I'm writing an essay. It was a moment I had seen in my dreams over and over again. The moment I pressed the release button and the app was published to the store. Even though I should have been waiting for it all along, when that moment actually came, Lily sat alone in front of her laptop, just staring at the screen. I wanted to tell someone. But honestly, I didn't know who to tell first. I had told my family that "I'm making an app," but the technical details didn't really come across. My friends saw it as "something you're doing as a hobby?" I tried posting on SNS, but I wrote and deleted the draft three times. This article is about the "complete silence" right after that release. The moment I put something I'd spent months creating out into the world, and the world didn't react at all—about that time. How unexpected it was, and how lonely it felt. And yet, I want to write as honestly as possible about why I was still able to take the next step.
"If I can finish this, something will change"—a premonition
Lily started making that app in the early fall of the previous year. The trigger was very mundane—a tool she wanted didn't exist in the world, which is a common reason.
At first, it was a light-hearted endeavor. I thought, "Well, maybe I can do it in a few weeks," but before I knew it, the year had changed, cherry blossoms had bloomed, and the rainy season had arrived. Along the way, I redesigned the architecture from scratch, fundamentally changed how certain features worked, and revised the design dozens of times. It took longer than expected, and I became more attached to it than I'd anticipated.
But at the same time, there was always this feeling—"If I just release it, something will change." I didn't know specifically what would change or how, but the act of "completing" and "putting it out into the world" had become a major milestone within me.
The Night Before Release
The night before release, Lily barely slept. I repeatedly checked whether any bugs remained, whether there were typos in the descriptions, whether the screenshots were easy to read—I must have verified everything dozens of times.
I was nervous and hopeful. "Maybe someone will use it," "Maybe I'll get feedback," "Maybe it will reach someone facing the same challenge"—these positive imaginings kept circling in my head.
After Pressing the Button
I pressed the publish button on a weekday evening, I think. When the review passed and the status changed to "published," Lily took a deep breath first. I did it. That's what I thought.
Then I posted a brief announcement on SNS. A single line saying "I made it," with a link and a brief explanation.
And then—silence came.
The first hour. No notifications. Well, I guess that makes sense, I thought.
The first half day. The download count was just a few. Maybe acquaintances clicked it.
The next morning. The reaction to the SNS announcement was almost nothing. A few likes. Zero comments.
The Unexpected Feeling of "Nothing"
To be honest, it hit hard.
The truth is, "I didn't expect no reaction." I hadn't anticipated complete silence. The feeling of expectations—"at least a little..."—being extinguished one by one by the silence. That was a unique kind of pain.
The fact that I'd spent months on this seemed to weigh on me in reverse. "After spending all this time," "After trying so hard"—these words would float into my head and then disappear.
But at the same time, there was another voice somewhere. A calm voice saying, "Well, it makes sense that no one noticed."
There Are Countless Apps in the World
After some time had passed and I could finally think about it calmly, Lily realized: of course, that makes sense.
Thousands of apps are released into the world every day. Millions of apps line the stores. The idea that Lily's app would "suddenly be discovered" is like placing a piece of paper on the street and expecting "someone will read it"—honestly, it was a naive expectation.
"Making something" and "getting it to people" are completely different skills. Lily had put all her effort into "making," but had done almost nothing to prepare for "getting it to people." The timing of announcements, which communities to post in, how to introduce it—I had put all of that off.
The Illusion That "Release Is the Endpoint"
When you're doing personal development, there's a moment when "release" looks like the goal. It feels like once you cross the finish line, something will automatically happen afterward. But in reality, release was just one of many starting lines.
This was less of a failure and more of a correction of my assumptions. There are still several steps between "I made it" and "people use it." I learned this firsthand after release.
To be honest, Lily was a bit afraid of thinking about "getting it to people" before release. I wanted to make it perfect first. But if I waited for perfection, the moment to think about reaching people would never come. I noticed this contradiction for the first time after release.
First, I Kept Going
The first thing Lily did was not to stop.
Honestly, there were moments when I thought, "Maybe I should just quit." If no one is using it, what's the point of continuing maintenance? That thought flickered through my head. But if I quit there, those months would end as a "failure story," and I hated that.
So I decided to try for at least one month. Even without any response, I'd make some kind of improvement once a week. That's all. I didn't set goals or KPIs. I just decided to keep going.
I Talked About "I Was Struggling" Instead of "I Made It"
After recovering a bit, Lily tried something—in an online community where individual developers gather, instead of saying "I made it," I introduced it as "I had this problem, and here's how I solved it."
Then, for the first time, I got comments. "I was struggling with the same thing," "I'll try it"—simple words, but when Lily read them, she almost cried (laughs).
The release announcement was a report of the fact that "I made it," but the community post was a dialogue directed at someone's problem. I think this difference showed up in the response.
One User Appeared
The person who left that comment continued to use it afterward. I received feedback, made improvements, and they used it again—when that small cycle started turning, Lily thought: this is the starting line.
The numbers are small. Even now, it's not something you'd call "viral." But the fact that "it reached one person" had a completely different feel from that complete silence right after release.
The Silence Wasn't an Enemy
Looking back, that silence contained a gift.
Because no one noticed, Lily was able to improve the app without rushing. If many people had come right after release, I might have been deeply hurt by bugs and incomplete parts. Having a little time to calmly fix things was, in retrospect, not so bad.
Of course, that initial silence was painful. But it became the catalyst for learning both "making" and "getting it to people."
To You Standing Before That Same Silence
If you're reading this article right now and you've just released something and are facing silence—that's normal. It's not that what you made has low value; it's just that "getting it to people" is still ahead of you.
Personal development is a long journey. Not a sprint, but a marathon. Even if no one notices right after release, that's not the goal—it's just talking about the next starting line.
Finally, let me write honestly.
Lily was able to face forward in the silence not for a cool reason. It was simply because "I'd regret it even more if I gave up."
That feeling: "If I quit now, I'll definitely regret it later." That was almost the entire reason I kept going.
People doing personal development are all making something they believe in. To let go of that belief because of the initial silence would be a waste. That silence might have been a real test period—a test of whether you can keep going no matter what.
Lily is still going. It's still a small project, but someone uses it today. That's enough. What you made is probably still in progress too.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Individual developer. Making iOS apps and web services with AI as my partner
