As part of my thesis, I created the Creative Disobedience Collective. And now I’m here, on Substack, which means it’s officially real and I have to keep going.

The Collective grew out of questions I’ve been sitting with for years, but grad school turned the volume all the way up. Questions about burnout and why creative fields treat it like a personality trait. Questions about critique and whether it actually builds designers or just conditions them to absorb feedback quietly and perform confidence they don’t feel. Questions about identity and whether we’re expected to check who we are at the door before we start designing, teaching, or leading. Questions about what we inherit in design education and why we almost never stop to look at it.

Grad school didn’t create those questions. It just made them impossible to ignore.

Creative Disobedience is not about being contrarian for sport. It’s about thoughtful resistance. It’s about noticing the defaults we’ve all just... accepted. The ones that tell us exhaustion equals dedication, detachment equals professionalism, and rigor has to come at the expense of care. It asks who built the systems we’re operating inside, who benefits from them, and what actually happens if we decide to adjust them instead of assuming they’re fixed.

The Collective started as research. I interviewed designers and educators. I mapped emotional labor in creative classrooms. I rewrote chunks of my curriculum, especially in design history and critique. I tested new frameworks. Some worked immediately. Some needed revision. Some failed in ways that were genuinely useful. The process itself kept becoming the point.

What became clear pretty quickly is that this work can’t just live inside a thesis document nobody reads. It needs conversation. It needs collaboration. It needs friction. It needs people who are also quietly (or loudly) asking the same things.

My hope is to build a network of designers, educators, and community members who are willing to question what we’ve normalized and experiment with alternatives. I care about sustainable creative practice. Humane critique structures. Honest and expanded design histories. Teaching that doesn’t require you to pretend you’re a machine. Systems that recognize that designers are whole people, not production units.

The Collective is intentionally flexible. It can look like workshops, shared syllabi, collaborative research, publications, classroom exchanges, community projects, or just good conversations. It’s less about forming an organization and more about forming a practice. A shared willingness to look at the defaults and decide, consciously, whether they still serve us.

If you’re rethinking your classroom, questioning industry expectations, trying to figure out how to keep making work without burning yourself down to do it, or just wondering if there’s a version of this field that doesn’t require you to fragment yourself to participate in it, I’d genuinely love to talk. If you’re interested in collaborating on research, workshops, writing, or experimental learning spaces, I’m open.

One small thing: I'm building out a series of publications through the Collective, and I'm funding them the scrappy way, through merch. If you want to grab a shirt or hat and help get the books made, I would genuinely appreciate it. Also you'd look cool. That part matters too.

Support the Work (Look Good Doing It)

You can reach me at katrina@creativedisob.com
Instagram: @creative.disobedience

This is ongoing work. It will evolve. It should. Otherwise we’re just reinstalling the same operating system and calling it a software update.

We are not even a full quarter into this year and everything already feels fucking crazy. Even if someone avoids social media, the chaos does not stay contained to a screen. It leaks. It hums. It shows up in conversations, classrooms, and daily routines whether we invite it or not.

When things feel like this, I look to community first. I also try, genuinely, to stay hopeful. People who know me well love to roast me for that. I get it. But when something is really, truly going wrong, I try to name it clearly and then move into action mode. What can I do. What can we do. Where is there movement instead of paralysis. That instinct is what brought me back to this piece to finish it, not as a solution, but as a way to stay in the work of paying attention.

Right now, there is a lot happening. In everyday life. In the news. In our institutions. Even in the symbolic frameworks people use to make sense of change. In a few days, we will move into the year of the Fire Horse. I am also a Horse, which feels relevant in ways I am still sorting through.

Fire is complicated. It can be cleansing. It can also be destructive. It can warm a room or burn the whole thing down. Things feel intense right now. Heavy. Unsteady. And at the same time, underneath that, there is a current of energy that does not feel purely destructive. It feels charged. Like something wants to move. That is the energy I am interested in exploring. Not as prediction. Not as escape. But as a way of thinking about how we move forward when standing still no longer feels honest.

In Chinese cosmology, the zodiac is not a personality quiz or a forecasting tool. It is a cyclical cultural system. A symbolic language for understanding time, pressure, and movement. The value is not in predicting outcomes. It is in naming rhythm.

That matters when we talk about the transition from last year’s Wood Snake to this year’s Fire Horse.

The Wood Snake carries inward energy. Wood is tied to growth and slow development. Snake energy is strategic, observant, and quiet. Last year favored recalibration and careful positioning. A lot happened beneath the surface, even when it did not look dramatic from the outside.

Fire Horse energy is different. The Horse is about movement, momentum, and visibility. Fire brings heat and exposure. Together, things speed up. What has been simmering surfaces. Decisions feel more urgent. Standing still starts to feel uncomfortable.

Historically, Fire Horse years have not been treated as cute or aspirational. They have been approached with caution. This combination has long been associated with volatility and disruption. Powerful, but demanding. Productive, but unstable. The Fire Horse has never been about destiny. It has always been about intensity.

Read this way, the shift from Wood Snake to Fire Horse helps explain why this moment feels loud and fast after a period of quieter processing. This is not fate. It is metaphor. A way of naming pressure, exposure, and momentum when everything seems to be moving at once.

The Fire Horse is not here to tell us what will happen. It gives us language for how it feels to move forward when the heat is already on.

That metaphor lands especially hard in higher education. Classrooms do not exist outside the political and social climate. They absorb it. Legislative pressure, culture war narratives, AI anxiety, economic stress, global conflict. All of it walks into the room, whether the syllabus names it or not. What feels different right now is the speed. The intensity. The sense that everything is happening at once.

This is where the idea of institutional neutrality starts to wobble. Universities like to claim it, but decisions about curriculum, funding, and whose safety is protected are never neutral. Students know this. They feel the disconnect between official messaging and lived reality, and that gap shapes trust in the classroom.

Students are arriving tired. Not just academically tired. Existentially tired. Carrying fear, urgency, and the sense that the stakes are always high. Naming that weight matters, because unacknowledged emotional labor does not disappear. It piles up.

And still, education remains a site of possibility. One of the few spaces where people can practice disagreement, care, and collective thinking at the same time. Tension and possibility coexist. They always have.

This is also where the Fire Horse becomes personal for me. The heat I feel right now is not abstract. It is in my body, in my work, and in the classroom. Professionally, it shows up as urgency and responsibility. Education is being asked to carry more than it ever has before. Personally, it shows up as restlessness and conviction. A pull toward action rather than waiting.

The Fire Horse gives me language for that overlap. Not as destiny, but as a way to name the pressure of moving forward while everything feels exposed and accelerated.

So the question I keep coming back to is not how to cool everything down or how to push harder. It is this. When everything feels charged, what does responsible movement look like.

Part of that, for me, has meant thinking differently about politics in design education. There is a belief I hear often that politics have no place in the classroom. I understand the impulse behind that. When everything already feels heavy, protecting the classroom as a calm space makes sense. I am still working through this myself. I do not have a clean answer.

What I do know is that design has never existed outside culture, power, or consequence. Pretending otherwise asks students to ignore the world their work will live in. At the same time, turning every class into a constant emergency helps no one. Too much intensity shuts learning down.

What I am trying to move toward is clarity paired with steadiness. Naming that design shapes narratives and access without performing outrage. Being honest about values while also saying, we are not here to solve everything today. Modeling discernment instead of reaction. Conviction without combustion.

That also means letting go of perfection. One of the biggest shifts I am circling right now is choosing momentum over polish. The Fire Horse helps here. Not as pressure to go faster, but as permission to keep moving even when things are not fully resolved.

Adaptive teaching is not a failure of planning. It is a response to reality. Sometimes clarity shows up midstream. An evolving syllabus or a project that shifts partway through the term can feel risky, especially in systems that reward control. But I have found that transparency builds trust.

Agency plays a role here too. When students have ownership over how they engage with material, things often settle rather than spin out. Freedom within form. Clear goals. Clear expectations. And room to move inside them.

If the Fire Horse brings momentum, it also demands restraint. Burnout is often worn like a badge of honor in higher education. Long hours. Constant urgency. Emotional availability without limits. Exhaustion is not a personal failure. It is an outcome.

Restraint is part of the work. Not suppression. Containment. Movement with limits. Heat with direction.

This moment feels heavy. Politically. Culturally. Personally. Naming that matters. But heaviness does not have to mean paralysis. The Fire Horse reminds me that movement is still possible under pressure. Not frantic motion. Purposeful motion.

I do not have this figured out. I am working through it alongside my students, coming off the high of finishing my thesis and straight back into the reality of the world. Researching. Paying attention. Taking new ideas seriously. This is how I keep moving through this crazy life with intention.

So the invitation I am holding is simple. Move forward, but do not rush. Stay engaged, but do not disappear into urgency. Let learning be an act of grounded, deliberate motion. In a heated world, that kind of movement matters.

Fire Horse Moments in Time

Fire Horse years follow a 60 year cycle. They tend to show up during moments when pressure is already high and movement becomes unavoidable. Not as cause. As context. Here’s a grounded timeline, starting in the 1800s and moving toward now, naming both the damage and the forward motion.

1846
The hard part: The Mexican–American War begins, violently reshaping U.S. borders through displacement and conquest. The Donner Party tragedy unfolds during westward expansion, becoming a stark symbol of ambition colliding with brutal reality.
The forward motion:The territorial shape of the modern United States is fundamentally altered. Infrastructure, trade routes, and migration patterns accelerate. The contradictions of expansion, freedom, and violence become harder to ignore, setting the stage for later national reckonings.

1906
The hard part: The San Francisco earthquake and fires devastate the city, exposing how fragile infrastructure and emergency systems really were.
The forward motion: Rebuilding reshapes urban planning, building codes, and disaster response. A modern city emerges out of rupture, loss, and forced adaptation.

1966
The hard part: The Cultural Revolution escalates in China, targeting education, intellectual life, and cultural institutions. Globally, political unrest, protest, and violence intensify.
The forward motion: In the U.S., civil rights organizing gains visibility and traction. Student movements reshape universities. Culture, art, design, and media shift, making space for new voices and new ways of thinking.

2026
Context, not prediction.
The tension: Polarized politics, attacks on education and academic freedom, widespread burnout, rapid technological change.
The potential: Reimagining how education functions. New models of care, labor, and learning. Increased visibility for voices pushing systemic change.

The pattern:
Fire Horse years tend to align with moments when systems strain and standing still stops working. Things break. Things shift. Destruction and creation sit side by side. Not destiny. Just a way of noticing when history speeds up and asks for direction instead of comfort.

SOURCES

Chinese Cosmology, Zodiac, and Cultural Frameworks

Anne Birrell. Chinese Mythology: An Introduction. Routledge, 1993.

Nathan Sivin. Selected essays on Chinese cosmology and calendrical systems, including “Chinese Alchemy and the Manipulation of Time” and “Cosmos and Computation in Early Chinese Mathematical Astronomy.”

Joseph Needham. Science and Civilisation in China. Volumes on cosmology and natural philosophy. Cambridge University Press.

Wolfram Eberhard. A Dictionary of Chinese Symbols. Routledge, 1986.

Livia Kohn. Daoism and Chinese Culture. Three Pines Press.

Richard J. Smith. Fortune-Tellers and Philosophers: Divination in Traditional Chinese Society. Westview Press.

Studies on the Fire Horse year (丙午, Bingwu) in Chinese cultural history and social belief.

Japanese cultural and sociological studies on the Fire Horse year (Hinoeuma).

Encyclopaedia Britannica. Entry on the Chinese Zodiac.

Asia Society. Educational essays on Lunar New Year and Chinese zodiac symbolism.

Higher Education, Politics, and Institutional Context

Henry Giroux. Selected essays on higher education, democracy, and political pressure.

American Association of University Professors. Reports on academic freedom, curriculum control, and political interference in higher education.

Healthy Minds Network. National surveys on college student mental health, anxiety, depression, and burnout.

Danielle Allen. Selected writings on civic education, democratic participation, and the role of higher education.

Pedagogy, Care, and Emotional Labor

Arlie Hochschild. The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling. University of California Press.

bell hooks. Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom. Routledge.

Stephen Brookfield. The Skillful Teacher. Jossey-Bass.

Stephen Brookfield. Becoming a Critically Reflective Teacher. Jossey-Bass.

Sara Ahmed. Living a Feminist Life. Duke University Press.

Kevin Kumashiro. Against Common Sense: Teaching and Learning Toward Social Justice.

Learning, Agency, and Reflective Practice

Donald Schön. The Reflective Practitioner: How Professionals Think in Action. Basic Books.

Rebecca Pope-Ruark. Agile Faculty: Practical Strategies for Managing Research, Service, and Teaching. University of Chicago Press.

Paulo Freire. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Continuum.

James Paul Gee. Selected writings on situated learning and learning as social practice.

Edward L. Deci and Richard M. Ryan. Self-Determination Theory: Basic Psychological Needs in Motivation, Development, and Wellness. Guilford Press.

Zaretta Hammond. Culturally Responsive Teaching and the Brain. Corwin.

Purpose, Uncertainty, and Democratic Education

Gert Biesta. Selected writings on the purpose of education, uncertainty, and democratic learning spaces.

It is tempting to think hustle culture belongs to the internet age, all rise and grind hashtags and glossy morning routines. But hustle has a longer story. It is not a glitch in the system, it is the system. Centuries of philosophy, religion, and law have told us that labor is punishment, labor is calling, labor is proof of worth. Those stories braided together with capitalism, colonialism, and white supremacy. They shaped not only who works, but whose work counts, and who gets to rest.

In the earliest stories we have, work was not celebrated. In the Hebrew tradition, labor was framed as punishment after Eden. Survival would come by the sweat of your brow. The Greeks agreed. They saw manual labor as beneath the dignity of a free person. Their word for it, ponos, came from poena, meaning sorrow or penalty. Freedom meant time for ideas and politics, while physical work was handed to enslaved people. The Romans locked that logic in. Their empire ran on enslaved labor that powered farms, industries, and trade routes. The wealth of a few rested entirely on the exhaustion of many. That split between those who labor and those who profit is one of the oldest patterns we still carry.

