The 7 Stages of Graphic Design: From Bliss to Existential Despair

Stage 1: The “I’m a Genius!” Phase

It’s 10 a.m., and you’re sitting in front of a brand-new project, a crisp, empty canvas full of potential. This is going to be your masterpiece. You have the perfect color scheme in mind, the typography is practically designing itself, and you’re sure that this is the one that will change the game. Clients will weep with joy! The design awards will roll in! You haven’t even opened Photoshop, but you know this is going to be iconic.

Stage 2: The “Oh, Wait...” Moment

You open your design software, filled with a sense of purpose, and...draw a blank. Did all your ideas just dissolve? Your “perfect” color scheme suddenly feels like a chaotic rainbow explosion, and that genius idea for a font now resembles a ransom note. How did this happen? You add a triangle, then delete it. Five minutes later, you add another triangle. This is the artistic equivalent of microwaving the same cup of coffee over and over. Is the brilliance of that first idea gone? Or was it ever there?

Stage 3: The “Why is Nothing Working?” Spiral

After hours of fiddling, you’re nowhere. You try gradients, textures, drop shadows, and filters. At some point, you even add Comic Sans, desperate to shake things up (don’t lie — we’ve all been there). But it’s like arranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is working. You begin to suspect the universe has conspired against you, or that perhaps your computer has become sentient and taken up sabotage as a hobby.

Stage 4: The Dark Night of the Designer’s Soul

It’s now 3 a.m., and your screen glows with the light of a thousand bad decisions. The canvas looks like a collage made by a caffeinated raccoon. This is the phase where you confront some harsh truths: maybe you’re not a genius. Maybe graphic design isn’t for you. Maybe you’re actually a left-brain person who’s been pretending all along. You stare into the abyss of your own inadequacies and feel the abyss stare back at you. The clock ticks ominously.

Stage 5: The “I Guess This Will Do” Acceptance

Somewhere in the haze, you arrive at an epiphany: perfection is an illusion, and “good enough” is your new mantra. You remove the extra layers, clean up the composition, and take a deep breath. You’ve grown attached to the absurdity of the design and decide, this is fine. It’s not perfect, but what really is? You’ve come to terms with the fact that only you will notice the five-pixel discrepancy on the left margin. No one else will care, probably.

Stage 6: The Client Feedback Gauntlet

You send it off, ready for validation, only for the client to come back with their own version of horror. They want “a pop of color” (but refuse to specify what color) and “more pizzazz” (what does that even mean?). They’re considering using Papyrus, or perhaps Comic Sans? Again? You begin mentally composing your resignation letter. But the client insists on things that are — how should we put this? — creatively horrifying. You take a deep breath, channel your inner Zen, and make the requested changes. Who are you to argue with “pizzazz”?

Stage 7: The Bitter-Sweet Send-Off

After what feels like a lifetime, the design is done. Not only that, it’s finalized. It’s been printed, published, or uploaded, and there’s no turning back. You feel a confusing mix of pride and resentment, like someone who just ran a marathon in flip-flops. You’re proud of your resilience but question your life choices. But the job is done, and you’re ready to delete every last layer, file, and font from your memory.

In the end, you wouldn’t trade this life for anything — except maybe a world where Comic Sans and “make the logo bigger” don’t exist. But until that day, graphic designers everywhere will soldier on, living one pixel at a time.