I didn’t become a designer because I loved art. I became one because I liked control. Aligning things perfectly. Choosing exact shades. Deciding where something begins and ends. Design felt like a place where effort translated cleanly into results.
It didn’t stay that way for long.
The more I worked, the more I realized how little control I actually had. People interpret designs in ways I never expect. Stakeholders see something entirely different from what I intended. Users ignore the parts I obsessed over and struggle with things I thought were obvious. Design slowly chipped away at my need to be right.
I remember one project where I spent days perfecting a layout. Every spacing intentional, every interaction smooth. The feedback came back simple: “Feels cold.” No technical explanation. No actionable point. Just a feeling. I was frustrated—but they weren’t wrong. I had optimized the life out of it.
That moment changed how I design. I stopped designing to impress other designers. I stopped treating feedback like a threat. I started listening for what wasn’t being said. Design, I learned, isn’t about clarity alone—it’s about warmth. About making people feel invited, not instructed.
There are still days I miss the certainty. When I wish there were formulas instead of opinions. But uncertainty has made me better. It forces me to test assumptions, not defend them. To care less about being clever and more about being useful.
Design also taught me something personal: letting go doesn’t mean lowering standards. It means trusting the process enough to let others shape the outcome. The best work I’ve done wasn’t fully mine—it was shared, challenged, softened by other perspectives.
Now, when I open a blank canvas, I don’t rush to fill it. I let it stay empty a little longer. Because design isn’t just about adding elements. Sometimes it’s about knowing what doesn’t need to be there—including parts of your ego.
And that lesson? It’s useful far beyond the screen.