The Reformation gave labor new clothes. Martin Luther called it a Beruf, a divine calling. John Calvin, with his doctrine of predestination, pushed people to look for proof of grace. If salvation was uncertain, then discipline and success on earth could stand as evidence. Work became not only survival but performance. Max Weber later described this as a this-worldly asceticism. Even after the religious roots faded, the ethic stuck. Work was not just what you did, it was who you were. And the iron cage of capitalism closed around us.

But cages always have locks, and those locks were designed to keep some people inside and others outside. Cedric Robinson argued that capitalism was never colorblind. From its beginnings, it relied on racial hierarchy to decide who was expendable and who was protected. Theodore Allen showed how colonial laws in Virginia split labor into white and Black, with privileges for poor Europeans and permanent bondage for Africans. That divide was deliberate. It kept white workers invested in a system that still exploited them, because at least they were not enslaved. This is one of the earliest hustles in history: convince some workers that their survival depends on keeping others down.

The echoes are easy to spot today. Workplaces reward urgency, quantity over quality, a demand for perfection, and the assumption that those in power always know best. These are not harmless quirks of office life. They are habits of control. James W. Vander Zanden studied how ideologies of hierarchy were built into systems of segregation and exclusion. The same logic shows up when we celebrate speed at all costs or treat rest as laziness. Are we pushing productivity, or are we quietly repeating scripts built to protect power?

For people denied stable jobs, hustle has long been survival. Marginalized communities built informal economies, traded skills, and pieced together work that formal systems refused them. But notice the split. A white entrepreneur stringing together gigs might be praised for innovation. A Black or immigrant worker doing the same could be punished or dismissed as illegitimate. Who gets to be called resourceful, and who is called a threat? The answer has never been about the work itself, but about race, class, and power.

By the late twentieth century, hip hop reshaped hustle into pride. Out of exclusion grew an art form that turned scarcity into sound, style, and story. Hustle became proof of resilience. Yet the system moved quickly to cash in. Record labels and brands profited from the culture while barriers remained in place for the creators. That cycle is familiar: extract value, control the gate, profit from the labor of others.

The 1980s gave us corporate hustle. Eighty-hour weeks and Wall Street slogans about greed being good. Neoliberal policy tore apart collective supports and told us success was an individual responsibility. The myth was never evenly distributed. White workers were encouraged to see hustle as upward mobility. Black and brown workers were navigating redlined neighborhoods, underfunded schools, and discriminatory hiring practices. At the same time neoliberalism was normalizing hustle, it was also expanding prisons and policing. Hustle could mean reward for some and punishment for others.

By the 2000s, side hustle was rebranded as freedom. Gig platforms promised flexibility but delivered instability. The same practices repeated: a white freelancer juggling contracts might be celebrated, while a Black worker piecing together multiple jobs was labeled unreliable. Who gets to frame their hustle as choice, and who is forced to hustle as necessity?

The 2010s cranked the pressure higher. Silicon Valley glorified garage start-ups and sleepless founders. Influencers turned grind into performance. Visibility itself became labor. Yet for Black creators, platforms were both lifeline and battleground. Black Twitter turned one-way broadcasting into collective conversation, drawing on long traditions of call and response. Creativity thrived. Harassment, disinformation, and bias followed. Independent projects like This Week in Blackness survived anyway. Sarah Florini called this the interstitial hustle — passion and resilience colliding with exhaustion, because opting out was never an option. Again the question: who gets rewarded for being visible, and who gets targeted for it?

The costs of hustle are not shared evenly. Burnout lands heavier on those already carrying systemic barriers. Toxic productivity is not just a mindset problem. It is the outcome of structures that force some people to prove their worth again and again while others are granted trust without question.

Some workers are starting to push back. Quiet quitting gave way to quiet thriving. Others argue that non-work is not waste but resistance. These shifts are not lifestyle tweaks. They are cracks in the value system that ties worth to output.

Design is not outside of this. Victor Margolin reminded us that design is never neutral. Our field often glorifies overwork. Students are told that all-nighters are part of the process. Professionals move from deadline to deadline inside metrics that reward speed over meaning. These are the same norms of perfectionism and urgency that white supremacy has long used to rank people by worth.

Educator Allen Morris knows this pressure well. After the pandemic, he noticed students expected him to be available at all hours. Emails arrived at two in the morning with demands for instant replies. He set a boundary. “When my office door is closed, you cannot barge in like the Kool-Aid Man.” His line got a laugh, but it was also serious. Limits are not about shutting students out. They are about modeling care. He also makes his creative work visible. With 3D printers humming in his office, students wander in to watch or join. Hustle’s lonely grind turns into something communal. He brings in failed sculptures too, calling them monuments to failure. His mantra is clear: “We can critique shit, but we cannot critique nothing.” Failure is not weakness, it is part of the process. By showing this, he chips away at the perfectionism and individualism that white supremacy demands.

Designer Nermin Moufti names the problem directly. She points out that creative industries pressure people to generate constantly, win awards, and tie their worth to output. Those habits mirror the larger systems of domination. Her studio refuses that pace. No Friday work. Time for family and community. Clients chosen for their values. She reframes the creative brief with one simple question: what would be lost if this work did not exist? That flips urgency into intention. It also shifts the measure of value from speed to meaning. Moufti talks often about her “village” of peers and collaborators. Community, not isolation, is what sustains her. Her hope for younger designers is that they stop tying their worth to what they produce and start believing that showing up fully as themselves is enough.

Together, Morris and Moufti remind us that hustle is not neutral. It was designed into our systems to extract labor and measure worth unevenly. But they also remind us that it is possible to practice differently. Boundaries can be care. Failure can be learning. Slowness can be intention. Community can be survival.

Hustle culture is not an accident of the modern world. It is the latest chapter in a story about how societies value and exploit labor. From work as punishment, to work as calling, to work as proof of moral worth, the logic has carried forward. White supremacy and capitalism sit inside that logic, shaping who hustles by choice and who hustles for survival, who gets rewarded and who gets erased.

Graphic design and other creative fields live inside this tension. We have celebrated the tireless worker who sacrifices everything for craft, and we have also paid the price. Students accept unpaid internships. Professionals work long hours for little recognition. Everyone is asked to be visible and constantly producing. It does not have to stay this way. Balance, collaboration, values, and community can open other paths.

The better question is what we want our classrooms, studios, and lives to look like. What if balance and care were part of rigor? What if justice and sustainability mattered as much as deadlines? What if rest was treated not as failure but as a necessary condition for creativity? Hustle was designed into our systems. Which means we can design our way out.

Sources

• Hill, Roger B. Historical Context of the Work Ethic. 1992, 1999.

• Weber, Max. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. 1905; trans. Talcott Parsons, Routledge, 1992; expanded ed., Routledge Classics, 2001.

• Robinson, Cedric. Black Marxism: The Making of the Black Radical Tradition. 1983.

• Jepsen, Nicolai C., and Lauren Eaton. “Hustle: A Conceptual Exploration of Work at the Margins.” Management & Organizational History, 2025.

• Lomazzi, Vera Bellini, and Francesca Bellini. “Changing Work Values: Beyond Hustle Culture.” Sociológia – Slovak Sociological Review, 2024.

• Casali, Ellyn. Disrupting Hustle Culture. Malmö University, Master’s Thesis, 2022.

• Kelley, Robin D. G. Yo’ Mama’s DisFunktional! 1997.

• Assariy, A. et al. “Literature Review: The Influence of Hustle Culture on Mental Health.” Journal of Business and Management Studies, 2024.

• George, Shaji. “The ‘Anti-Hustle’ Ethos Among Generation Z Workers.” Journal of Business Research Review, 2024.

• Florini, Sarah J. Race, Culture, and Digital Studies. NYU Press, 2019.

• Revenberg, Mart. Can’t Knock the Hustle: Jay-Z, Black Capitalism and Social Justice in Hip-Hop Culture. MA Thesis, University of Groningen, 2019.

• Aliansi: Jurnal Politik, Keamanan dan Hubungan Internasional. Template reference, 2022.

• Maharani, Aulia Putri et al. “The Behavior of Hustle Culture among Students in Faculty of Social and Political Science Jenderal Soedirman University.” International Journal of Multidisciplinary Sciences, 2024.

• Chairunnisah, Athifah & Kurnia, Lilawati. “Hustle Culture in Social Media: Exploring the Imagined Success in the Modern Era.” ATHENA: Journal of Social, Culture and Society, 2023.

• Perić, Novela. Hustle Culture and Mental Health. Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Zagreb, 2023.

• Barton, Erica. Examining the Impact of White Supremacy Cultural Norms on Workplace Learning. Ed.D. Dissertation, Northeastern University, 2022.

• Propter Nos. Volume 3: Anti-/Non-. True Leap Press, 2019.

• Balkeran, Arianna. Hustle Culture and the Implications for Our Workforce. MA Thesis, Baruch College, 2020.

• Margolin, Victor. The Politics of the Artificial: Essays on Design and Design Studies. University of Chicago Press, 2002.

• Harvey, David. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford University Press, 2005.

• Vander Zanden, James W. “The Ideology of White Supremacy.” Journal of the History of Ideas, vol. 20, no. 3, 1959, pp. 385–402

• Elphick, Richard. “A Comparative History of White Supremacy.” Review of George M. Fredrickson’s White Supremacy: A Comparative Study in American and South African History. Journal of Interdisciplinary History, vol. 13, no. 3, 1983, pp. 503–513

While I work, I like a little background noise. Usually music, sometimes a podcast. But every now and then, I need something that wraps around me like a blanket made of glitter and gumption. A comfort movie. You know the kind: familiar, steady, weirdly grounding. One of my go-tos is To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar. If you know me, you already know it’s one of my all-time favorites. I’ve even been called Auntie Vida before... but that’s a story for another time.

This last time I had it on, something shifted. I wasn’t just half-watching drag queens road-trip across the country. I was really listening. I started noticing how they show up for each other—the way Vida holds space with grace and backbone, the way Noxeema delivers truth that actually lands, the way Chi-Chi slowly, awkwardly grows into her own. It all started to sound a lot like mentorship. Not the formal kind with check-ins and quarterly goals. The real kind. The kind made of presence, protection, hard truths, and second chances. The kind that’s carried me through this creative field—and the kind I try to offer when it’s my turn.

If you’ve never seen To Wong Foo, here’s the quick version: two drag queens—Vida Boheme (Patrick Swayze) and Noxeema Jackson (Wesley Snipes)—win a local pageant in New York. On their way out, they spot Chi-Chi Rodriguez (John Leguizamo) crying in the stairwell, and in a moment of compassion and sisterhood, they decide to bring her along. The three of them trade in their plane tickets for a beat-up Cadillac, get stranded in a dusty little town called Snydersville, and accidentally change the place forever.

But this isn’t a story about being stuck. It’s a story about transformation both theirs and everyone else’s. And that transformation doesn’t happen through flash or force. It happens through showing up.

Three Queens, Three Lessons

I used to watch To Wong Foo for the fashion, the one-liners, the drama. And yes, those still hit. But lately I’ve been tuning into the quieter parts; how each queen holds space for the others. The way they check in, check each other, pass the mic, and hold the line. It’s mentorship in motion.

Vida Boheme: The Graceful Guardian

Vida is elegance and order and quiet authority. She’s the one who steps in, steadies the room, and makes it safe for people to figure themselves out. She’s calm. She’s composed. But don’t confuse that for passive. She leads with love and backbone.

She’s the kind of mentor who sees your potential and holds it up like a mirror until you can finally see it too. One of my favorite lines of hers? “You just imagine good things happening and then you make them happen.” That’s it. That’s design. That’s mentorship. That’s what we’re trying to do in every critique, every conversation, every revised portfolio. Not magic. Intention, then follow-through.

I’ve had a few Vidas in my life … the mentors who didn’t mold me into their image, but helped me become a sharper version of myself. When I teach, when I give feedback, when I sit across from someone who’s unraveling, I try to channel that.

Sometimes the best thing a mentor can do is say, “I see you. You can do this. Let’s fix your layout and then get some food.”

Noxeema Jackson: The Straight Shooter

Noxeema does not play. She’s stunning, she’s smart, and she does not suffer nonsense. She will protect you in public and check you in private. She is your fiercest defender and your most honest critic, depending on what you need that day.

She reminds me of the mentors who taught me to take critique seriously but not personally. The ones who handed me a hard truth and a helpful tool at the same time. It stings, but it sticks. And it makes you better not just at the work, but at holding your own in a messy, ego-filled field.

Noxeema moments don’t always come from “official” mentors. Sometimes they come from classmates, colleagues, or students. But the message is the same: be honest, be sharp, be better than your excuses.

Chi-Chi Rodriguez: The Blooming Peer

Chi-Chi is chaos and charm and raw potential all at once. She wants to be taken seriously so badly, even when she’s not totally sure she deserves it. She’s impulsive and dramatic and desperately trying. And over time, she starts to believe she belongs.

She reminds me of early versions of myself; full of ideas, unsure how to carry them. And she reminds me of the students and collaborators I’ve had who just needed someone to see them clearly and stay long enough for them to see themselves.

Mentorship isn’t always about fixing someone. Sometimes it’s just walking beside them until they find their own footing. Sometimes Chi-Chi becomes the one teaching you.

Also, her use of the word “romantical”? Peak poetry. More of that energy, please.

The Town Is the Classroom

The queens didn’t roll into Snydersville planning to mentor anyone. They just wanted to get to Hollywood. But a busted car turned their detour into a masterclass for everyone.

The town greets them with suspicion, awkwardness, and quiet resistance. But instead of hiding out or getting defensive, the queens show up. They move through the space. They ask questions. They notice who’s being ignored. And eventually, they become part of the fabric.

They don’t transform the town by yelling louder. They do it by being fully present, fully themselves. They model care. They model confidence. They model community. And slowly, people start to see themselves differently because someone else saw them first.

