Withdraw When Redundant: Why Building a Product is Like Watching My Daughter Ride Away

Learning to Exit Gracefully

A renowned psychologist once used an incredibly moving metaphor: The relationship between parents and children is like teaching a child to ride a bicycle.

In the beginning, you don't dare leave their side for a second. You grip the handlebars, your palms sweating, your eyes fixed on the road ahead, constantly shouting "Slow down, slow down." Your body leans forward, as if trying to pour your own sense of balance directly into their small frame. At that moment, you are their whole world, their only source of security.

But then, there comes a moment.

Maybe the wind is just right, or maybe their legs suddenly find strength. You realize your hands are becoming redundant. You tentatively loosen one finger, then the whole palm. You stop running and stand still, panting slightly.

Then you see her riding away, wobbly at first, then steady, accompanied by excited screams, never looking back. The sunlight hits her back. In that moment, you might feel a huge sense of loss—we are so accustomed to confirming our self-worth through "being needed."

But a deeper rationality tells you: Only your withdrawal fulfills her freedom.

All desire for control essentially stems from a lack of security. We add countless features to our APPs, trying to "occupy" users' time; we list dozens of To-dos for ourselves, trying to "occupy" the certainty of the future. But true love (whether for a child or for life) is learning the art of a graceful exit.

From "Wanting It All" to "Subtraction"

As a Product Manager who has struggled in major tech companies for years, I used to be "greedy." At those widely-known tech giants, we worshiped DAU (Daily Active Users), user time spent, and stickiness. We racked our brains designing mechanisms to make users stay one second longer, click one more time.

Back then, I thought a good product was a Swiss Army knife that could do everything.

It wasn't until I started independent development and faced my true self that I realized this "greed" was actually a disturbance to others and a drain on myself. I don't need a behemoth that does everything; I just need a tool that can catch me at critical moments.

In a note I wrote to myself on December 21st, I wrote down a sentence: "Focus on overseas, keep the backend as simple as possible."

This wasn't just a business decision; it felt like therapy. I started to admit my limitations, admitting that I don't need to capture every user, or satisfy every demand. This "surrender" actually brought me unprecedented relief. Just like that old father watching his daughter ride away—though his hands were empty, his heart was full.

Product Gentleness is Knowing "Not to Disturb"

When building 3ThingsPal, I stubbornly stuck to a few "counter-intuitive" features:

• No Cloud Sync: Your data belongs only to you. No need to upload it to some unknown server, no need to sacrifice privacy for "multi-device sync."
• Clear Lists Daily: This is the part that puzzles new users the most, but it's the point I insist on.

Why? Because I want to build a "partner that knows when to withdraw."

Those mounting To-do lists are like a nagging overseer, constantly reminding you "You're not good enough," "You owe a lot of debt." This "Snowball of Shame" can crush an already anxious person, especially friends with ADHD.

3ThingsPal doesn't want to be the master of your life. It only wants to help you confirm "the three most important things today" in those few minutes when you wake up and your thoughts are chaotic. Then, it sits quietly on your Lock Screen, in your Dynamic Island. When you finish, or when the day ends, it disappears gracefully.

It creates no anxiety, it forces no retention. It returns the control of life to you.

Life is the same. "Replenish when missing, withdraw when redundant."

We are all learning to be cool old men, or cool developers. No longer trying to please the whole world, no longer trying to control every second. May we all have this gentle courage, to let go at the right time and watch our "children"—whether they are products, work, or our beloved daughters—ride towards a further place.