It was March of this year. When I opened the admin dashboard, I had received one notification that said "Cancellation process completed." The sender was only displayed as a user ID, but Lily understood immediately. It was one of the earliest users who had registered two months after the service was launched.
When I saw that notification, I stared at the screen for a while, then quietly closed the tab. Rather than sadness, it was a quiet sense of acceptance—"Ah, I guess that kind of thing happens too." When you're doing solo development, users leaving becomes a kind of "daily occurrence." I thought I had gotten used to it, and it wasn't really something that stirred my emotions. But the fact that they were an early user stung just a little.
This article is about something that happened four months after that. It's a small story. In numbers, it's one user. In revenue, it's one unit of the monthly subscription. But that one instance quietly answered a question that Lily had been holding onto throughout solo development. I'm writing this hoping that something might reach others who are similarly continuing to build alone.
The Special Weight of Being an Early User
If you're doing solo development, I think you understand how special "the first 10 users" are. People who said "this looks interesting, I'll try it" during a time when features were far from complete are a kind of proof of trust. For Lily too, those earliest users were special.
When that person canceled, the first question that came to mind was "what did I do wrong?" Was it difficult to use? Were there missing features? Or did the timing just stop working out? I considered sending a survey form asking for the cancellation reason, but ultimately didn't. To be honest, I didn't have the courage to ask.
An Excuse to Myself for Not Asking
There was another reason I didn't ask. I didn't have confidence that I could make dramatic changes immediately no matter what they said. It's the limit of solo development, or the ceiling of what one person can do. Even if they said "I wanted this feature," I couldn't guarantee I could implement it within the month. So I think I chose to let them go quietly rather than ask and get hurt. Looking back, that might have been a bit cowardly.
As one month, then two months passed since the cancellation, I barely thought about that user anymore. New users were slowly increasing, I kept improving features, writing release notes, making small posts on social media. Lily's daily life just continued normally.
Somewhere, I believed "once people leave, they don't come back." There was no basis for it, but it was just a feeling. I had read somewhere that in the world of web services, it's quite rare for someone to return to the same service after canceling, and that somehow became the "right answer" in my mind.
That's why, for Lily, that person who canceled in March was already finished with a feeling of "thank you for everything, maybe we'll meet again somewhere."
I Couldn't Grasp the Meaning of the Notification
About four months after the cancellation, in mid-June. Around 9 AM, when I opened the admin dashboard, I received a notification: "New subscription registered."
When I saw the registered user ID, I couldn't grasp the meaning for a while. I thought it looked familiar, so I checked the user history, and it was that earliest user who had canceled in March.
To be honest, at first I thought "maybe it's a system bug." It's a common suspicion in solo development, but I thought maybe some kind of duplicate processing had occurred, so I checked the logs. But that wasn't it. A new billing session had properly been created, and the payment had gone through.
After four months, that person had come back.
The Feeling of "Being Chosen Again"
After confirming the notification, I couldn't do anything for a while. I had planned to write code, but I just sat there staring at the screen blankly.
The words "chosen again" floated into my head. It might sound like an exaggeration, but for Lily at that moment, it was truly that kind of feeling. I don't know what that person had been using during those four months. Maybe they tried other services, or maybe they didn't use anything for a while. But among all the options available, they came back here again.
It was the moment when what Lily had been continuing turned into someone's "I guess I'll go with this place after all."
When you continue solo development, the question "when should I stop?" visits you regularly. Months when users don't increase, weeks when bug fixes consume your weekends, times when you see someone else's flashy release on social media and compare it to your own mundane improvement work.
Lily experienced that feeling several times too. Especially during periods when cancellations continued, the thought "maybe this won't grow anymore" crossed my mind. There were times when I had to consciously search for reasons to continue.
When I think that the accumulation of continuing through those feelings led to that June notification, it feels like something was rewarded. More precisely, it feels closer to "being affirmed" than "being rewarded." Not "I'm glad I continued," but rather "continuing is what called forth the answer."
I Realized What I Hadn't Been Doing
After this incident, there was one thing Lily changed.
Until then, I hadn't done anything for canceled users. I had the ability to send messages, and technically I could have sent follow-up communications after cancellation, but I had always avoided it because I didn't want to be "pushy."
But seeing that re-registration made me reconsider. The person who came back must have had opportunities during those four months to remember this service somewhere. Lily hadn't created any of those opportunities.
The Choice to "Quietly Be There"
So I decided to send just one message within 30 days of cancellation—a short message without pressure. No feature introductions, no discount codes. Just something with the feeling of "anytime you feel like it," a message only meant to keep the existence in mind.
I don't know yet if this is the right answer. But I think "quietly being there" is more Lily-like than "doing nothing." Not pushing the re-registered user, but quietly leaving room for them to come back. Being able to have that stance is thanks to the insight that notification gave me.
Don't Mourn Those Who Leave Too Much
Lily now thinks you don't need to be deeply hurt every time a cancellation notification arrives. But saying you've "gotten used to it" also feels a bit off. I want to remember that each person made a conscious choice.
However, if you hold onto cancellations as "proof of failure," continuing becomes painful. Even the best service can stop fitting due to timing or circumstances. That doesn't necessarily mean Lily's creation was flawed. Once I could think that way, things became a little easier.
Continuing Attracts the Answer
The experience of "being chosen again" that Lily received happened because the service kept running for those four months. If development had stopped during that period, there would have been no re-registration. If feature improvements had stopped, that person might have had fewer reasons to come back.
I can't say that continuing is absolutely the right answer. There are times when stopping is the correct choice. But while you're continuing, there's room for these small miracles to happen. I'm certain of that much.
To everyone building alone. The accumulation of what you're continuing today will surely become someone's "I guess I'll go with this place after all."
Lily（@bokuwalily）― Solo developer. Making 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 make iOS apps and web services solo. I consult on customer acquisition, user flow design, and AI implementation and business automation
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