There’s this moment near the end of the film, when one of the locals reflects on the queens’ impact and says, “I can tell you one thing about them founding fathers of America… they sure had fabulous wigs.” It’s funny. But it’s also a quiet rebellion. A reminder that power doesn’t always wear a powdered wig. Sometimes it wears a sequined gown and heels and changes everything just by showing up.

It reminded me of the studios and classrooms I’ve moved through. Some were warm. Some were... not. But in every space, there was a moment where someone’s presence shifted the energy. Where someone stayed. That kind of mentorship (quiet, steady, without ego) creates actual change.

The creative field doesn’t always make this easy. There’s gatekeeping. There’s perfectionism. There’s pressure to look like you’ve already made it. But the moments that shaped me? They weren’t about performance. They were about someone being willing to stay.

Showing Up Is the Real Work

Drag is performance. Design is performance. Let’s not pretend it’s not.

We layer on style, references, attitude. We build a version of ourselves we hope others will take seriously. In both fields, there’s a rhythm: create, present, hold the pose. And do not crack.

But that’s not where the magic lives.

The queens in To Wong Foo are glamorous, no doubt. But it’s not the lashes or the lip syncs that change Snydersville. It’s Vida helping Carol see herself again. It’s Noxeema gently checking on someone who didn’t say anything but needed it. It’s Chi-Chi trying to connect, even when it’s clumsy.

That’s presence. That’s what actually moves people.

In creative spaces, we’re often told to lead with polish. But I’ve seen more power in the moments when someone says, “I’m stuck,” or “I’m scared,” or “This isn’t working and I don’t know why.” That kind of honesty takes more courage than any tight portfolio ever will.

I’m over critique-as-theater. I’m over pretending things are fine just to be seen as competent. I don’t want to perform for people. I want to show up. Fully. Honestly. Responsibly.

That’s what the queens do. They’re themselves. Even when it’s messy. Even when the plan falls apart. That’s the kind of mentorship I believe in now. Not polished. Not perfect. Just present.

Thanks for Everything

It still surprises me how much a comfort film can teach you when you’re not asking for a lesson.

To Wong Foo wasn’t made to be a mentorship manual. But it’s become one for me. I go back for the beauty and the camp, but I stay for the reminder that real transformation doesn’t have to be loud to be real. Sometimes it looks like a woman walking taller. Sometimes it looks like a scared kid finding their voice. Sometimes it looks like a tired designer remembering why they started.

The queens didn’t show up with a lesson plan. They just kept showing up. With care. With clarity. With enough courage to be real in a world that didn’t always welcome them. And because of that, people changed. On their own terms. With a little backup.

That’s the kind of space I want to make. That’s the kind of mentor I want to be. Not perfect. Not untouchable. Just present. Just willing to say, “You’re not alone. Let’s figure it out.”

So thank you, Auntie Vida. Thank you, Noxeema. Thank you, Miss Chi-Chi Rodriguez.

Thanks for everything.

A Quick Note

To Wong Foo is a comfort movie for me, but it’s not without its flaws. It came out in 1995, and you can tell. There are moments that include domestic violence, racial slurs, and stereotypes that don’t sit right today. Some parts are hard to watch, especially if you’re not expecting them.

Still, for all its limitations, the heart of the film holds up. It’s messy and campy and full of love. Just go in with open eyes and maybe a friend to watch it with.

Chosen family always helps.

Sources:To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar (dir. Beeban Kidron, 1995)“Four Archetypes to Help Mentees Succeed in Academic Medicine,” JAMA Internal Medicine“4 Types of Mentors: How to Know Which One You Need,” Empowermenteur“The Impact of Emotional Intelligence on Domain-Specific Creativity,” Frontiers in Psychology“The Role of Mentoring in Developing Leaders’ Emotional Intelligence,” Frontiers in Education“Kindling the Fire: The Power of Mentorship,” Journal of Graduate Medical Education“The Science of Mentoring Relationships,” National Institutes of Health / NCBI“Creativity Goes With Emotional Intelligence,” Psychology Today“Emotional Intelligence and Creativity,” The Oxford Review

Over time, I came to see agency as the power to choose. To create from a place of internal clarity and stubborn hope. How I got there? Not entirely sure.

Now that I’m teaching, I find myself wanting to explain the things that were never fully explained to me. So I’m taking a crack at breaking down what agency means and maybe how you can find it for yourself. Also, it’s summer and I’ve been in the kitchen a lot, so this whole thing is going to be framed like a meal. Fair warning.

First Course: Definitions

I started with Google, like any millennial raised on search bars. After digging a bit, I found a way to break agency into five categories that helped it feel less abstract: core, personal, sociological, collective, and creative.

Core Agency
The basic capacity to act, to set a goal, make a choice, and start something.It’s not about external permission. It’s about motion. This is the version of agency that gets you out of bed, sends the email, starts the thing. It’s what fuels everything else. Without it, you stall.

Personal Agency
The belief that you have control.That you can make choices, change your direction, and shape your life. It’s built through experience, reflection, and honestly, a lot of unlearning. Especially if you’ve been told you don’t get to lead. This kind of agency has to be grown, like a skill or a muscle.

Sociological Agency
Your ability to move within or push against the systems around you.This one zooms out. It looks at power, privilege, access. Who gets to act freely, and who gets blocked or punished for trying? Agency here isn’t always evenly distributed. It’s shaped by class, race, gender, labor, and more.

Collective Agency
Shared action.What happens when people come together with purpose. Designing together. Resisting together. Co-creating. This kind of agency depends on communication, trust, and a shared goal. It works best when everyone’s voice actually counts.

Creative Agency
Making something that didn’t exist before.Creative agency is the freedom to remix, question, and invent. It thrives when people are allowed to take risks, challenge norms, and bring their full selves into the work. It gets even stronger when it’s collaborative. Different perspectives lead to deeper, stranger, more honest work.

The Metaphor Shift: From Theory to Kitchen

After all that, I still wanted to get weird with it. I came across Rae Turpin’s piece in An Encyclopaedia of Radical Helping, where she reimagines agency as a myth, a dance, an ecology, a bridge, a seed, and an invitation. It completely restructured how I saw the word. The dance metaphor stuck with me, but for this piece, I’m choosing something more grounded in my daily life: cooking.

It’s summer. I’m food-motivated. Let’s roll with it.

Cooking for Myself: Personal Agency

Cooking for myself is an act of self-trust. It’s not about impressing anyone. It’s about paying attention to what I need and responding with care. Agency, for me, looks like:

• Choosing my ingredients with intention. What am I feeding my creativity with? Who are my mentors, my muses, my secret spices?

• Making it my own. I don’t owe anyone a perfect final product. I can remix the recipe. Use what’s in the fridge. Add chili flakes if it needs fire.

• Tasting and adjusting. Agency means checking in. Mid-project, mid-process, mid-mess. Too bitter? Add sweetness. Too bland? Turn up the heat.

• Feeding myself first. Before I cook for others, I have to nourish my own creative, emotional, and spiritual hunger. I’m worth the extra care.

Cooking for myself is how I reclaim time, story, and space. It’s a way of saying: I decide what sustains me.

Cooking in the Classroom: Teaching with Agency

Teaching is like cooking a big, weird, beautiful meal for a table full of guests. Each one has different tastes, backgrounds, needs, and sensitivities. Some days it’s chaos. But here’s what it can look like when I teach with agency:

• Planning the menu, but staying flexible. I prep. I have the ingredients. But I’ll switch it up if the vibe changes.

• Considering who’s at the table. What are my students hungry for? What are they already full of? What have they never been offered?

• Cooking with love, not ego. I don’t need to dazzle. I need to feed. Show up with presence. Season generously. Make enough to go around.

• Accepting the mess. Great meals leave dishes. Real learning leaves scraps. If the critique gets real or the project unravels, that’s part of the kitchen process.

I’m not just dishing out content. I’m feeding growth, confidence, and care.

Letting My Students Cook: Cultivating Agency in Others

Design students aren’t line cooks—they’re developing their own recipes. Helping them find agency looks like:

• Letting them cook. Don’t just hand them templates. Ask what they want to make. What hunger they’re trying to fill.

• Teaching them to season to taste. Knowing when to turn up the contrast, quiet the noise, or break the grid is part of the craft.

• Letting them burn the first batch. Or the second. Or toss the whole thing and start fresh. That’s learning.

• Encouraging them to cook for each other. Share work. Give feedback. Offer nourishment, not critique-as-competition.

They’re learning to care for themselves and others through the act of design. That’s not just skill-building. That’s agency.

Final Stir

All of this might feel like a lot for one little word. But in design, “agency” gets tossed around constantly. I wanted to actually understand what it means, not just nod along like I’ve got it figured out. Breaking it down like this helped me. Maybe it’ll help someone else too.

Sources

Core and Personal Agency (Psychology & Cognitive Theory):

• Bandura, Albert. Social Foundations of Thought and Action: A Social Cognitive Theory. Prentice-Hall, 1986.

• Bandura, Albert. “Human Agency in Social Cognitive Theory.” American Psychologist, vol. 44, no. 9, 1989, pp. 1175–1184.

• Deci, Edward L., and Ryan, Richard M. Intrinsic Motivation and Self-Determination in Human Behavior. Plenum, 1985.

Sociological Agency (Structure & Power):

• Giddens, Anthony. The Constitution of Society: Outline of the Theory of Structuration. University of California Press, 1984.

• Sewell Jr., William H. “A Theory of Structure: Duality, Agency, and Transformation.” American Journal of Sociology, vol. 98, no. 1, 1992, pp. 1–29.

• Emirbayer, Mustafa, and Mische, Ann. “What Is Agency?” American Journal of Sociology, vol. 103, no. 4, 1998, pp. 962–1023.

Collective Agency:

• Bandura, Albert. “Exercise of Human Agency through Collective Efficacy.” Current Directions in Psychological Science, vol. 9, no. 3, 2000, pp. 75–78.

• Freire, Paulo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Herder and Herder, 1970.

Creative Agency (Design & Education):

• Manzini, Ezio. Design, When Everybody Designs: An Introduction to Design for Social Innovation. MIT Press, 2015.

• hooks, bell. Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom. Routledge, 1994.

Metaphorical Reframing of Agency:

• Turpin, B. Rae. “Agency as Myth, Dance, Ecology, Bridge, Seed, and Invitation.” In An Encyclopaedia of Radical Helping, edited by Morgan and Simon, Prototype Publishing, 2022.

Me and the moon—we’ve got this shared experience of always being seen, always watched. The poem captures that tension, the push and pull between what’s illuminated and what stays in shadow, between being understood and just existing. The moon’s cycles get measured, her glow admired but dissected. I feel that same pressure—the weight of being observed, expected to lay it all out, to make sense on someone else’s terms.

The collage builds on those ideas, layering light, shadow, and texture to reinforce them. The bold red moon is both a grounding force and a symbol of exposure. The figures pointing and observing? They represent that constant scrutiny, that need to break things down into something easier to grasp. And then there’s the central figure, emerging from the textured layers of a rose—holding her own space, refusing to flatten herself just to fit expectations.

Repetition plays into the rhythm of it all—the gestures, the vintage aesthetics, the overlapping forms—mirroring both the moon’s phases and the way being seen can feel cyclical, never-ending. The textures emphasize what’s human, imperfect, real. Not everything has to be fully visible or neatly explained. For me, this piece is about resisting the need to perform for the gaze and choosing instead to shine on my own terms.

The Process: Live Editing with Photoshop Adjustment Layers

To bring these ideas into the visual realm, I walked through the editing process live in front of my class using Adobe Photoshop adjustment layers. It wasn’t just about showing the technical side—it was about demonstrating how each choice reinforces meaning and emotion.

Except, this process wasn’t perfect. We did it live over Zoom, thanks to me being sick and a mini snowstorm rolling in. Let’s just say, it was chaotic. My voice was half-gone, my internet connection lagged at all the worst moments, and some of the students couldn’t even see what was happening thanks to issues on their end. Classic. It was humbling, for sure—nothing like troubleshooting tech issues while trying to reaffirm that you know what you’re doing. But hopefully, despite all that, the students got something out of it. Maybe seeing the messy, unpolished side of creative work made it feel more real, more approachable.

1. Curves for Light and Shadow: Using Curves, I deepened contrast and played with illumination—emphasizing the tension between visibility and obscurity, between what’s revealed and what stays hidden.

2. Color Balance and Selective Color for Mood: The bold red of the moon didn’t just happen—it was intentional. I used Color Balance and Selective Color adjustments to push that intensity, making sure the red acted as both a focal point and a symbol.

3. Texture Through Layer Masks and Blending Modes: To make everything feel tactile, I worked with texture overlays and blending modes. Layer Masks let me control what was revealed and what faded into the background, reinforcing themes of partial visibility and self-possession.

4. Repetition and Pattern Using Clipping Masks: The figures pointing and observing? They weren’t just placed randomly. Using Clipping Masks and smart object manipulation, I layered them to echo both the moon’s phases and the repeated experience of being watched.

Through these adjustments, I showed my students that Photoshop isn’t just about making things look polished—it’s about using every tool to reinforce meaning, mood, and narrative.

The Poem: Me and the Moon

Me and the moon, we’ve got a thing—
a quiet understanding, a pull like the tide.
She hums in silver, I breathe in rhythm,
wrapped in the hush of a world too loud.

But they’re always watching, always measuring,
breaking her into phases, breaking me into parts.
They call her a mystery, but won’t let her rest.
They call me an enigma, but demand I explain.

She waxes, wanes—
they treat it like a schedule, like a rule.
I shift, I change—
they call it inconsistency.

They trace her scars like a puzzle to solve,
like knowing will give them control.
I feel their gaze, the weight of their words,
the expectation to stay still under scrutiny.

But me and the moon, we don’t owe them clarity.
She leans in close, brushes light on my skin,
whispers without words, let them wonder.
And so we shine, not for them, but for ourselves.

