When You Launch to Crickets

I refreshed the waitlist dashboard again this morning. Still the same number as yesterday. Which was the same as the day before that.

You know you're not supposed to take it personally — but you do. You built something. You shared it. And the world, very politely, ignored it.

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The Fantasy vs. The Reality

In every startup story, there's that moment where someone launches their thing and — boom — people just start showing up. The right tweet goes viral. The waitlist floods with names. Someone from TechCrunch reaches out.

None of that happened.

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What I Actually Did

I ran an Instagram ad. It got clicks — a good number, even. Only one person signed up.

I posted on Nextdoor. Two people signed up. That's not nothing — it really isn't. But it still felt like putting up posters for a party and having three people RSVP… including your mum. I wore a hulofuse t-shirt to a few local events — the one that says "The Cure to Loneliness."

The truth is, I'm comfortable talking to people one-on-one. In smaller groups, with people I know a little. But big, open community events? They turn me into the kid I used to be — quiet, awkward, trying not to stand out and desperately wishing someone else would make the first move.

I never thought building an app would make me feel like a shy teenager again. But here we are.

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The Quiet Cost

There's a loneliness in early-stage marketing that no one really talks about.

When you're putting something out there that you genuinely care about — not a side hustle, not a cash grab, but something personal — every small reaction feels huge. And every non-reaction feels like a gut punch.

You get one signup. You feel hopeful. The next three days: nothing. Suddenly you're doubting everything — the idea, the execution, yourself.

You start asking questions you can't answer: Is this something no one wants? Or am I just not the person to build it?

Sometimes you tell yourself it's a marketing problem. Other times, you wonder if it's a you problem. ⸻

The Other Side of Silence

There's another truth I've had to face:

Admitting you're lonely is hard. Even clicking "join the waitlist" can feel like a confession.

Most of us have been burned before — by social platforms that promised connection and gave us comparison instead. Apps that said "find your people" but delivered nothing more than DMs and dead feeds.

So now, when something new comes along — even if it's different — there's resistance. People don't want to be disappointed again. They'd rather pretend they're fine than risk being let down one more time.

That's the emotional math you're up against when building something like this. You're not just asking people to sign up. You're asking them to hope again.

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What Helped (Sort Of)

The only thing that's consistently felt real? Speaking plainly.

No pitch. No clever hooks. Just honesty.

When someone asked what the app was, I stopped trying to impress. I just said: "I made it because I was tired of pretending I wasn't lonely."

They didn't sign up on the spot. But they paused. That pause means more than any click-through rate.

Sometimes, it leads to a real conversation. Once or twice, it's led to someone saying, "Yeah… I'd try that."

Which still feels like a miracle.

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The Space Between the Signups

What I've come to realise is this:

I thought I was building an app. But I'm also building a space. And spaces feel strange when they're empty.

It's hard to invite someone in when they might be the only one there. That's what makes marketing this kind of project so vulnerable: You're not just pitching a product. You're asking people to trust that others will show up too.

The chicken-and-egg problem of community isn't just logistical. It's emotional.

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Resetting the Goal

So I'm not chasing a hundred signups anymore.

I'm looking for ten people who really get it. People who don't want another social app full of noise. People who just want a friend. A real one. Someone who remembers their name. Someone who shows up twice.

If I can find ten of those people, I can build something worth growing.

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Ending

So yes — I launched to crickets. Not total silence, but enough that it made me question everything.

And yet… I'm still here. Still refreshing the dashboard. Still wearing the t-shirt. Still talking to people — not because it's working yet, but because it might.

And maybe, somewhere out there, there's someone else feeling exactly the same. Hoping for a space that's real, and kind, and not too loud. Something a little smaller. A little gentler. A little more human.

Something like hulofuse.