I still remember the day I released it vividly. I published an app I'd spent over a month creating, and opened the analytics screen with a pounding heart. The numbers were zero. Zero the next day. Zero a week later.
"Well, I suppose it can't be helped," I told myself, but honestly, I was hurt somewhere deep down. I felt like something would change if someone used it, and checking analytics every morning became a habit. Each time I checked, I saw zero, and my spirits gradually wilted. That was a quiet form of exhaustion.
This article is about a small incident that happened after that period. The day a "stranger's" session appeared in analytics for the first time. The feelings I had in that moment, and how that experience changed the roots of how I create—I want to talk honestly about this with everyone doing personal development like me.
The Morning After Release
I published the app right around midnight. I pressed the button with a flourish, trembled while taking a screenshot of the store page, and quietly celebrated alone. My page existed on the web. Just that fact alone made me satisfied that night.
But the next morning, reality arrived quietly.
When I opened the analytics dashboard, the session count was 0. Downloads were 0. Users were 0. All zeros lined up. My head understood "of course, I haven't told anyone about it," but something still caught in my chest.
The Habit of Seeing Zero Every Morning
During the first week, I thought "it's just been released, after all." In the second week, I thought "if I promote it on SNS, things will change." By the third week, I couldn't think anything anymore.
Every morning I'd open analytics, confirm the zero, and close it. This repetition quietly wore away at my motivation. I had loved creating itself, but I think this was the first time I seriously confronted the difficulty of "delivering what I made to someone."
"Since I made it for myself, it's fine if only I use it"—by telling myself this, I somehow maintained my emotional balance. But if I'm being honest, I wasn't truly satisfied with just that.
About three weeks after release, one morning came. I opened analytics as usual. I was about to close it after confirming zero—when the numbers were different.
The session count had become 1.
I thought, and looked at the screen twice. It wasn't from my device. A different OS version, a session from a different region. Clearly, it was someone other than me.
For a while, I just stared at the screen.
What I Felt in That Moment
To be honest: the first thing I felt was surprise. Then, gradually, the realization that "someone came" spread through me. Just one person. A stranger. It was just that, yet my eyes grew a little wet.
During the weeks I'd worked alone, I think a feeling had accumulated that "maybe no one needs what I made." That sensation was quietly dissolved by one session from a stranger.
I never thought that just "someone came" could make me this happy.
Starting from that day, how I approached the app began to change little by little.
Until then, I'd thought about almost everything from the perspective of "I make it because I want it." I implemented features I wanted to use, refined the design to my satisfaction, tested it myself, and published it. Within that loop, there was no real room to imagine "someone who would use it."
But the moment I saw that one session, I thought about it realistically for the first time.
"Someone actually saw this screen today, somewhere in the world."
My Imagination Changed
After that, every time I added a feature, I'd think "how would that stranger feel if they used this?" It wasn't a dramatic change—just a really small shift in perspective. But that shift changed the texture of what I created.
I'd rewrite error message text to be a bit more thoughtful. I'd add brief feedback to slow-loading sections. I'd gently add explanations where first-time users might get stuck.
These are all small things. But when you have the real sense that "someone is actually using this," your seriousness about those small things changes.
The Meaning of "Making for Myself" Changed
I still value the attitude of "making for myself." I think there's nothing more painful than losing sight of what you want to make while chasing what others will like.
But I learned that "making for myself" doesn't mean "I don't need to think about anyone else." When you seriously solve your own problem, that sincerity reaches someone with the same problem. There's that kind of structure.
That one session taught me to experience that structure for the first time.
The night that session appeared, I took one action. I rewrote the app's store description.
Until then, the description had simply stated what I'd made. "This app can do ○○"—just a list of facts. But the rewritten text was conscious of "what situations it's useful in" and "what you can do right after you start using it." I think that was the first time I seriously chose words from the user's perspective.
Small Actions Accumulate
After that, I continued with small improvements, slowly.
I made sure to put contact information in a visible place. I added a single line in the app saying I wanted feedback. I gradually started announcing updates on SNS.
None of these are special things. But I don't think I could have taken these actions without really feeling the presence of "a stranger." During the period when zero continued, I couldn't move forward because these actions felt like "I wonder if they matter."
The fact that one person "came" greatly lowered the barrier to action.
While writing this, I imagine myself still in the days of zero. If that session hadn't come on that day three weeks later, what would I have done?
I probably would have lost motivation and quietly abandoned the app. I'd stop updating it, and eventually just the public page would remain, and its existence would fade from my own mind too—I might have gone down that path.
So There's Meaning in Continuing
Personal development takes a really long time to reach someone. It takes time to create, and even after publishing, it doesn't reach people right away, and at first you can't even tell if it's reached anyone.
But the day it reaches someone comes suddenly.
Without anything changing on your end, someone somewhere searches, finds their way, and opens the screen. That moment comes unexpectedly one morning. The most important thing that one session taught me might be exactly that.
Since then, the app has gradually started being used by people. The numbers still aren't large, and it didn't go viral. But every month, strangers use it. Every time I open analytics, I remember that first "1." That morning when it wasn't zero.
If you're reading this and you're currently in the days of zero—first, I want to tell you that publishing itself is amazing. You created, finished, and put it out into the world. Please don't treat that lightly.
The time until it reaches someone is completely different depending on the person and what you're making. For some it's three weeks, for others three months, for some a year. But the moment it reaches someone, even a small "1," it's genuinely joyful. I can guarantee that.
There's one thing I'd like you to try if you have the energy. Read through your store description or public page text from "the user's perspective." Not "what I made," but "what can the other person gain?" You don't need a big overhaul. Even rewriting one sentence makes a difference.
I still cherish that "1" from that morning.
So I want you to continue just a little longer. The morning your creation reaches someone somewhere will surely come. When it does, I'm sure you'll be glad you kept going.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Personal developer. Creating iOS apps and web services with AI as my partner.
