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 it at work or in the context of a specific project, and that was it. But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Design stopped being just an activity and became more like a filter layered over how I saw the world. And once I started seeing everything through a designer’s lens, there was no going back.

At first, it was subtle. Little moments where I’d notice the thought behind something simple, like a coffee cup or a website layout. Then it became noticing how public spaces are arranged, or why certain things in my everyday life felt smooth while others just... didn’t.

Gradually, it became constant. Every time I stepped outside, I found myself tuning in: how storefronts used color to draw people in, whether signage helped or confused, how streets and sidewalks were shaped, and the small details of buildings and furniture.

I started seeing the world not just as it is, but as something designed. Everything around me had been crafted by decisions, shaped by intentions, each element influencing how I moved, felt, or interacted with it.

That perspective began to stretch even further. Sure, we design products and spaces — but what about conversations? Schedules? Habits? I started noticing patterns in how we talk to each other, how we plan our days, how we structure experiences without even realizing we’re doing it.

“Good design is invisible,” people say. But I was seeing both the invisible and the clearly flawed. My daily life turned into a kind of treasure hunt, catching little design gems where most people saw routine.

At first, it felt like unlocking a secret — a new lens that let me see both beauty and brokenness in ways I hadn’t before.

But that awareness came with its challenges too. I began noticing all the missed opportunities. The checkout forms that felt like puzzles, the park benches placed squarely under the hottest sun, the emails that seemed written for machines rather than people.

I couldn’t unsee it. Every frustrating moment started to feel like a design failure, a reminder that a bit more thought could have made something not just better, but maybe even delightful.