Your Days
A year of your days, held on your own device.
“How was today? · 365 dots · one evening at a time”
The problem
Two things are hard about journaling, and most apps only solve one. The blank page defeats people before the habit forms — and even when the habit holds, there's rarely anything to show for it, so the value stays abstract until you quit.
Your Days answers both with the same move. The daily ask is small enough that a tired person will still do it: how was today, one word from nine, type more only if you want to. And the year assembles itself into something you can look at — 365 dots, filling in one evening at a time. The effort is minimal and the artefact accumulates.
The decisions
The design world
Calm, warm, and unhurried, with an hourglass as the mark. Colour carries the mood palette, so the year grid becomes a picture of a year rather than a chart of one. Nothing in the interface hurries you, because a product about noticing your days shouldn't feel like a productivity tool.
The words matter more here than in anything else I've built. A journaling app that nags stops being a refuge — so notifications, empty states, and the check-in prompt were written to invite rather than prod, and every string in production is one I wrote.
What I’d do differently
I treated shipping as the finish line. It was about a third of the work.
Your Days went live on the Play Store — signing, store listing, content rating, data safety, privacy policy, icon, screenshots, the whole submission — and then landed on roughly fifty devices with a handful of people opening it daily. The build problem was solved. The distribution problem I had quietly assumed would solve itself.
What I'd do now is start the audience before the app: write about the thinking while building, put the year-grid concept in front of people months before it was installable, and treat narrative and distribution as part of the product rather than a phase that begins after launch. A good product with no distribution loses to a worse one that people have heard of — obvious in hindsight, and it cost me a real head start.