Around 1 AM, while working on something else, my eyes suddenly stopped on a terminal screen that had been left open. There was no particular reason. It was just that a personal development repository I had barely touched for over half a year suddenly caught my attention. I wasn't planning to fix code or investigate anything. I simply opened the directory with the feeling of peeking into a nostalgic place. When I typed git log and gazed blankly at the stream of commits flowing out, my hands suddenly stopped. No matter how much I scrolled, it wouldn't end. When I counted properly, there were 847 commits in total. Without even realizing it, I had accumulated this much. When I traced back to the very beginning, the oldest commit appeared at the bottom of the screen.
The commit message was just one line: "initial commit." The date was more than a year and a half ago.
When I thought "Ah, that day," I remembered that night with surprising clarity. The feeling of committing with a "here goes nothing" attitude before bed, being strangely nervous even though no one was watching, and quietly closing the screen. At that time, Lily was definitely filled with the feeling of "I want to make this."
To myself on the day I started writing
To be honest, what went into that first commit was truly simple. Looking back now, the variable names were a mess, and it was written in a "as long as it works" kind of way—something embarrassing to show to anyone. All that was displayed on the screen was plain text and one button. There was almost no design to speak of.
But at the same time, I remember that I was incredibly excited back then. I would scribble the completed vision of features on paper over and over, imagining "how convenient this would be" and "I'd be so happy if someone used it," and it was so much fun to think about before bed.
Comparing it to the app now, it has taken quite a different form from what I originally envisioned. Some features have disappeared, and features I never imagined have been added. But the one line that remained in my notes from back then—"I want to reduce small stresses for someone"—hasn't wavered even now.
Actually, there was a trigger for that night when I traced back through the old history.
Just a few days before, in an online community chat that Lily regularly follows, a member had quietly posted this: "I deleted the repository for a project I'd been working on for 2 years. Time just passed without it being completed, and I thought it was shameful."
When I read that sentence, Lily's chest tightened. Even though I'd never met this person, the word "I understand" came out before "what a waste." Because I'd been carrying a similar feeling all along, yet couldn't bring myself to delete it.
The guilt of "not completing"
When you're doing personal development, the feeling of "holding onto something that isn't finished yet" can become a quiet, heavy weight.
Even though no one asked you to do it and there's no deadline, somehow a sense of guilt about "myself who hasn't finished yet" quietly accumulates. Lily hated this so much that there was a period of nearly half a year when I barely opened the repository.
But seeing that member's comment, Lily suddenly thought: if I delete it, I can never go back to that "initial commit" night. No matter how awkward it is, as long as it remains, it means "it's continuing." Thinking that way, I suddenly wanted to open my own repository again for the first time in a while.
I skimmed through several commits from the 847.
Partway through, there were 3 commits that said "completely rebuilt." The first was after a feature I'd worked hard on barely worked, and I spent an entire weekend rewriting it. The second was when I wanted to change direction and threw away the entire screen structure. The third was when I got lost about what I was trying to make and redesigned everything from scratch.
Redoing wasn't a step backward
At the time, I only felt like "I'm back to square one." There were honestly nights when I wanted to give up.
But when I looked back at the commit dates in order, I could see that the app was becoming a little more refined with each rebuild. After the first rebuild, when I simplified and narrowed down the features, it became easier for me to use. After the second, it became something I could use every day. After the third, when I posted it on SNS for the first time, I received a comment from a stranger saying "This is nice."
The "failures" I thought were rebuilds turned out to be stepping stones to the next step. What wasn't visible in real time became a proper narrative when I looked back after time had passed.
Instead of lamenting "why was the first commit so pathetic," Lily has recently started thinking this way: "The Lily back then made the right choice."
Back then, I was afraid of showing something unfinished to someone. The feeling of "it's still nowhere near done" and "I should wait until it's more complete" came first, and I kept putting off making it public. But in reality, just having something working in my hands became the fuel to keep going.
There's no such thing as a perfect starting point
At one point, in a different thread in the same community, someone who had been doing personal development for 10 years wrote: "If I looked at my first code now, I'd be embarrassed at how terrible it was, but that's why I'm here now." The phrase "If I'd aimed for perfection at that stage, I wouldn't have been able to start in the first place" stuck with me for some reason.
I think Lily is the same. The reason the first commit was simple wasn't just because my skills were lacking—it was also because I "took a step forward even though it wasn't perfect." If I'd waited for a perfect design to come together, I probably still wouldn't have started by now.
"Starting small" sounds like a gentle phrase, but it actually takes quite a bit of courage. Breaking through the state of being stuck saying "not yet, not yet" and taking that first awkward step. When I realized that the Lily of that night had done that, I genuinely thought to my past self, "You did well."
After that night, Lily changed one thing.
Until then, I only committed when I had made a fairly substantial change, and I only thought about publishing at those times. But the comment from that member about "deleting because it never got completed" wouldn't leave my head, so I decided to change my approach. No matter how small, commit something once a week. Stop waiting for completion.
It was like switching from "release when it's perfect" to "prove to myself that it's continuing."
The line is properly extending forward
About 3 months have passed since then. The number of commits is slowly increasing. The features are still nothing that would surprise anyone. But it's certain that the line has continued unbroken from that "initial commit" that night to today.
When you're doing personal development, sometimes you feel "what's the point of making something like this?" Lily still feels that sometimes. But when I open git log and visually confirm that it's continued from that first day to today, strangely, I feel calm.
The you who made that first commit was trying to create something. I think you were already doing something incredibly worthwhile just by doing that.
It doesn't have to be finished. It's okay to rebuild partway through. It's okay to have periods where you don't touch it. As long as the history remains, your "continuing" doesn't disappear.
Why not peek at git log again tonight? Your first commit is surely waiting for you there.
Lily（@bokuwalily）― Personal developer. Creating 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, I now create iOS apps and web services individually. I consult on customer acquisition, user flow design, and AI implementation and business automation.
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