Refuge in design

We have all been here before—feeling shaken by a world in flux, the ground beneath our feet unstable, tumultuous and unrelenting. Collective trauma has been our shared inheritance, and it is in this shared understanding that I write.

When life gets loud, I turn to design. It’s not the shiny logos or award-winning campaigns that save me. It’s the act itself—the alchemy of bringing something new into the world. There’s a rhythm to it, a quiet intimacy. A flow. The way your breath steadies as your pen meets paper. The click of the mouse as shapes and colors harmonize into something that feels right. There is comfort in these small, deliberate motions. A meditation of sorts. In the darkest of times, I found myself not just creating but retreating into the act of creation. And in that retreat, there was solace. A few years ago, I hit what felt like energetic rock bottom. Call it burnout, call it existential fatigue—the name didn’t matter as much as the emptiness. The pandemic didn’t help; the world outside was chaos, and the one inside felt just as unruly. I’d lost my compass, and every day felt like navigating a ship through fog without a map.

During this time, and ever since, I found rest in design—in creation. It doesn’t demand answers, just lightly held intention and complete presence. The lines come hesitantly at first, as if testing resolve. I draw a curve. Then another. Soon, those lines turn to shape, and that shape begins to tell a story. It isn’t perfect, but it is mine. In the moment, I’m not just making something; I am making space—for myself, for healing, for quiet in a world that refuses to be still.

I find the act of creating inherently spiritual. Not divine in the dogmatic sense, but something more primal, lighter, pure. When you’re truly immersed in your craft, you enter a flow state—a space where time ceases to exist, and all that matters is the work in front of you. It’s like stepping out of an oppressive mental storm into a warm, comforting spaciousness. In those moments, the noise fades. The pain passes through. And what’s left is the purest form of being—a communion between maker and medium.

Consider the work of Agnes Martin, whose minimalist grids and lines invite us into a meditative state. Martin once described her art as an expression of joy, though her life was marked by challenges with mental health. Her pieces are quiet refuges, embodying the solace that design can offer—a reminder that simplicity and intentionality can anchor us in turbulent times.

Yayoi Kusama, who channeled her struggles with hallucinations and trauma into immersive art installations that are both mesmerizing and deeply personal. Her Infinity Rooms, with their endless reflections of light, create spaces where viewers can lose themselves, finding wonder and, perhaps, a sense of belonging. As evocative as the final work is, I find myself looking past the material outcomes of her art and gazing into her state of being during the act of creating. It’s there that I recognize the true treasure she sought.

Design, art, photography—all acts of creating, are also about capturing resilience. Take the work of Sebasti?o Salgado, the photographer who has documented global crises—from famine in Africa to the devastation of the Amazon rainforest. Despite the heavy subject matter, Salgado’s images are not just records of despair but also of enduring humanity and the beauty that persists even in tragedy.

Closer to home, the recent wildfires in Los Angeles served as a stark reminder of nature’s unpredictability and our vulnerability. Yet, even amidst the ash and destruction, there is creativity. Artists have responded by using burnt wood and other remnants to create sculptures and paintings that speak to both loss and renewal. This act of transformation, of turning devastation into art is a powerful testament to the healing potential of creation. And during these past few weeks, as I’ve watched much of this beautiful city burn, I’ve found myself returning to my sanctuary of design again and again.

During this time I’m reminded design is more than a career. It’s become a refuge. It’s where I go to make sense of the senseless, to find order in chaos. And in that practice, I’ve discovered something profound: the act of creating is an act of hope. Every line drawn, every color chosen, every idea brought to life is a declaration that tomorrow is worth showing up for.

The world will continue to throw its punches. Wars will rage, economies will falter, pandemics, and presidents will come and go. But there will always be those of us who take solace in the act of making—who find healing in the quiet, sacred practice of turning nothing into something.

So to all the designers, creators, and makers: Keep going. Not for the awards or the recognition, but for the act itself. For the stillness it brings. For the solace it offers. And for the hope it represents.

Because in a world that often feels too much to bear, design is a refuge. And that’s something worth holding onto.