I still vividly remember the moment I pressed the release button. After a few seconds of loading, the status changed to "Published." I could feel my fingers trembling. It was the moment when something I had been creating alone for months finally went out into the world. But what happened after that was unexpected, even to me. I opened the draft of an announcement tweet, started writing, deleted it—and repeated that over and over. In the end, I couldn't post anything that day. The app was definitely released, but I hadn't told anyone. It had gone out into the world, but it felt like I had quietly placed it in a place where no one existed. This article is about that experience. I was able to release it, but I couldn't announce it. What did I feel during those few days, and what happened when I took that small step forward? I would be happy if this reaches even a little to those who have held similar feelings.
It Was Already Something Incredible in Itself
Looking back, just reaching the point of release was no small feat. Counting from the day I came up with the idea, there were conception, design, implementation, testing, and submission to the app store—at each stage, my heart nearly broke multiple times.
There were many nights when I closed the screen thinking, "Who would even use something like this?" I also spent a whole night feeling down after learning that similar apps already existed. Yet I kept working, and somehow managed to get to release. That in itself should have been truly incredible.
But the moment I released it, a different emotion came before the sense of accomplishment.
But I Couldn't Write the Announcement Tweet
"Alright, let me announce it"—when I opened the post screen with that thought, Lily froze.
What should I write? Just "Released!" seemed too blunt. But if I tried to write something longer, it felt like I was promoting myself and made me uncomfortable. Should I add screenshots? But the screens might look too plain—I spent about an hour going in circles with thoughts like these, and in the end, I didn't post anything that day.
When I opened the app dashboard that night, the user count remained at 0. Of course it did. I hadn't told anyone.
The next day and the day after that, I continued the cycle of writing and deleting drafts.
When I tried to understand why I couldn't announce it, the root cause was "the fear of it not resonating." What if there was zero response? No replies, no likes, no retweets—it felt like that would mean "no one needs this," and I was afraid of facing that reality.
But what scared me even more was "being laughed at."
I know that the indie developer community is full of warm-hearted people. But somewhere in my heart, I imagined being thought of as "what's the point of making something like this?" or "what is this?" I didn't actually think I would receive replies like that, but knowing the possibility wasn't zero, I couldn't bring myself to press the post button.
It's difficult to articulate this feeling well, but—I realized for the first time that "creating" and "showing" are completely different acts. Creating can be done in your own world. But showing requires the presence of others, and you can't control how those others will react. That uncertainty was what scared me.
Five days had passed since the release.
The app was published. But no one knew about it. The dashboard numbers remained at 0 or 1 (probably my own access). While looking at that situation, Lily began to feel a different emotion.
Guilt.
The feeling of "if I don't announce it, there's no point in having made it" and "but I still don't have the courage" clashed with each other every day. Eventually, even thinking about the app became a little painful, and I opened the dashboard less frequently.
I could sense that things were going in a bad direction. But I didn't know what to do. There was no one nearby to encourage me to "just go ahead and post." I think the loneliness of solo development is felt most strongly in moments like these.
The Trigger Was Almost Momentum
The turning point came from an unexpected place.
I happened to see another indie developer tweeting "Released!" There were lots of likes, and the comments were warm. While looking at that post, I suddenly thought: "I wonder if this person was scared at first too?"
I don't know if that person was actually scared. But the moment I imagined that, I suddenly felt "okay, whatever." It doesn't have to be a perfect announcement. It doesn't have to go viral. I just need to say "I made it."
That night, Lily posted with almost no thought. The text was simple, just one screenshot. "I made ○○. Please try it if you'd like"—that was all.
After Pressing the Post Button
The moment I pressed it, my stomach tightened. I put my phone face-down and left it alone for a while. I was too scared to look at the notifications.
About 15 minutes later, I nervously checked the screen, and there were a few likes. There was also one reply saying "Congratulations!" That was it. It didn't go viral. But I wasn't laughed at either.
I almost cried.
To be honest, the fear of "what if it doesn't resonate" became reality. There wasn't a big response. But what I felt wasn't despair—it was a strange sense of relief.
It was so much warmer than I thought.
A few likes, one reply. That might be small as numbers. But someone saw Lily's post, spent time on it, and responded—that was certain. It wasn't "no one received it," but rather "it reached someone small, but surely."
Over the next few days, a few people appeared who tried the app. Some gave feedback. When I received a comment like "it would be nice if there was this feature," I was truly happy. The feeling that something I created had reached the hands of a real person and was being used—that was something I could never have gotten without posting that announcement tweet.
Here's what Lily realized from this experience.
I came to think that "announcing" is the final step in making your creation exist in the world. Release is certainly important. But if you don't announce it, that app is essentially the same as not existing. Like a tree falling in a forest with no one to hear it—a release that no one knows about is not much different from not releasing at all.
Yet I still understand the fear of announcing. It hasn't disappeared.
But after those few days, what I think is—the fear of "what if it doesn't resonate" has no answer until you actually post. Staying scared and imagining won't give you an answer. Only by speaking up, even if small, do you understand reality. And reality is usually much kinder than imagination.
If there's someone out there right now who "released but hasn't announced it," Lily just wants to tell you this:
You don't need to go viral. You don't need perfect writing. It's fine if the screenshots are plain. Just say "I made it." Hashtags aren't necessary. Long explanations aren't necessary.
Just, please speak up.
In the indie developer community, there is definitely someone somewhere who will be interested in what you made. Not everyone—just one person. For that one person to receive it, you first need to put it into words.
Lily is still scared every time. When announcing the next project, my stomach will probably tighten again. But the regret from those few days—that feeling of having left the app in a place where no one knew about it—I don't want to repeat that if possible. So I've decided to speak up even if I'm scared.
What you've created is incredible. But telling someone about what you've created is equally important, Lily thinks.
Someone might be waiting for your "I made it."
Lily (@bokuwalily) — Indie developer. Creating iOS apps and web services in tandem with AI.