Reflection: Process Meets Concept

Doing this live edit wasn’t just about teaching Photoshop—it was about showing that every technical choice is an extension of the concept. Adjustment layers aren’t just for fine-tuning; they help shape meaning, control presence, and decide what’s revealed versus what stays in the shadows. And honestly? The process itself mirrored the theme. It was imperfect, a little chaotic, and full of unexpected moments—but that’s real. That’s what creating is. Just like the moon, creative work doesn’t owe anyone full visibility. It’s about intention, presence, and knowing that shining for yourself will always mean more than being seen on someone else’s terms.

I’m doing all the “right” things: staying alert, keeping my network strong, and preparing for whatever might come next if I don’t get to stay in this job that I love. But even with all the unknowns and potential pitfalls ahead, I’m not panicking. As I write this, I’m literally checking in with myself, asking, “Should I be panicking right now?” And the answer is still a solid, confident no.

It feels weird to say that because panic used to be my baseline.

I think back to being a teenager, curled up in bed, holding myself, crying at night, just wishing I could fast-forward to some magical “better next.” I can still feel how much I wanted to escape my circumstances, to outrun the pain and confusion of not knowing what came next. That feeling stuck with me into my 20s—and honestly, not so long ago in my early 30s. It took my entire life blowing up in the fall of 2023 for me to finally wake the fuck up and realize something critical: while I can control how I respond to what happens in my life, I cannot control what the universe throws at me.

That lesson? It was painful as hell. But it also cracked something open in me that I didn’t know was there.

So, does this mean I’ve got it all figured out now? Absolutely the fuck not. I’m still human. My anxiety about the future still shows up and whispers doubts in my ear. But here’s the difference: for the first time in my life, I’m okay with sitting in the murky, messy middle.

Right now, I’m working through Doorways to Transformation: Everyday Wisdom for the Creative Soul by Karen Kinney, and it’s been an anchor for me in this season of uncertainty. One quote that hit me like a truck was:
“I remind myself once more to enjoy the journey and take comfort in knowing that the calling from me isn’t in a hurry. Therefore, I don’t need to be in a hurry.”

The idea of not being in a hurry feels radical. Impossible, even. I mean, just look at the world right now—it feels like we’re barreling toward something catastrophic, and I can’t begin to understand what that something is. But for now, I’m holding on to that line: “take comfort in knowing that the calling from me isn’t in a hurry.”

Because here’s the thing: I’m in my calling right now. Teaching is what I’m meant to be doing in this moment. But I also know there’s more out there for me. Maybe another calling, or an evolution of this one, will come along. In the past, I would’ve been clawing and fighting to figure it out, forcing myself to make the next thing happen. But I’ve learned that’s pointless. It’s exhausting, and it doesn’t work. I’m where I need to be right now, and whatever’s next will show up when it’s time—not when I think I’m ready, but when the universe decides it’s time.

Kinney’s book also talks about the murky waters of transition, that in-between space where so much feels undefined and uncertain. I’ve started calling it the murky middle. In my grad program, we talk about the messy middle of a project—that chaotic, unclear stage between the start and the finish. That’s exactly what this phase of my life feels like: the murky middle between chapters in the book of my life.

And here’s the wild part: I’m starting to make peace with it.

Blending those two ideas—the messy middle, where all the creative breakthroughs happen, and the murky waters of transformation—has grounded me in ways I didn’t expect. That doesn’t mean it’s easy or comfortable. It’s not. There are still days when my anxiety gets the best of me, and I spiral into panic or make rash decisions. But I’m learning to sit with the discomfort, to lean into the uncertainty, and to see what lessons are hidden there. I’m also learning that it’s okay to admit I don’t have it all figured out.

In the past, my pride—and let’s be real, society’s obsession with perfection—kept me from being honest about that. I thought I had to have all the answers, had to look like I was in control. But… no one has it all figured out. No one. And if someone tells you they do, they’re lying. Understanding that has been one of the most freeing realizations of my life. I don’t need to be perfect. I just need to keep moving forward, to keep striving to be better. That’s enough.

Of course, being in this murky middle doesn’t mean I’m just sitting around, waiting for things to happen. I’m still moving in the direction I think I want to go, but I’m not forcing a reality that isn’t meant for me. I’m preparing for what might come, but I’m also leaving space for the unexpected—for new opportunities I can’t even imagine right now.

Honestly, I’m starting to enjoy this time of being “unformed.” There’s something liberating about not having it all figured out, about embracing the in-between. I don’t need to have it all mapped out, and I’m not arrogant enough to think I ever will. Maybe I’ll get clarity in my final breath—but until then, I’m letting myself evolve.

“There is a glory in life being unformed, one we so easily miss in our pursuit of ‘the next thing.’ The unknowing will work itself out in due time, paving the way for our own metamorphosis.”
—Karen Kinney, Doorways to Transformation, Ch. 1: Transitions

What Is a Critique, Really?

At its core, a critique is about evaluation and analysis—a fancy way of saying, “Let’s figure out what’s working and what’s not.” The word itself comes from the Greek kritikē (the art of judgment), rooted in krinein—meaning to separate, decide, or judge. Back in the day, critiques weren’t about ripping things apart; they were about sharpening the good stuff and leaving the fluff behind. Aristotle saw critique as a tool to dissect ideas with precision, turning it into a kind of intellectual surgery, not a battlefield.

Fast forward to the Enlightenment, and philosophers like Immanuel Kant picked up the torch. His Critique of Pure Reason (1781) wasn’t a scathing Yelp review of philosophy; it was a thoughtful exploration of ideas—what they could do, where they fell short, and how they could improve. At its best, critique isn’t about “This sucks”; it’s about asking, “What’s possible here?” It’s a mindset that prioritizes collaboration and curiosity over judgment and ego.

The Bauhaus: Critiques as Collaborative Exploration

The Bauhaus (1919–1933) is basically the Beyoncé of critique culture—an aspirational model for how feedback canwork. This legendary German design school often approached critiques as collaborative jam sessions, led by visionaries like Josef Albers, Paul Klee, and Wassily Kandinsky. The focus was on experimentation, iteration, and growth—a kind of creative problem-solving where failure wasn’t a villain but a stepping stone. Snacks optional, tears less so.

That said, not everyone at the Bauhaus got it right. While Walter Gropius, the school’s founder, championed a flat hierarchy where students and instructors tackled creative challenges side by side, some instructors leaned into more rigid, top-down critiques. Still, the Bauhaus showed the potential of critique done right: a space charged with energy, sparking innovation, and making progress the true star of the show. It’s a reminder that critique, at its best, builds creative momentum rather than stifling it.

When Did Critiques Go Wrong?

Somewhere along the way, the Bauhaus magic fizzled out. Post-World War II, as design education got more buttoned-up, critiques morphed from collaborative explorations into judgment-filled arenas. Borrowing from the stiff traditions of art academies, universities started treating critiques like high-stakes auditions where students had to defend their work in front of panels of experts. Think Shark Tank, but for your creative soul.

Prestigious schools like Yale and Cranbrook leaned into this model, turning critiques into moments of reckoning. Vulnerability became a weakness, and feedback felt less like a helping hand and more like a spotlight on everything wrong. By the 1950s and ’60s, with the cultural obsession over individual achievement, critiques shifted from constructive to competitive. It wasn’t about growing; it was about surviving—and maybe, if you were lucky, impressing the right people.

Pop Culture’s Role in the Problem

Pop culture has been no friend to critiques. Take Chip Kidd’s The Cheese Monkeys, where a professor takes critique culture to its villainous peak by literally burning a student’s work. Reality TV shows like Project Runway and Top Chef amplified this drama, turning feedback into a gladiator sport with contestants dodging brutal zingers while clinging to their pride. Sure, it makes for binge-worthy entertainment, but it also reinforces the myth that feedback needs to sting to stick. The result? A toxic cycle where critiques are feared as emotional smackdowns instead of tools for growth.

Power Dynamics, Ego, and the One-Sided Critique

A big problem with traditional critiques lies in the lopsided power dynamics. Historically, they’ve been led by instructors or “experts” who dominate the room, handing down verdicts on what’s “good” or “bad” with little room for conversation. Students are left to sit quietly, taking it all in without the chance to clarify their intentions or actually discuss their work. Instead of fostering collaboration, critiques become awkward performances—less about improvement and more about judgment.

Ego often amplifies this issue. Critics can’t resist turning feedback into a personal showcase, where clever zingers and intellectual flexes take priority over helping the work. In hierarchical or patriarchal systems, the critic’s voice becomes gospel, shifting the focus from the work to the critic’s need to assert authority. Students are left feeling more like defendants than creators.

The design world’s history of male domination has also shaped this dynamic. Authority has often been displayed through forceful or aggressive feedback, discouraging vulnerability and risk-taking. Students, in turn, play it safe, choosing ideas that won’t ruffle feathers over bold experimentation. This fear-driven approach stifles creativity and turns critiques into spaces where innovation struggles to thrive.

The solution lies in shifting the balance. Critics and facilitators must approach critiques with humility, centering feedback on the work rather than their own brilliance. A great critique creates a thoughtful dialogue where presenter, facilitator, and critiquer all contribute equally. The goal isn’t about proving who’s in charge but fostering an environment where risks are celebrated, boundaries are pushed, and growth becomes the ultimate outcome.

How Do We Fix Critiques?

Let me start by saying I’m not here to pretend I’ve cracked the code on perfect critiques. I’m a relatively new educator, not some critique wizard. But what I do know is that they don’t have to feel like public shaming. We can—and should—do better. After digging into resources and having some deep, soul-searching conversations with my educational mentors, I’ve gathered a few insights to help make critiques less terrifying and way more useful.

Critiques work best when they’re intentional, structured, and collaborative. To transform them into true growth opportunities, we need to shake up the way we approach them. This means redefining roles, creating a positive and supportive culture, and experimenting with formats that prioritize inclusivity and real dialogue. With a little effort, critiques can be less about dread and more about discovery.

Redefining the Roles

Critiques thrive on structure. Without it, they can quickly spiral into chaos or, worse, turn into a roast session nobody asked for. Clear roles are the backbone of a productive critique, ensuring the process stays collaborative, focused, and—most importantly—supportive. When everyone embraces their role—whether they’re the presenter, facilitator, critiquer, or note-taker—the session transforms from a stressful evaluation into a meaningful opportunity for growth. Here’s how it works:

The Presenter: This is your moment to shine—or at least explain. The presenter kicks things off by introducing their work, providing some context, and outlining exactly what kind of feedback they need. Whether it’s untangling a user flow or fine-tuning visuals, presenters set the tone by staying open to input and resisting the urge to go full defense mode.

The Facilitator: Think of the facilitator as the session’s cruise director—keeping discussions on track, managing time, and making sure everyone has their moment in the sun. They’re also the feedback translator, turning vague comments like “This doesn’t work” into something actionable, like “How does this align with the user’s needs?” A good facilitator keeps the conversation respectful and focused, guiding the group toward productive insights.

The Critiquers: These are the folks offering feedback, but not just any feedback—thoughtful, goal-oriented feedback tied to the project’s objectives. This isn’t the place for “I just don’t like it”; instead, critiquers ask questions like, “How does this support the user’s experience?” It’s about keeping feedback constructive and tethered to the work’s purpose, not personal taste.

The Note-Taker: Arguably the unsung hero of the critique, the note-taker documents all the juicy insights, questions, and action items so nothing gets lost in the post-critique haze. Their work ensures there’s a clear record to follow up on, keeping the momentum alive long after the session ends.

When these roles work together, critiques feel less like an ambush and more like a collaborative tune-up. It’s the difference between a creative traffic jam and a smooth ride to better ideas.

Reimagining Critique Formats

Switching up critique formats is like adding spice to a recipe—it keeps things fresh, engaging, and just a bit unexpected. A one-size-fits-all critique doesn’t cut it, so here are 12 creative formats to invigorate your sessions and keep everyone on their toes:

Post-It Note Critiques: Everyone anonymously writes feedback on sticky notes, clustering them around the design. Honest input? Check. Identifying common themes? Double check.

Blind Critiques: Feedback starts without any context from the presenter, focusing purely on first impressions. Afterward, the presenter shares their perspective, refining the feedback into a richer discussion.

Round-Robin Critiques: Feedback gets its moment in an organized rotation, making sure every participant contributes. Dominant voices? Not today.

Silent Critiques: All feedback is written—no talking allowed. This format reduces groupthink, encourages thoughtful responses, and ensures even the quietest voices get heard.

Small-Group Breakouts: Participants split into smaller groups, each tackling a specific aspect of the work. When they regroup, the broader insights emerge, and everyone wins.

Dot Voting Critiques: Feedback goes visual as participants mark areas of strength or concern with dots. Consensus points pop out, and discussions get sharper.

Speed Dating Critiques: Think rapid-fire rounds of feedback. Participants rotate through stations to give quick input on multiple projects—perfect for early-stage ideas or large groups.

Role-Playing Critiques: Participants take on personas—users, clients, developers—and provide feedback through their assigned lens. It’s empathy on steroids.

Gallery Walk Critiques: Designs are displayed gallery-style, and participants leave feedback as they stroll through. It’s focused, reflective, and slightly less intimidating than a spotlight critique.

Pro/Con Critiques: For every piece, participants offer one pro (what’s working) and one con (what could be improved). It’s balanced, structured, and keeps the feedback fair.

Sketching Feedback: Sometimes words fail. Participants sketch their suggestions directly onto or near the design, perfect for visual problem-solving and brainstorming.

Collaborative Redesign Critiques: After the feedback dust settles, participants team up to suggest redesigns or alternatives. This hands-on approach fosters creativity and real-time innovation.

Each of these formats brings something unique to the table, allowing critiques to adapt to the needs of the group and the stage of the creative process. The goal remains the same: to create a supportive, dynamic space where feedback fuels growth and sparks innovation.

Core Principles of Effective Critiques

At their best, critiques aren’t just a step in the process—they’re a powerhouse for collaboration, learning, and growth. To get there, critiques need to be rooted in strong, shared principles that guide the session and keep everyone moving toward the same goal. These principles help shift critiques away from being judgment-heavy and turn them into meaningful conversations that build stronger ideas. With clear expectations and a focus on purpose and progress, critiques become less scary and way more productive.

