The Designer in Me

I didn’t always see the world this way. Design used to be just a “thing” I did. I’d think about design at work or in the context of a specific project, but that was the end of it. Yet somewhere along the way, something shifted. Design wasn’t just an activity anymore; it was like a filter that settled over my view of the world. And once I started seeing everything through a designer’s lens, there was no going back.

It was subtle at first — a moment here or there where I’d notice the thought behind something simple, like a coffee cup or a website. Then it was noticing how public spaces are laid out, or why some things in my daily life felt easy and some just… didn’t.

Gradually, this started happening more and more. Every time I left the house, I was tuning in to what was around me: the way storefronts used color to catch attention, how signage was (or wasn’t) guiding people, and the choices behind street layouts and architecture.

I was seeing the world not as it was, but as something designed — something that had been crafted by decisions and intentions, each element meant to shape my experience of it in some way.

I began to think about how this applies to everything. Sure, we design objects and spaces, but what about our conversations or our daily routines? Suddenly, I was seeing design not just in the obvious places but in the ways we communicate, how we structure our days, even in the flow of conversations.

“Good design is invisible,” people say, but now I was noticing both the great design and the not-so-great. My daily life became a bit of a treasure hunt, seeing little gems of design where others saw only routine.

At first, this was exhilarating. It felt like I’d unlocked a secret. I could see both the beauty and the brokenness in the world around me.

But it also made me hyper-aware of missed opportunities: the clunky checkout processes, the park benches awkwardly placed in too much sun, the emails that felt like they’d been designed for a robot rather than a human being.

I couldn’t ignore the moments where a little more thought might’ve made something not only better but maybe even delightful.