When I released the app, somewhere in my heart I believed that "someone would use it." The day I put into the world something I had built over months—while being rejected, while fixing bugs. Every time a notification came, I'd pick up my phone, but most of the time it was just notifications from my own test users.
The first week, the first month, three months. The download count didn't budge from single digits. And most of those were from asking friends, honestly speaking, not because I really wanted them to use it properly. When asked "how is it?" I'd answer "it's okay," but deep down maybe I didn't want them to laugh at it. This is the story of those six months I couldn't tell anyone about. It was miserable, but now that I think about it, it was the most precious period, and I want to write about it honestly.
The moment I pressed the publish button felt really good. The notification came that I'd passed review, I searched for my app in the store and confirmed it was there. I took a screenshot and posted "Released!" on SNS, and congratulatory comments piled up.
That night, I somehow couldn't sleep. Not because I was happy, but there was a strange emptiness, like something I'd been waiting for had ended. Rather than a sense of accomplishment, it was more like "wait, this isn't the end?" kind of feeling.
The next morning, I opened Analytics. Impressions were in the hundreds. Downloads were zero.
"...I see," I thought, while drinking coffee. Well, it's the first day, I told myself.
Opening the App Thinking "Maybe Today"
A week later, the download count was still single digits. Mostly my own installation and a few from people I'd asked.
What's interesting is that I couldn't tell anyone about it. If asked "how's it going?" I'd say "so-so." I didn't post details on SNS. I think I was embarrassed. After saying "I released it," it's hard to say "but nobody's using it."
Instead, what I did was open the app myself every morning.
I'd use it the way it was meant to be used, and jot down small impressions like "this button is a bit hard to press" or "this wording feels off." At first, I opened it out of a sense of obligation. It was like guilt about the numbers not increasing—"at least I should keep using it myself." Before release I'd thought "I want people to use it," but after release it became "it's okay if nobody uses it, but I'll keep using it myself," which seems a bit funny now.
Starting to Notice "Small Details"
Around the second month, the way I noticed things changed.
When you use something every day, things that weren't visible at first become visible. "I'm following the same steps three times out of ten on this screen," or "there are days I don't open it even when notifications come—why is that?" These are "small inconsistencies embedded in daily use" that would never come out in surveys or verbal feedback.
You can't see these things during development. When you're building something, you test it in a "state where you understand how to use it," so you don't notice what's hard to understand. But when you use it every day, you gradually become closer to "a normal user." The feeling of being able to see the screen not as the creator but as the user started to seep in from the second month.
In the third month, I met a close friend. When asked "how's the app going?" I honestly said "it's still not growing at all," and they said "huh, why? It's good, it works fine."
That "it's good" was something I couldn't accept straightforwardly at the time.
The words "but nobody's using it" came to the tip of my tongue but didn't come out. Even though they were saying "it's good," I didn't have the courage to deny that with "actually it's not going well at all."
What I realized here was that "not being able to tell anyone" isn't just about embarrassment. It felt like if I said it out loud, it would become real. I didn't want to put into words the possibility that "I might have failed." If I kept it vague, I could stay in "pending" status. I think that's what I felt.
"Miserable" Wasn't the Precise Word
I described myself back then as "miserable," but now I think it was a bit different. Rather than miserable, it felt like I was in "pending" status.
I hadn't found out it was bad. But I couldn't say it was successful either. In a state that was neither, but every day I'd open the app, take notes, and make small updates. That's what those days were like. I wasn't hurt, I hadn't given up, I was just quietly there.
In the fifth month, there was a small change.
The download count, which hadn't moved at all until then, suddenly exceeded ten in a single day. What happened was that someone had introduced it on SNS. Someone without a particularly large following had casually written on their timeline "I tried this and it was good."
From there, word of mouth gradually spread, and by the sixth month there were several reviews.
While reading the reviews, I noticed something. Most of the parts they praised were places I had fixed while using the app myself during that "period when nobody was using it."
"The operation is simple and you don't get lost"—this was about the flow I had fixed because I felt "this step is one too many" while using it every morning. "The notification timing is just right"—this too was the result of tuning because I felt "this time of day is annoying." That lonely six months had come back as the words in the reviews.
I Was the Most Honest User
When individual developers try to gather "test users," they usually ask friends. Friends are kind, so they don't say much even if it's hard to use. Even if they think "this is kind of hard to use," they just close it with "well, whatever." It's unavoidable. It's hard to give honest feedback on something you're using out of obligation.
But I had a reason to keep using it every day. A sense of responsibility because I made it, anxiety about the numbers not coming, and still a desire to "make it better." Those three things overlapped, and I became the most honest user of anyone. The reason I could catch even the smallest inconsistencies was that I had no reason to stop using it.
There Are Things You Can Only Build in Quiet Times
Another thing I realized is that there are things you can only build up during quiet periods.
When users increase, feedback comes. Requests come. Opportunities to discuss direction increase. That's appreciated and important. But at the same time, the time you can quietly improve based only on your own sense gets shorter and shorter. Responding to "I want this" and honing the sense of "I want this" are slightly different things.
The "period before users come" looks like nothing is happening. But in reality, it was the only time I could face "what kind of thing do I want to make?" without anyone getting in the way.
I still regret a bit that I couldn't be more honest back then.
I envied individual developers who could laugh and say "nobody's using it." But I couldn't do it. Fear of what I made not being accepted stopped my words. Now I think maybe I could have felt a bit better if I'd been honest. Maybe I could have shared words with someone in the same situation.
But because of that, during that period I was able to face only my own sense and the app, without worrying about anyone's evaluation. When there are no numbers, you can't fake it. When there's no reason like "the reaction is good" or "it went viral," there's nothing to do but face the question "do I really think this is okay?" That was tough, but probably the most sincere time.
If you're also in a situation right now where you've released something but nobody's using it. If you feel miserable. I think that's "a time when something is happening."
Try using it every day as your only user, honestly. Those notes should come back as "the reason it was good" in half a year, a year. That's how it was for me.
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Individual developer. Making iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
