal projects has experienced nights like this at least once. Not a code problem, but something much more nebulous—nights facing problems with no clear answer. Today, I want to write about that.
In March of this year, Lily released a landing page for a service. The main color was a muted pink she had agonized over for a long time. It wasn't perfect, but she had genuinely settled on it.
Four days after the release, she received a message from M, an acquaintance who was also a personal developer. "The design is beautiful. But pink doesn't seem like it would resonate with your target audience, does it?"
Just one comment. But that very night, Lily changed the color scheme. She removed the muted pink and switched to a neutral gray base. A mix of "maybe that's true" and "I need to fix this quickly" made her abandon the color she had spent time deciding on in just a few hours.
As for the results—nothing really changed. Inquiries didn't increase, and if anything, every time Lily opened her service, it felt somehow distant. Like it wasn't hers anymore.
It took another two weeks before she switched back to the original muted pink.
The Boundary Between "Getting Feedback" and "Losing Yourself"
M's comment wasn't malicious. I think it came from genuine care. The problem was that Lily treated that comment as an "answer."
Getting feedback is good. But in personal projects, there's only one person who completely understands the context of the service—yourself. Who the target is, what experience you're trying to deliver, why you chose that color—you're the only one who knows all of it. Outside opinions can be helpful, but they're not answers.
From that night on, Lily made a rule: "Whenever I change a design based on someone else's opinion, I always wait one day." Don't act immediately. Sleep on it, look at it again with fresh eyes, then decide. Just that made her much less susceptible to being swayed.
I think late nights suit personal project design work well. Not because she can't concentrate during the day, but because there's quietness at night.
Social media updates have stopped. There's no need to deliver anything to anyone. The calculation of "will this resonate?" fades a bit compared to daytime, and a time emerges where you can judge based solely on whether you think it's "beautiful."
It's Not Shameful When You Can't Put Your Feelings Into Words
When choosing colors, Lily often runs out of words. She has a sense that "this one feels better," but when she tries to explain it to someone, it suddenly becomes difficult.
She's not a design expert, and she hasn't formally studied color theory. But she definitely has a sense. "This blue is a bit too cold," "this green is too assertive"—these feelings are real, even if she can't put them into words.
For a while, Lily thought "judgments I can't articulate aren't trustworthy." A choice without explanation seemed the same as a vague choice. But now she thinks differently. The inability to articulate a feeling is just that the words haven't caught up yet—it's separate from the accuracy of the feeling itself.
It's okay to believe in your own "this is good" without excuses. Training that sense is part of personal development too.
The brand color of the service Lily is currently running changed 17 times between January and June of this year. I'm certain because I counted. Partway through, she realized "I changed it again," so she started recording the date and color code in a memo.
Initially it was bright coral pink. Midway through, wanting "cleanliness," she changed to white and navy, then felt "it's too plain" and switched to lavender, thought "it's too feminine" and changed to terracotta—and so on.
Each time she changed it, she thought "this is it." But in reality, each change accumulated a little more discomfort.
The Deciding Factor Was "I Don't Want to Change This Anymore"
One night in June, Lily finally realized: "If I change this again, my affection for this service will completely disappear." It was less exhaustion than recognizing a limit.
That's when she chose the current muted blue-green. She can't say it's "perfectly good." But she had both the sense that "if I keep searching, I'll break myself" and a vague determination that "I want to grow this service with this color."
For three months since then, it's stayed that color. For now, she doesn't want to change it.
Changing Many Times Isn't Failure
She doesn't think changing it 17 times was a failure now. To be precise—there were failures, but it was a necessary detour.
Which colors did she try, what impression did each give, what did she sense as "different"? Through repetition, Lily gradually came to understand the contours of her own sensibility. Because she changed it 17 times, her precision in recognizing "this isn't me" improved. It wasn't wasted time going in circles—she was drawing a map of her own preferences.
Personal project design has no grader. This is both frustrating and a relief.
In a team with professional designers, someone gives you feedback: "this is wrong," "this is good." But in personal projects, that feedback doesn't come. You're the only judge.
At first, that scared her. There was fear that "I might not notice if I'm wrong." But gradually, she noticed something else behind that fear.
A Choice You Never Consulted Anyone About Becomes Completely Yours
Lily remembers the night she chose muted pink well. It was past 1 AM, the room was quiet, and several colors were lined up on the screen. In a situation where she couldn't confirm with anyone, she decided "let's go with this."
That choice was hers alone. No one else's opinion mixed in. She wasn't pushed forward by someone's "isn't it nice?" Lily chose it with only Lily's sensibility.
A color chosen without consulting anyone continues to feel like "mine" even after release. The tactile sense of "I made this" dwells in the details of the design. And I think that sense is one of the fuels that keeps personal development going. Confidence built on others' approval crumbles with a single word from someone else. But things built on trusting your own sensibility gradually become a solid foundation.
Tonight too, someone might be alone moving a color picker in the late night. Someone might be there, slowly adjusting saturation up and down while thinking "is this color okay?"
Lily wants you to cherish that time.
The absence of someone to give you the right answer isn't weakness, I think. It's rather that you get to decide everything. Not someone else's "right answer," but you get to build it with your own sensibility.
It's okay if you can't articulate it well. It's okay to change it many times. It's okay to worry alone late at night.
That accumulation becomes your work alone. The reason Lily was able to reclaim the muted pink she almost let go of because of M's comment was because there was ultimately a choice to "trust her own sensibility."
Standing firm in a place with no right answer, and still choosing repeatedly. That repetition is what gives your work a face, Lily thinks now.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Personal developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
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Lily (@bokuwalily) — After leading a marketing organization of 50+ people as CMO, now making iOS apps and web services individually. I consult on customer acquisition, user flow design, and AI implementation/business automation.
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