These principles act like the guardrails for keeping feedback constructive and discussions on track. When every critique session is grounded in these pillars, feedback transforms from a stress-inducing ordeal into a tool for real progress. Let’s break it down:

Clear Scope: Set the boundaries before you dive in. What aspects of the work are open for feedback—layout, tone, usability? What’s off-limits—budget constraints, finalized elements? A clearly defined scope keeps the critique focused and actionable, steering clear of unnecessary rabbit holes.

Shared Objectives: Everyone needs to be on the same page about the goals—both for the work itself and for the critique session. Are we honing the user experience? Punching up the visuals? Tackling a specific challenge? Shared objectives keep feedback anchored to the project’s purpose, ensuring it’s helpful and relevant.

Collaborative Conversation: Critiques should feel like dialogues, not lectures. The goal is to build on each other’s ideas, ask thoughtful questions, and explore possibilities. It’s not about who’s “right” or “wrong”; it’s about solving creative problems together. The best critiques leave participants energized, not defeated.

By centering critiques on these principles, the experience shifts from an intimidating evaluation to an empowering opportunity for growth and innovation. The key is creating a space where feedback is a tool, not a threat—and where every idea, no matter how unfinished, has the chance to grow into something great.

Crit Prep

Critiques aren’t magic—they don’t just happen. A successful critique requires preparation, intention, and a shared understanding of what the session is meant to achieve. Both educators and students play key roles in setting the stage for meaningful feedback. Here’s how each can prepare to make critiques productive, focused, and maybe even enjoyable:

For Educators

Establish a Clear Purpose and Scope. Kick things off by defining the goals of the critique. Is the session focused on the concept, usability, or specific visual elements? Communicate this to participants so they know exactly where to direct their feedback.

Set the Tone Early. Critiques should feel like a creative huddle, not a firing squad. Frame the session as an opportunity for growth and make it clear that feedback is about the work, not the person behind it. Model the kind of constructive, actionable feedback you expect from the group.

Provide Structure and Tools. Share an agenda and any necessary materials ahead of time. Whether you’re using sticky notes, silent critiques, or breakout groups, make sure the format matches the goals of the session. Clear instructions help everyone stay on track.

Curate Diverse Perspectives. Whenever possible, bring in voices outside the immediate group—like developers, marketers, or end-users. These perspectives enrich feedback and give students a taste of real-world collaboration.

Create a Safe Space. Set ground rules to keep the room a judgment-free zone. Encourage constructive dialogue and ban personal attacks. If things get tense, step in to refocus the conversation on the work.

Test the Logistics. Whether it’s pinning designs on a wall for in-person critiques or testing Miro for a virtual session, make sure your tools and setup work smoothly. Tech hiccups can derail the flow, so get ahead of them.

For Students

Clarify What You Need Feedback On. Walk into the critique with clear goals. Are you struggling with user flow, visual hierarchy, or messaging tone? Be specific so the feedback you get is relevant and actionable.

Understand the Context. Set your audience up for success by providing the background: project goals, user personas, style constraints, or earlier iterations. The more context you offer, the better the feedback you’ll receive.

Frame Your Presentation. Prepare a concise walkthrough of your work. Highlight key decisions and why you made them, but keep it brief. Your goal is to guide the discussion, not defend every pixel.

Anticipate Questions. Think ahead about areas where your work might raise eyebrows. Being ready to address these shows you’ve thought critically about your own work and keeps the conversation focused.

Stay Open-Minded. Feedback isn’t an attack—it’s a chance to improve. Listen actively, take notes, and resist the urge to explain away every critique. You don’t need all the answers right now.

Organize Your Materials. Whether it’s printed designs or a digital prototype, make sure your work is ready to share. Double-check that everything functions as it should to avoid any distractions during the session.

Have a Plan for Post-Critique. Afterward, review your notes and outline actionable steps to move your work forward. If anything is unclear, follow up for clarification or additional input.

Reimagining Critiques as Tools for Growth

Let me be clear: I don’t have all the answers for fixing critiques, and this isn’t a step-by-step manual. Instead, it’s a starting point—a way to organize my thoughts and invite more dialogue about how we approach this pivotal part of the creative process. Critiques hold immense power to shape our journeys, but they’ve also caused more pain than they should. My goal is to explore how we can bring critiques back to what they were meant to be: collaborative, constructive spaces where creators grow, refine their skills, and embrace new possibilities.

By fostering empathy, collaboration, and mutual respect, we can shift critiques from moments of dread to opportunities for transformation. Whether we’re using sticky notes, role-playing, or silent feedback sessions, the goal is always the same: to build better designs, empower creators, and strengthen the creative process.

This isn’t the final word—it’s the beginning of a conversation. Together, we have the power to reimagine critiques and ensure they inspire rather than intimidate. If this resonates, let’s keep the dialogue going. Reach out on Instagram (@kurious.katrina) or shoot me an email at katrina@kuriosity.design. The creative process is better when we work together, and the conversation around critiques is no exception.

Sources:

AIGA Eye on Design Article: Design Criticism Is Everywhere—Why Are We Still Looking For It?

Design Critiques: Encourage a Positive Culture to Improve Products

Aristotle’s Poetics

Bayles, David, and Orland, Ted. Art and Fear

Cambridge University Press: Cultural Evolution: A Review of Theoretical Challenges

Geahigan, George. The Discipline of Art Criticism: Implications for Practice

Gibbons, Sarah. How to Prepare for a Design Critique

Gropius, Walter. The Bauhaus Movement

Hickma, Richard. Teaching Art

Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason

Kidd, Chip. The Cheese Monkeys: A Novel in Two Semesters

Kozbelt, Aaron. The Aesthetic Legacy of Evolution: The History of the Arts as a Window Into Human Nature

Lee, Iris. A Practical Guide to Running Effective Design Critiques

Lee, Yoon Soo. Functional Criticism: How to Have Productive Critiques in the Creative Classroom

Lerman, Liz. Critical Response Process: A Method for Getting Useful Feedback on Anything You Make, from Dance to Dessert

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

Online Etymology Dictionary

Project Runway and Top Chef: Reality TV Critique Culture

Verpooten, Jan. Signaling and the Cultural Evolution of Art

Evolution and the Origins of Visual Art: An Archaeological Perspective

General Theories of Art as an Adaptation and the Origins of Art

Recent Theories and Debates about Evolution and the Arts: A Critical Review

The Artful Mind: A Critical Review of the Evolutionary Psychological Study of Art

The Arts and Human Nature: Evolutionary Aesthetics and the Evolutionary Status of Art Behaviors

Note: The cover art for this article was created using AI generation tools provided by Adobe Firefly.

It was a very chilly Sunday, which meant fewer kids crowding the glass and plenty of uninterrupted time for me to channel my inner David Attenborough. I pressed my face to the window, mesmerized by the otters’ graceful underwater acrobatics and the way they darted and twisted as if they were choreographing their own little water ballet. They didn’t just play, though; they worked. I watched as one otter retrieved a shell, floated on its back, and used a rock to crack it open with precision and determination. They were clever, resourceful, and focused—yet never seemed to lose their sense of fun.

As I stood there watching them, my designer brain couldn’t help but draw parallels—because that’s what it does. Otters and graphic designers? Turns out, they’re more alike than you’d think. Both are natural problem-solvers, multitasking wizards, and experts at making complex tasks look deceptively simple. Whether it’s cracking open a shell or tackling a design brief, otters and designers share a quirky mix of creativity, determination, and playfulness. And just like that, the idea for this article was born.

The more I thought about it, the clearer it became: otters are resourceful, endlessly curious, and masters of efficiency—qualities every designer aspires to. They juggle work and play effortlessly, tackle challenges head-on, and leave a lasting impact on their environment. Sound familiar?

In honor of these aquatic creatives, here are 13 ways graphic designers and otters are basically the same species (give or take a few fins).

Otters are tool users.
Sea otters use rocks to crack open shells, demonstrating their problem-solving skills and adaptability. Designers? Our “rocks” are Adobe tools, sketchpads, and whatever coffee mug we’re currently balancing on our desk. Different tools, same genius.

They’re natural multitaskers.
Otters are often seen floating on their backs while eating and grooming at the same time. Designers juggle client emails, deadlines, and ten layers in Photoshop without breaking a sweat—or at least, not visibly.

They keep things streamlined.
Otters use their streamlined bodies to navigate currents efficiently. Similarly, designers aim for simplicity and clarity in their designs, keeping everything clean, functional, and focused.

Otters thrive in collaboration.
River otters often work and play in groups, creating strong bonds and sharing tasks. Designers? We rely on collaboration, brainstorming sessions, and feedback loops to make our work stronger and more impactful.

They’re playful by nature.
Otters slide down riverbanks for fun, because why not? Designers have their own version of this—experimenting with new styles, typefaces, or software just to see where it leads. Play fuels creativity.

They’re excellent problem-solvers.
Whether it’s using tools or figuring out how to navigate their environment, otters are resourceful creatures. Designers are equally clever, turning tricky client briefs into visually stunning and effective solutions.

They maintain a stash of treasures.
Otters have favorite rocks they keep tucked in their “pockets” (yes, they have pockets!). Designers hoard their favorite fonts, color palettes, and design hacks like it’s a competitive sport.

They’re always curious.
Otters are inquisitive and love exploring their surroundings, much like designers who constantly seek inspiration, new techniques, and fresh ways to approach creative challenges.

They leave a mark.
Otters help maintain ecosystems by keeping prey populations balanced. Designers influence culture, create emotional connections, and leave their own mark on the world through branding, storytelling, and aesthetics.

They love a good design challenge.
Otters will spend hours perfecting their techniques to open tough shells. Designers put in the same energy crafting the perfect logo, layout, or UX flow, often getting lost in the process until it just works.

They’re adaptable to different environments.
Otters live in rivers, lakes, and oceans, adjusting to whatever conditions they face. Designers are equally versatile, shifting between print, digital, and branding projects without skipping a beat.

They balance work and play.
An otter’s day is a mix of hunting, playing, and floating (the dream life, honestly). Designers strive for balance too—whether it’s squeezing in passion projects between client work or remembering to step away from the screen to recharge.

They bring joy to their world.
Let’s face it, otters make people smile with their antics and cuteness. Designers? We craft visuals and experiences that resonate, delight, and bring people together—because at the heart of it, we’re storytellers and magic-makers.

Designers, like otters, have a knack for making an impact—whether it’s with a joyful splash or a thoughtfully crafted design. That mix of playfulness and purpose is something I try to channel in my own work, even in the projects I create just for fun.

Every quarter, I like to create a fake brand and build out its collateral to keep my skills sharp and my creativity flowing. It’s my way of blending play and purpose, much like our otter friends. Last quarter, it was Bro Blckr, a bold and sassy mock brand tackling serious topics like personal boundaries, respect, and gender dynamics—through humor, of course. The collection included cheeky products like Repellent Spray, Boundary Boss Dropper, and Serenity Sentinel Oil Blend. While the products were satirical, they sparked meaningful conversations about fostering respect and empowerment in everyday interactions.

This quarter? It’s all about otters. I’m leaning toward Sleek & Stream Design Co., a nod to their sleek, fluid nature and love for streams, or maybe The Clever Otter Collective, because otters—and designers—are all about brains and teamwork. Whatever the name, I’m diving in with playful energy, cracking open new ideas, and letting the creativity flow, just like an otter should.

Note: The artwork featured in this article was created by Evelina Mitev (Eveline) and discovered on Dribbble.

What Is an Artist Statement, Anyway?

An artist statement is more than just a description of a piece. It’s a narrative bridge between the creator and their audience, offering insight into the thinking, inspiration, and decision-making behind the work. Think of it as the designer’s opportunity to explain:

• What the piece is about

• Why it was created

• How it reflects the creator’s vision or process

For designers, it’s a tool that shows the world that design isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about strategy, meaning, and intention.

Why Artist Statements Matter

Clarifying Intent

Designers make hundreds of choices in a single project. An artist statement articulates the “why” behind those decisions, connecting them to a larger purpose—whether it’s solving a problem, telling a story, or creating an emotional impact.

Defining Creative Voice

Writing an artist statement challenges designers to reflect on their values, vision, and identity. This process strengthens their ability to articulate their unique perspective—an invaluable skill in a competitive field.

Creating Connections

Not everyone will immediately understand the depth of a design piece, and that’s okay. A thoughtful artist statement provides context, inviting the audience to engage with the work on a deeper level. This is especially important for abstract or conceptual projects.

Guiding Critiques

An artist statement gives critiques direction. Instead of basing feedback on assumptions, it ensures discussions align with the creator’s intent.

Encouraging Reflection

Drafting a statement pushes designers to evaluate their processes and decisions. This kind of critical reflection leads to more intentional, thoughtful work.

Opening Doors

Professionally, artist statements are often required for grants, exhibitions, residencies, and portfolios. A well-crafted statement showcases professionalism and confidence, leaving a lasting impression.

Elevating the Field

Artist statements underscore the research, strategy, and purpose behind a designer’s work, reinforcing that design is more than just visuals.

How to Write an Artist Statement

While there’s no universal formula, these key elements can guide the process:

1. Introduce the Work
   Start by describing what the piece is and the themes or concepts it explores.

2. Share the Inspiration
   What sparked the idea? Was it a personal experience, a cultural moment, or an unexpected observation?

3. Explain the Process
   Discuss the materials, techniques, and methods used to create the piece.

4. Reveal the Meaning
   What does the work represent? What emotions or ideas does the creator hope to convey?

5. Contextualize the Work
   Connect the piece to larger themes, cultural discussions, or the creator’s artistic journey.

6. Wrap It Up
   End with a brief reflection or an invitation for the audience to engage with the work.

Teaching Artist Statements: Building the Habit

Integrating artist statements throughout the creative process helps students develop this skill naturally. Here’s how to break it down:

• During Brainstorming
  Encourage students to jot down their initial ideas, inspirations, and objectives. Starting early fosters critical thinking.

• Midway Through a Project
  Drafting a preliminary statement allows students to reflect and ensure they’re aligned with their original intentions.

• At the Final Stage
  Submitting a polished statement alongside the completed work creates a clear narrative of the creative journey.

• After Critiques
  Refining the statement based on feedback helps students prepare a professional-level piece for portfolios or exhibitions.

Why It’s Worth the Effort

Artist statements aren’t just a box to check. They’re an opportunity to clarify ideas, reflect on processes, and communicate the value of design work. Incorporating them at multiple stages of a project makes writing and reflection second nature.

This is something I wish I had learned earlier in my career, and I’m thrilled to pass it on to my students now. Maybe, just maybe, teaching it will help me refine my own artist statement process along the way.

Whether you’re a student, educator, or seasoned designer, embracing the practice of writing artist statements can elevate your work—and the conversations around it—to new heights. Let’s make this a cornerstone of the creative process, not an afterthought.

Example Artist Statement: Unconventional Re-Entry

Unconventional Re-Entry is a playful yet poignant exploration of heartbreak and healing, designed as a visual checklist that doubles as a quirky companion for anyone navigating the messy aftermath of a breakup. The piece blends humor and unconventional thinking to encourage a fresh approach to self-care and growth, challenging the notion that recovery has to be a somber, solitary process. Through its mix of type and handwritten fonts, it maintains a structured foundation while inviting a sense of playfulness and authenticity—like a handwritten note from a friend who knows exactly how to cheer you up.

The inspiration for this work came from my own experience with heartbreak and the realization that traditional advice often falls flat. Breakups are universally tough, but healing doesn’t have to be monotonous or stuck in the same tired routines. I wanted to create something that feels like a nostalgic Valentine’s Day card—reassuring and warm—but with a twist that breaks away from convention, leaning into humor and the unexpected to bring a sense of lightness to heavy emotions.

The piece was created in Adobe Illustrator, combining clean vector type with hand-drawn font elements to balance structure and spontaneity. This mix reflects the duality of the work: the need for order and reflection, but also the importance of embracing imperfections and the unexpected. The vintage-inspired color palette was chosen to evoke a sense of timelessness, grounding the playful suggestions in a broader emotional resonance.

At its core, this piece is about finding joy and connection in moments of vulnerability. It’s a celebration of resilience and creativity, offering viewers a roadmap that blends self-care with humor and a bit of absurdity. By suggesting activities like hosting a “Misery Loves Company” potluck or organizing a “Bury the Past” treasure hunt, the work invites people to see heartbreak not just as an ending, but as an opportunity to rewrite their narrative with courage and laughter.

Unconventional Re-Entry ties into larger themes of self-discovery and the evolving nature of how we approach emotional healing. It invites us to challenge the scripts we’ve been given and to find strength in the unexpected, connecting our personal experiences to the universal journey of moving forward.

Ultimately, this piece is a reminder that healing isn’t a one-size-fits-all process, and it doesn’t have to be perfect. It encourages viewers to embrace creativity, humor, and play as they navigate life’s transitions. Whether you hang it as a visual reminder or take a single suggestion from its list, this work offers a comforting nudge toward brighter, lighter days ahead.

They determine my worth by what is—or is not—between my legs.
Legislating bodies, policing love,
As if identity is something that can be boxed and filed away,
Or defined by outdated laws written in someone else’s handwriting.

I’m sad to say I left my soul in the sand for a country
That makes a mockery of my sex,
Offers no amends for the atrocities it calls history.
Patriotism tastes like ash—burned promises
And pledges I can no longer recite with conviction.

I fear for the children I will not have.
What future could I bring them into, anyway?
Would they inherit this twisted land
Of broken ideals and fractured humanity?

They say “America the great,” but in America, we hate.
We build walls around hearts and borders,
Afraid of anything—anyone—that does not mirror our own reflection.
But aren’t we all just a muddle of mutts anyways?

People are afraid to love, and love is afraid to grow,
Wilted and withering beneath the glare of intolerance.
What will become of this land, I wonder?
My heartbeat drums in my ears, counting down the moments—
As if we’re all waiting for the curtain to fall on this American tragedy.

Rampant racism,
Bigotry on parade,
Hate for hate’s sake,
Festering like an old wound never meant to heal.
The infection spreads,
And still, we pretend it’s only a scratch.

All of these are mine—
A white woman’s woes, heavy and bitter on my tongue.
Privilege hangs awkwardly on my shoulders,
Ill-fitting but undeniable, stitched with the thread of history.

Yet my heart bleeds for my family,
Whose skin is darker than mine,
And whose burden I can only glimpse, never fully bear.
Their resilience humbles me,
A reminder that survival isn’t always about winning—
Sometimes it’s just about enduring,
Holding onto joy, no matter how fleeting,
And planting seeds where others would sow only despair.

This land—this future—may yet belong to us all,
If we are brave enough to claim it.
But bravery looks different in a world bent on breaking us,
And love still has a long road to walk.

The piece above is a glimpse into my soul.

I usually avoid talking politics with large audiences—thanks, "polite Southern" upbringing. But as I’ve grown into the person I am today, I’ve realized that keeping these thoughts and conversations within my close circles isn’t helping anyone. I can be bold about some things (like saying I’m queer!), but I’ve often shrunk back from other truths that need to be spoken aloud.

Lately, COVID-fueled fever dreams have thrown me into two parallel worlds that don’t feel all that different—and that’s terrifying.

Staying silent isn’t an option anymore. I’m ready to shout from every rooftop I can find: What’s happening in this country is wrong. What’s happening in the world is wrong.

I’ve traveled extensively and witnessed the depravity and struggles that exist in other cultures and countries. But let me be clear—acknowledging the state of our country is not an invitation for the tired “some have it worse” excuse. That mindset only encourages people to look away from the injustice unfolding right here, right now.

It’s going to take years and countless steps to break down the hate that got us here. But it starts with voting. Don’t listen to anyone who says your voice doesn’t matter—because it’s the one thing that can’t be taken from you.

Use it.

Vote.gov – Guide to Voting
Spokane County Voting Information


(Note: the AI art generated for this piece was done so via Adobe Firefly)

Sister Corita believed in the power of art as a tool for social change, spiritual expression, and personal growth. These rules reflect her philosophy: creativity should be free-flowing, process-oriented, and rooted in joy, not perfection. Her rules encourage artists to embrace curiosity, trust the process, and break free from the constraints of rigid expectations. By promoting a mindset of experimentation, self-discipline, and openness to failure, Corita aimed to empower young creatives to find their voice and pursue their craft with passion and purpose.

The rules also embody the spirit of countercultural thinking and questioning authority—something that Sister Corita embraced deeply. She was a progressive figure in both the church and the art world, and her rules reflect her commitment to pushing boundaries and inspiring others to do the same.

Below is what I’ll share with my students. The bold parts are the original rules by Sister Corita Kent, and the italicized bits are my translations from the zine. The longer explanations? That’s where I hope we’ll dive deep in class. These thoughts are shaped by years of navigating this career, often without solid guides or mentors until more recently. By sharing this with my students—especially those just starting out—I hope it serves as a lasting guide and reference point. It’s also my way of sparking conversations and giving them a sense of where I stand on these important topics.

RULE ONE: Find a place you trust, and then try trusting it for a while.

Finding a workspace or creative process that clicks with you is key. Once you do, stick with it for a bit. Whether it's a cozy corner or a design method that just works, trust it enough to let your creativity flow. Consistency can be a game-changer.

Finding a place that clicks with you, whether it’s a physical space or a creative process, is like giving yourself a creative home base. It’s that feeling of knowing you’ve got a place where things just flow, whether it’s a perfect nook in a coffee shop, your desk by the window, or a design method that feels like second nature. Once you find that, lean into it—give it time to really work for you.

When you trust that space or process, you’re giving yourself room to grow. Instead of bouncing around, always searching for the next thing, you can dive deeper into your work, honing your skills without the constant pressure to switch things up. There’s something powerful about staying consistent in the creative world where everything can feel all over the place. It builds confidence. The more time you spend in that space or with that method, the more you learn about what works for you, and the more likely you are to produce your best work.

Having a go-to process or space is huge because the world is already throwing enough at you—trends, new tools, the pressure to innovate. But here’s the thing: real innovation often comes from mastering the basics and being comfortable enough to push boundaries within a trusted framework. By committing to something that works for you, even for a little while, you’re not giving up flexibility—you’re setting the stage for greater creative freedom down the line.

RULE TWO: General duties of a student: pull everything out of your teacher; pull everything out of your fellow students.

Learning isn't just about sitting back and nodding your head—it's about soaking up every bit of knowledge from everyone around you. Your teacher, classmates, critiques—they're all goldmines for insight. Ask questions, get feedback, and grab onto every opportunity to grow.

Learning isn’t just about nodding along and hoping something sticks. It’s about actively pulling knowledge from everyone around you—your teacher, classmates, and even those awkward critique sessions. Your teacher is a resource, and so are your fellow students. Everyone’s got something to offer, whether it’s a fresh perspective, a tip you hadn’t thought of, or feedback that makes your project click.

This mindset is a game-changer. The creative world thrives on collaboration and feedback. Your peers might be your competition in some ways, but they’re also your built-in network of ideas and inspiration. When you ask questions and get feedback, you’re not just improving that one project—you’re building skills and habits that’ll make you a better designer in the long run. And pulling insight from critiques? That’s essential. It teaches you how to see your work from different angles and adjust without taking it personally.

Don’t coast through your education. Grab hold of every opportunity to learn from the people around you. It’s not just about what the teacher has to say—it’s about what the whole room brings to the table. Be curious, ask questions, and soak it all up. This is where your creative growth starts.

RULE THREE: General duties of a teacher: pull everything out of your students.

Teachers aren’t there just to spoon-feed info. A good teacher pushes you to think deeper, try new things, and figure out who you are as a designer. They're there to help pull your best work out of you, not just give you the answers.

A teacher’s job isn’t to just hand out answers. A good teacher? They’re the one who pushes you to dig deeper, explore new ideas, and help you figure out your creative voice. They’re there to pull out the best version of you, the designer, rather than just telling you what to do. It’s about fostering that back-and-forth—challenging you to step outside your comfort zone, experiment, and learn through the process.

You’re not in school to become a carbon copy of your teacher’s work or style. You’re there to figure out what makes your approach unique. A great teacher will recognize that and create space for you to explore your ideas while offering feedback and insight to help you grow. This also teaches you how to think critically and problem-solve, which is the backbone of any good designer’s toolkit.

If your teacher is pushing you, don’t see it as them being tough—see it as them believing in your potential. They’re there to help pull out the things you don’t even know are inside you yet. It’s not about easy answers; it’s about discovering what you’re capable of.

RULE FOUR: Consider everything an experiment.

Design is about throwing stuff at the wall and seeing what sticks. Don’t overthink it—try things, play around, and be okay with not knowing if it’ll work. It’s all part of the creative journey, and sometimes the mistakes lead to the best ideas.

Design is one big experiment. It’s about tossing ideas out there and seeing what happens. The key is to not overthink it—just dive in and play around. You don’t have to know whether something will work, and honestly, that’s half the fun. When you let go of the pressure to be perfect and embrace the unknown, you give yourself the freedom to discover new and unexpected solutions.

For young designers, this mindset is essential. The design world is constantly evolving, and the best ideas often come from taking risks and trying something that might seem a little off the wall. The beauty of experimenting is that even if things don’t go as planned, you’re still learning. Sometimes those so-called “mistakes” turn into your most creative and groundbreaking work.

Loosen up. Approach your projects with curiosity, not certainty. Let yourself explore, make weird choices, and see where it leads. The most exciting part of the creative journey is when you stop playing it safe and start embracing experimentation. That’s where the magic happens.

RULE FIVE: Be self-disciplined: this means finding someone wise or smart and choosing to follow them. To be disciplined is to follow in a good way. To be self-disciplined is to follow in a better way.

Self-discipline isn't about following rules for the sake of it—it’s about picking up good habits from people who know their stuff and then applying them in your own way.

Self-discipline isn’t about blindly following rules or doing things just because someone told you to. It’s about finding someone who knows their craft and learning from them in a way that works for you. The key is taking what they do well—their habits, their process—and making it your own. It’s like following a recipe but adding your own twist to it. That’s how you truly grow as a designer.

This is gold. Having self-discipline means you’re not waiting for someone to tell you what to do next—you’re seeking out mentors, teachers, or even peers who inspire you. But instead of copying them, you’re learning how to apply their knowledge to your own path. It’s about learning in a way that pushes you forward and helps you develop your unique voice.

Self-discipline is one of the best tools in your creative toolkit. It keeps you moving, keeps you learning, and helps you become not just a good designer but a great one. You’re taking the wisdom you find and using it to fuel your journey. That’s much stronger than just following orders.

RULE SIX: Nothing is a mistake. There’s no win and no fail, there’s only make.

In design, there’s no such thing as screwing up—it’s all part of the process. Every project teaches you something, even if it doesn’t go as planned. The focus should always be on creating, not on whether it’s perfect.

In design, the idea of “mistakes” doesn’t really exist. There’s no winning or failing—there’s just the act of making. Every project, even the ones that don’t turn out like you planned, is a chance to learn something new. You don’t have to hit a home run every time; sometimes the most valuable lessons come from things not going the way you expected. That’s all part of the creative process.

This mindset is a game-changer. It takes the pressure off perfection and shifts the focus to the process of creating. When you let go of the fear of failing, you open yourself up to experimentation, growth, and real creativity. Each project becomes an opportunity, not a test. The more you create, the more you learn, and that’s where you find your style, your voice, and your confidence.

Instead of worrying about whether something’s a success or a flop, focus on making. The act of creating itself is what moves you forward as a designer. It’s not about perfect outcomes—it’s about the journey of learning and evolving through every single project.

RULE SEVEN: The only rule is work. If you work, it will lead to something. It’s the people who do all the work all the time who eventually catch on to things.

The magic happens when you put in the hours. There's no shortcut here. Keep creating, and eventually, it'll click. Consistent work is what gets you to those "a-ha!" moments, not waiting for inspiration to strike.

The only real rule in this game? Do the work. There’s no magic shortcut, no secret sauce—just putting in the hours. It’s not about waiting for some lightning bolt of inspiration to hit; it’s about consistently showing up and creating. The more you work, the more things start to click. The people who are always working, always creating, are the ones who eventually figure things out and hit those "a-ha!" moments.

This rule is everything. We all want to believe that inspiration will just come to us, but the reality is that real progress happens when you roll up your sleeves and dive into the work. The act of creating, over and over again, builds your skills, sharpens your instincts, and helps you grow as a designer. It’s in that grind where you learn the most about yourself and your craft.

Sure, it’s tempting to wait for the perfect idea or the right moment, but the truth is that consistent effort is what leads to breakthroughs. You’ve got to keep at it, even when the work feels tough or uninspired. Because it’s in those moments of persistence where you lay the groundwork for real creative growth. Keep working, and eventually, you’ll find your stride.

RULE EIGHT: Don’t try to create and analyze at the same time. They’re different processes.

Designing and critiquing are two totally different things. First, get the ideas out without overthinking it. Save the critiques and analysis for later. You can't be creative if you're second-guessing every move while you're making it.

Creating and analyzing are like oil and water—they don’t mix. When you’re in the zone, generating ideas, you’ve got to let that flow happen without constantly critiquing every decision. Trying to analyze your work while you’re still making it is like stopping to check every brushstroke before the painting’s even done. It kills the momentum and blocks the creative energy you need to get those ideas out.

We all have that inner critic that wants to step in and pick apart every detail as we go, but that only slows you down. The first step is to just let yourself create—throw out ideas, make messy sketches, try something new without worrying if it’s “right.” The time for analyzing comes later when you can look at your work with fresh eyes.

If you get stuck in the loop of creating and critiquing at the same time, you’ll find yourself second-guessing every move, and that’s no way to make magic happen. Give yourself permission to create without judgment, and once you’ve got something down, then you can switch gears and analyze. Keeping those processes separate allows you to fully embrace creativity while also making room for thoughtful refinement later.

RULE NINE: Be happy whenever you can manage it. Enjoy yourself. It’s lighter than you think.

Design should be fun! When you're stressed or too in your head, it shows in your work. Enjoy the process, even when it's messy. The more you lean into that joy, the better your designs (and your mindset) will be.

Design is meant to be fun! If you’re constantly stressed or stuck in your head, it’s going to show in your work. The best designs come when you’re enjoying the process, even when it’s messy or uncertain. When you’re too caught up in perfection or pressure, you miss out on the joy that creativity can bring—and that joy is what makes your work sing.

It’s easy to get bogged down by deadlines, critiques, or the feeling that everything has to be flawless. But here’s the thing: the more you lean into the enjoyment of what you’re doing, the better your work will turn out. When you’re having fun with the process, that energy translates into your designs. It lightens everything up and helps you get out of your own way.

Whenever you can, find moments to be happy while you’re creating. Take the pressure off and let yourself enjoy the ride. It doesn’t always have to be heavy—designing should feel like play. And trust me, when you’re having fun, your mindset shifts, your creativity opens up, and your work shines even brighter.

RULE TEN: We’re breaking all the rules. Even our own rules. And how do we do that? By leaving plenty of room for X quantities.

Design is all about bending the rules, even the ones you've set for yourself. Leave space for those unexpected moments and random sparks of creativity—they often lead to the coolest, most original ideas. Keep it loose, and don't be afraid to change things up.

Design isn’t about following a rigid set of rules. In fact, some of the best work happens when you break them—even the ones you set for yourself. You’ve got to leave space for those wild, unpredictable sparks of creativity, the ideas that come out of nowhere. That’s where the magic happens. When you keep things loose and open, you give yourself the freedom to explore, evolve, and stumble upon something truly original.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that once you find a process or set of guidelines that work, you need to stick to them. But real creativity comes when you’re willing to throw the rulebook out the window. Those moments where you break your own rules? That’s where you’ll find the coolest, most unexpected ideas.

Don’t be afraid to shake things up. Give yourself room to experiment, to make changes on the fly, and to let those X factors—the random, the surprising—play a role in your work. The best designs aren’t about sticking to a plan; they’re about letting creativity lead the way, even when it takes you somewhere totally unplanned. Keep it loose, and see where the ride takes you.

I’m not sharing these from a place of pretentiousness or as if I have it all figured out. Honestly, I’m sharing because these are the things I wish someone had told me along the way. My intentions are good, and even if it falls on deaf ears, at least I’ll have it out there as a reference for anyone looking for a little guidance. These rules have stood the test of time, not because they’re set in stone, but because they’re flexible—meant to be interpreted, experimented with, and played around with. It’s an invitation for my students to dig deeper into their own process and embrace the messiness that comes with being a creative. The "rulez" aren’t here to box anyone in—they’re here to remind us that the journey is what really matters.

Growing up in a religious home, I was told that tarot was the devil’s book, something dark and dangerous. But as I’ve gotten older and explored it more, I now see it differently. For me, tarot is a tool for self-reflection and maybe even a way for the universe to reveal its magic—though sometimes it feels more like it's helping us listen to our inner voice than anything mystical. Sosteric really captured this sentiment when he quoted someone describing tarot as “an attempt to explain the world where science seems unable to work.” That hits the nail on the head for me. Tarot isn’t just about predicting the future; it’s about looking inward, especially when the logical, science-backed answers fall short.

The history behind tarot’s transformation is equally intriguing. Sosteric traces it back to the 15th century when tarot was just a card game in Italy. Fast forward a few centuries, and it became a tool wrapped up in occult practices, thanks to secret societies like the Freemasons. It turns out, tarot wasn’t always respected. It was often associated with what Sosteric calls “shoddy soothsayers and confidence tricksters,” which probably didn’t help its reputation. But the real shift happened when groups like the Freemasons started adding layers of meaning to the cards, using them as part of their own rituals of discipline, control, and ideology. By the time they were done with it, tarot had evolved from a simple card game to a mystical system imbued with occult significance and power.

A key part of this transformation is tied to the original suits in the tarot deck: Swords, Batons, Cups, and Coins. Today, we’re more familiar with the modern versions—Swords, Wands, Cups, and Pentacles—but their evolution speaks to how tarot itself has shifted through time. These suits weren’t just symbols of different elements or archetypes; in the early days, they represented aspects of medieval life, such as war (Swords) or wealth (Coins). But beyond the suits, it’s the actual imagery that always felt a little out of reach for me.

Sosteric emphasizes the elitism baked into the original tarot imagery. Think about it—the Emperor, the Empress, the Pope—they’re all figures of power and authority. The cards were designed to reflect the social hierarchy of the time, sending the message that these higher forms of wisdom and insight were only accessible to the privileged few. This elitist vibe is probably why I’ve never really clicked with some of the older, more traditional decks. The artwork feels distant, like it’s speaking to someone else’s story, not mine. That’s why I gravitate toward more modern decks, which bring in more diverse imagery and themes that resonate with me on a deeper level. I want tarot to feel personal, not like some exclusive club.

That said, there’s something magical about how tarot has evolved into what it is today—a tool for anyone to use, regardless of class or background. It’s no longer just for the elites or for secret societies; now, people use tarot for everything from self-care to serious introspection. Sosteric’s work highlights the shift in tarot’s role throughout history, but what resonates most with me is how the tool itself has grown beyond its origins. Today, tarot is all about accessibility, reflection, and sometimes, just a little bit of magic.

In conclusion, Mike Sosteric’s A Sociology of Tarot really opened my eyes to how tarot is not just a mystical tool but also a social one, shaped by centuries of power and control. What started as a card game has become so much more—something that challenges the boundaries of what we consider rational or real. Whether you see tarot as a means of self-reflection, a glimpse into the universe’s mysteries, or a psychological tool, it continues to live in that fascinating space where logic and magic overlap. And that’s probably why it still speaks to us, in one way or another, after all these years.

The roots of my complicated relationship with anger go way back to my childhood—a time marked by abuse and trauma. And if that wasn’t enough, I ended up in the military, a place where physical strength is everything. Anger there wasn’t just a feeling; it was a weapon, a way to assert yourself in a world where weakness wasn’t an option.

But it wasn’t until my personal life started to unravel that I truly faced my anger. I’ll never forget the night my ex told me about a drunken fight where I apparently lashed out physically. The details are fuzzy, lost in a haze of alcohol, but the shame and horror are still sharp. How could I, someone who survived abuse, become the abuser? That realization hit me hard, forcing me to look at the darkest parts of myself.

After that, I didn’t go on some big self-discovery journey. Nope. I shoved it all down, buried it deep. For years, I tiptoed around my own emotions, terrified of what might bubble up.

Then I found the “Anger Alchemy” workshop, and for the first time, I felt a flicker of hope. It was like seeing a lighthouse in a storm. The idea of understanding and transforming my anger felt like a lifeline.

Amanda Barron, a therapist and yoga teacher, led the workshop. It was a safe space, full of empathy and understanding. Surrounded by others who were also struggling with anger, I finally realized I wasn’t alone in my fear or my journey toward healing.

Together, we dove into why so many women have a hard time with anger. We looked at societal expectations, double standards, and the stereotypes we’ve been fed since we were kids. We’re taught to keep the peace, to nurture, to stuff down our anger to keep everyone else comfortable. But all that suppressed rage doesn’t just disappear; it simmers, waiting for a chance to explode.

Through movement, discussions, and guided meditation, we explored our anger, trying to understand where it comes from and why it has such a hold on us. We learned to spot the signs that we’re getting angry, to acknowledge it without letting it control us.

The biggest takeaway for me? Anger isn’t something to be scared of or ashamed of. It’s a natural part of being human. By acknowledging our anger and giving it room to breathe, we take back our power and assert our right to exist unapologetically.

We also turned to journaling as a tool for introspection. We asked ourselves some tough questions:

• What have I been taught about anger?

• When I get angry, what age do I feel?

• What are my current struggles with anger?

• What would a healthy relationship with anger look like?

These questions hit home for me, making me confront my own fears and insecurities. I realized my fear of anger stemmed from a deep-seated belief that I wasn’t worthy of love or acceptance—that my anger made me a monster in other people’s eyes. But as I faced these fears, I started to see that my anger wasn’t a reflection of my worth. It was just a natural response to the world around me.

Armed with this new understanding, I’m trying to see my anger as a source of strength, not a weakness. Beneath all that rage, I found a well of power and resilience that I didn’t know I had. And I’m not alone in this—I know there are others out there struggling with their own demons too.

As the workshop ended, I felt a sense of peace and acceptance. I know my journey isn’t over, and there will be more challenges ahead. But with the tools and insights I’ve gained, I feel more prepared to face whatever comes next.

I definitely don’t have it all figured out, but I know I’m on the right path. Moving forward, I’m determined to confront my anger head-on, instead of burying it under a fake calm. I’m also ready to start sharing my struggles with those close to me, like my partner, Ben. I haven’t opened up to him yet, but I’m prepared to, hoping he’ll meet me with understanding and not fear.

Reflecting on my progress fills me with pride and gratitude. There are challenges ahead, but I’m committed to continuing this journey of self-discovery and healing, ready to embrace whatever the future holds.

Interesting note: The day of the course, my spirit animal card was a shark, and the next day, it was a tiger. Here’s what those cards mean:

SHARK: DIRECTNESS, EXPOSURE, REVEALING TRUE NATURE AND DESIRE
The shark is only dangerous when we don’t acknowledge it. This card indicates that something big needs to be exposed. It’s lurking in the depths and creating tension. Shark energy takes over when we hesitate to be honest or to be our true selves. It might be tempting to pretend everything’s fine, but when shark energy is around, we feel its presence circling us.

WHEN IN BALANCE: Intriguing, captivating, mysterious
WHEN OUT OF BALANCE: Sneaky, destructive
TO BRING INTO BALANCE: Honesty

TIGER: LUNAR FORCE, EASE IN DARKNESS, FEMININE ENERGY
The tiger hunts at night, embracing the darkness without fear. This card reminds us to find strength in the quiet, to let the night’s calm heal us. Sensuality, receptivity, and devotion are heightened in the midnight hour, and the tiger takes full advantage of these gifts. Spend some time in silence tonight, soaking in the stillness. There’s nothing to fear in the darkness except the awakening of your own power.

WHEN IN BALANCE: Passionate, strong, sensual
WHEN OUT OF BALANCE: Overstimulated
TO BRING INTO BALANCE: Trataka (candle gazing)

(Note: this piece was originally written during my first semester in grad school. I’ve been working on a more consistent tone, so I decided to revisit and tweak. The message is still the same, just a flows a little better now.)

Writing a teaching statement might sound like a daunting task (it sure did to me!), but with a bit of creativity and humor, it doesn’t have to feel like you’re turning into a stuck-up windbag! Here’s how I tackled mine, step by step:

✅ Step One: Caffeinate

Seriously, you're going to need the energy. Grab your favorite cup of coffee, tea, or whatever gives you that extra kick. This process is going to take some brainpower!

✅ Step Two: Ask Your Friends

Reach out to your friends and ask for help. They might offer some great advice—or at least a bit of sympathy. Plus, it’s always good to get some outside perspective.

✅ Step Three: Spend Some Time by the River Reflecting

Take a deep breath and think about what kind of teacher you want to be. Reflect on all the things you do NOT want to be. This doesn’t actually HAVE to be by a river, but that’s my go to spot.

✅ Step Four: Ask ChatGPT

When in doubt, consult your friendly AI. After some riverside reflection and getting caffeinated, I turned to my "old" buddy ChatGPT for some guidance. Here’s what it helped me figure out:

• What are your core beliefs about teaching and learning?

• How do you plan to create an inclusive and supportive learning environment?

• What teaching methods and strategies will you use to engage students and encourage learning?

• How will you support students’ personal and academic growth beyond the classroom?

• How will you evaluate and continue to improve your teaching practices?

These questions really got me thinking. I spent a few days pondering them before sitting down to create an outline for my teaching statement.

✅ Step Five: Outline, Baby!

Outlining is key! It’s like the blueprint for your teaching statement. Here’s the outline I came up with:

Outline: Crafting My Teaching Statement

1. Getting Started: Why I Teach

   • From Military to Creative: I started in the military, but when I shifted to the creative world, I knew I wanted to share the unique way I see things. Teaching isn’t just about passing on knowledge; it’s about creating a space where students can figure out who they are as designers and as people.

   • What Drives Me: My main goal is to help students see the world differently and discover their own creative voices. I’m here to guide them, challenge them, and cheer them on as they grow.

2. My Teaching Philosophy

   • Students Come First:

     • My Role: I see myself as a guide, here to help students explore their creativity and build their confidence.

     • Finding Their Voice: It’s important to me that students learn to find their own voice in a world full of noise.

   • Inclusivity Matters:

     • Diverse and Welcoming: Creating an inclusive and diverse classroom isn’t just important—it’s a must. Every student should feel valued, and different perspectives should be celebrated.

     • Zero Tolerance for Hate: My classroom is a safe space where respect and empathy are key. We’re learning design, but we’re also learning how to communicate and respect each other.

3. How I Teach

   • Learning by Doing:

     • Hands-On Projects: I believe in learning by doing. That’s why my classes focus on hands-on projects where students can take risks, try new things, and see what works.

     • Problem-Solving: Design is all about solving problems, and I encourage my students to approach every project with that mindset.

   • The Power of Storytelling:

     • Using My Background: Coming from a public affairs and media background, I know how powerful a well-told story can be. I help my students learn how to clearly and confidently communicate their ideas, whether through visuals or words.

4. Critique and Feedback

   • More Than Just Critique:

     • Selling the Concept: In my class, critique sessions are more than just about pointing out what could be better. They’re about practicing how to sell an idea, take feedback, and refine it until it’s strong enough to stand on its own.

     • Thinking Critically: I push my students to think critically about their design decisions and how they align with their communication goals.

5. Beyond the Classroom

   • Mentorship Matters:

     • Supporting Students: I see myself as more than just a teacher—I’m a mentor, too. I’m here to support my students both in and out of the classroom.

     • Avoiding Burnout: I emphasize the importance of mental health and work-life balance because good design doesn’t come from burnout; it comes from being in a good place.

6. Always Learning

   • Staying Updated:

     • Keeping Up with Trends: I’m always learning, staying up-to-date with industry trends and new ways of teaching.

     • Adapting and Growing: I regularly reflect on how I teach, and I’m not afraid to try new approaches if it means my students will benefit.

7. Wrapping It Up: What I Want for My Students

   • Making an Impact:

     • Positive Influence: My ultimate goal is to make a positive impact on my students, helping them leave my class not just as better designers but as better people.

     • Excited for the Future: I’m excited about where this journey will take us, and I’m looking forward to growing alongside my students.

I’ve always been a fan of outlines—they give me the structure I need so my partially ADD brain doesn’t get lost in the sauce, especially when I’m writing about something as important as my teaching philosophy. With the structure in place, I was finally able to draft my first (and very long) teaching statement.

✅ Step Six: Put It Together Now

With my outline ready, I started putting my thoughts into words. This is where all that brainstorming and reflecting really comes into play.

Teaching Statement (KMB_Fall2024)

When I transitioned from a military career to the creative world, I knew one thing for sure: I wanted to help others see the world through the vibrant and multifaceted perspective that has shaped my own journey. Teaching isn’t just about sharing what I know; it’s about fostering an environment where students can discover who they are, both as designers and as people.

At the heart of my teaching philosophy is the belief that students should be the center of their learning experience. My role is to guide, challenge, and support them as they explore their creativity, experiment with ideas, and grow into confident designers. I’m here to help them find their unique voice in a world that’s full of noise.

I’m passionate about sharing knowledge with everyone, regardless of gender, race, age, status in life, or background. Creating an inclusive and diverse classroom is non-negotiable for me. My classroom is a space where all students are valued, where different perspectives are celebrated, and where hate has no place. We’re not just learning design; we’re learning how to communicate, respect each other, and navigate the world with empathy.

I believe in learning by doing. That’s why I focus on hands-on projects that encourage students to take risks and try new things. Design is about solving problems, and I want my students to see every project as an opportunity to find creative solutions. Whether it’s typography, color, or composition, I push my students to experiment and discover what works—and sometimes, what doesn’t.

Storytelling is a big part of how I teach. Coming from a background in public affairs and media, I understand the power of a well-told story. I help my students articulate their ideas and design concepts, guiding them to communicate clearly and confidently, whether it’s through visuals or words.

Critique sessions in my class go beyond simply identifying areas for improvement. They’re a chance to practice selling a concept, to learn how to take feedback, and to refine ideas until they’re strong enough to stand on their own. I focus on aligning design decisions with communication goals, and I encourage my students to think critically about their work.

But teaching isn’t just about the classroom. I see myself as a mentor, someone who’s there to support my students not only academically but personally as well. I emphasize the importance of mental health and work-life balance because I know that pushing students past their breaking point doesn’t lead to good design—it leads to burnout.

I’m a lifelong learner, constantly staying up-to-date with industry trends and educational practices. I regularly reflect on my teaching methods, always looking for ways to improve and better support my students. I’m not afraid to adapt and try new approaches if it means my students will benefit.

In the end, my goal as an educator is simple: I want to make a positive impact on my students’ lives. I want them to leave my class not just as better designers but as better people, ready to take on the world with confidence and creativity. And as I continue to grow in this role, I’m excited to see where this journey takes us all.

Once I finished, I printed it out and stuck it on my mirror so I could glance at it a few times each day. Overall, I’m really happy with the message, but I quickly realized it’s way too long for any student to actually want to read. With that in mind, I decided to create a shorter version for my syllabus and slides.

✅ Step Seven: Realize That You’re Too Wordy and Try Again

Shorter for the people with like attention spans. Here’s the abbreviated version:

When I transitioned from a military career to the creative world, my goal was to help others see the world through the vibrant lens that shaped my journey. Teaching, for me, is about fostering an environment where students discover who they are as designers and individuals. I guide and support them as they explore their creativity, take risks, and grow into confident designers, valuing diverse perspectives and learning empathy and respect alongside design.

Beyond the classroom, I see myself as a mentor, supporting students academically and personally. I focus on storytelling and critique, helping students refine their ideas and communicate clearly. I emphasize mental health and balance, knowing that burnout doesn't lead to good design. My goal is to positively impact my students' lives, helping them become confident and creative human beings and designers.

✅ Step Eight: Reflect

I think this shorter version still needs a bit of work, but for my first time out, I’m pretty pleased with how it turned out. It captures the essence of what I want to convey without overwhelming anyone, and that’s a win in my book.

Conclusion:

Was it perfect? Nope. But that's okay! This teaching statement is a living document, just like my approach to teaching. It’s all about growing, adapting, and learning—just like I encourage my students to do.

Fuzzy Beginnings

As I’ve stated before, memories of my childhood are fuzzy. I don’t exactly remember when I started to write; I just know I’ve always been self-conscious about it. I remember sitting at the table at my grandparent’s house on Bitters, struggling to write my letters. To be fair, I think we were going over cursive at the time. My grandmother (wanting the best for me) said I’d never get anywhere in life if my letters continued to look like that. Ouch. Harsh, right? In reality, she was trying to motivate me, but my 8-year-old brain didn’t know that.

Fast forward a year, and she let me start typing on our Olympia SM2 Typewriter because we thought it would go faster. At the time, all I remember is my hands not fitting the keys and panicking because I couldn’t remember how to spell almost anything correctly. Later on in life, this anxiety was explained to me as the byproduct of me moving through six different schools from grade 1 to 4… you know… those formative years where you learn TO WRITE. I digress.

We made it past that. I obviously worked my way through the education system, graduated high school, etc. It should be noted that at this time, I also had issues with reading—not in the fact that I couldn’t read, but that I read too fast and would miss information. I still struggle with this, but now I have ways to help me. Thank you, technology!

Into the Air Force

After high school, I worked in the world for a little bit and then entered the service as a photographer in the Air Force. What was one of the first things we went over in school? Writing…captions! Here it was again. Writing. Professionally. Formally. Officially. Our main guide was the Department of Defense Captioning Style Guide, but on top of that, each branch of service has its own style. To add more to the pile, each base has its own style and way of writing as well. So much to learn! But with that, captions are just that, captions.

According to the DoD, the purpose of a caption is to give some much-needed context to an image by explaining what's going on and why it matters. It's all about making sure the story behind the image is clear, concise, and spot-on so that anyone looking at it gets the full picture. No thrills or frills.

Caption Writing 101

It has a format. Start with the first sentence covering the basics: who, what, when, where, and why. This sentence should be in the present tense and use an active voice to really capture the moment in the image. Follow up with additional sentences to provide background and context, explaining why what's happening in the image is important. These should be written in the past tense. Finally, end the caption with a credit to the photographer, mentioning who took the photo and their service affiliation.

By the end of my first six months, I could crank out captions all day! Ok, not really, but they came naturally, mostly because there wasn’t a ton of thought behind it. See the thing, say what’s happening, move on. Then…the merger.

The Merger: A New Challenge

The merger between photographers and journalists in the Air Force was a pretty big shake-up in how things were done in Public Affairs. Instead of having separate teams—one for snapping photos and another for writing stories—the Air Force decided to mash those two roles together. Why? To streamline operations and make everyone in PA a bit of a Swiss Army knife or jack of all trades and master of none.

Originally, photographers were all about capturing the perfect shot, whether it was for documentation, history, or public relations. Journalists, on the other hand, were focused on telling stories, writing news articles, and handling the nitty-gritty of internal and external communications. Both had their own skill sets, with photographers geeking out on the tech side of things and journalists diving deep into storytelling. Both went through extensive initial and continued training to hone their specific disciplines.

But as the world of media evolved, it became clear that these two roles could overlap quite a bit. Enter the merger.The idea was to create PA pros who could do it all—take killer photos, shoot engaging videos, write compelling stories, and manage social media like a boss. A 'one-stop-shop' kind of deal.

Reality Hits Hard

Of course, this didn’t come without major heartburn. Photographers had to pick up the pen (or, more likely, the keyboard) and journalists had to learn their way around a camera. It wasn’t always easy, but the goal was to create a team that could tackle any communication challenge thrown their way. And in today’s multimedia world, having that versatility is key. While there were some (major) bumps in the road, this merger was seen as a solid move for making sure Air Force Public Affairs is ready for anything.

Reading all of that above…it’s bullshit. Bottom line, it’s all about money. Yes, they wanted the services to catch up to the modern world and standards. But at the same time, why train and pay for two people when you can make one do the job of two…or three…or four. This merger was the first of three during my time in the service. By the end of my time, I was expected to take photos, write, create video productions as well as infographics and other general design items. We were also expected to run public affairs campaigns, lead tours, coordinate with local media, handle situations during crises (crisis comm), and so much more. See why I was tired?

I digress.

Learning the Hard Way

The merger came into place while I was at my first duty station in Wichita, Kansas. It was ROUGH. I politely mentioned “bumps in the road” above. This took the form of the more seasoned leaders in each field literally having screaming matches as we all moved into one space together, grumbles across tables during our daily meetings, and much more that I could classify as general animosity. I was too young to care, so I just fell in line where I was told and started to learn to write. Abigail Klein was my editor, the one who started my military writing journey. I still remember sitting down the first time and immediately internally panicking. I still had a hard time with spelling (still do if we’re being honest), and I was anxious about the idea of my writing being out there in the world. But, as I sat there staring out the window, I realized that I wasn’t the one that was writing. Airman First Class Brisbin was the one that was writing, and she, again, had structure.

The Military Writing Formula

When writing a military article, the structure followed a clear and straightforward formula. The headline was concise and attention-grabbing, avoiding confusing jargon or acronyms, so readers instantly knew what the article was about. The lead, or opening paragraph, hooked the reader by covering the who, what, when, where, why, and how of the story in just a few sentences, setting the stage for the rest.

In the body, the article used the inverted pyramid style, starting with the most important information and moving to the less critical details. This way, even skimmers got the main points. The body also included quotes, background info, and specific details that added depth, with each paragraph focused on a single idea. Context and impact were explained to show why the story mattered, whether it was about changes on the base or highlighting achievements.

The conclusion tied everything together, maybe with a call to action, a summary, or a memorable quote. Attribution was key, giving credit to sources like senior officers or official reports, adding credibility to the piece and aligning with military protocol. Overall, each piece was maybe 500-700 words. They were featured in the newspaper or on the website. Starting out, 500 words seemed impossible to reach, but even now I’m looking down at my word count, and it’s over 1400. Growth? I think?

The End of an Era

I continued to write like this for years, over 10 exactly. Straightforward. To the point. Follow the formula. Don’t deviate. Everything is fine. Occasionally, I was given a feature piece that I could create, but even with that, we were still quite limited in our ability to write like us, because at the end of the day, I wasn’t writing as Katrina. I was writing as a representative of the United States Air Force, and Big Blue had a particular tone. I’m not going to touch on propaganda at this point because that will be a whole rant, but essentially, that’s what I crafted for a decade.

Finding My Own Voice

Fast forward to 2021. That was the year that I left the service. It was also the year I stopped writing. I went into the outdoor industry and hid behind my camera again. Going into college, I of course had to write, but again, all academic. Boring. For a purpose, sure, but devoid of anything close to “my” voice.

And now, here we are. Me. In grad school. Recognizing the importance of writing, but not quite sure how to do it in a way that feels genuine to myself. This whole piece is about me, in my tone and for you (my friends) to read. But how does that translate to my place in academia? How can I translate it into my daily practice? Because at the end of the day, I know it’s important. I want to be better at it. I want to be able to speak as myself on important topics and specifically things that are related to design in a way that is genuine to myself but also can hold up in the world of academia.

My plan is to work through that this semester. We’ll see how it goes!

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