I thought I would have things under control by now. For years I believed that a good idea was the goal, but I’ve learned the hard way that it’s more like a tyrant—it demands to be realized with high expectations, but it won’t make the grinding and messy labor of execution any easier.
Sometimes I try to do things
And it just doesn’t work out the way I want it to
And I get real frustrated
And like, I try hard to do it
And I like, take my time, but it just doesn’t work out the way I want it to
— Suicidal Tendencies. “Institutionalized”
It’s a familiar predicament for creative thinkers and designers: How do you bring a cathedral-sized vision into the limited quarry of reality? My hyperactive mind has always brimmed with complex ideas that identify and connect patterns, develop a concept or synthesize a lot of information, but that initial excitement quickly fades when met with real-world constraints, commercial pressures, and the weight of my own perfectionism.
It was a struggle I knew well as a student. For every top grade I got in “concept,” I fumbled it into a barely passable grade for “execution”—the two weightiest indicators of pass or fail. Case in point, I was tasked with a semester-long project centered around the life and work of an architect. Most students chose Le Corbusier, Gropius and Mies van der Rohe. I chose Frank Lloyd Wright. I was so inspired with his huge ideas—the integrated nature, the simplicity of form—that I lost myself researching his vision. The project involved developing a series of designs, from a postage stamp to a mockup of a mausoleum, based on the chosen architect’s legacy. But I was simply too distracted by Wright’s genius to ever settle on a design decision of my own. Sorry, Mr. Sexton, Miller, and Stern, if you’re reading this, but my process was unstructured and unreliable. The final form largely failed to support the idea, resulting in an embarrassing take-down at the final critique. I had the blueprint for a cathedral, but all I could deliver was a poorly built shack and a failed project.
After many years working in the creative field, my work has objectively reached a solid middle ground—or, subjectively, is brilliant and amazing, depending on the day you ask me. But, to be truly honest, it has never fully reached the heights of my creative vision, not even close. I’m talking about the practical aspects of design craft. The minutiae of rules, the organizational, hierarchical, and compositional balances—the sheer execution—are exhausting and pull me away from my initial excitement.
I remember a moment that perfectly summarized this gap late in my big tech tenure. The task was simple: direct an agency to create graphic patterns for our visual identity. I dove deep into the conceptual framework—how data moved, transformed, and connected across cloud servers. I developed a beautiful narrative, but I got so lost in the metaphor that I failed to see a critical truth: The final form didn’t fit.
My vision was so divergent that it became a visual outlier, and in corporate tech, those differences get cut.
I showed the work to a couple of team leads and received a vague but sobering critique: the work didn’t feel right as part of the larger ecosystem. They meant the execution wasn’t harmonious with existing work they’d created. I was pushing the next chapter in its evolution when the team only needed a congruent paragraph. The failure wasn’t in the idea’s validity, but in my blind spot for how it integrated with other existing work. My vision was so divergent that it became a visual outlier, and in corporate tech, those differences get cut.
I often wonder if I’m not approaching my craft thoughtfully enough, or if I’m simply trapped by an overactive scarcity mindset. This recurring thought—that I’m not worthy of respect or accolades—leads me to over-perform, overthink, and hustle until I burn out. This insecurity made me vulnerable to outside influences who would highlight my shortcomings with impunity. I knew what I liked and what a high bar for execution was, but I allowed my ego to steer me into believing I needed to spend more time gathering experience and practicing my craft. Getting stuck in this mindset turned Ira Glass’s Taste Gap into a devastating cycle of self-doubt and exhaustion
Much like Rick Rubin’s admission that he enjoys staying in the realm of possibilities, my imagination flourishes there and works like a perpetual sandbox. Ideas continuously stay in flux, adding complexity and depth that can sometimes work against the end goal. I’ve been advised, more than once, to lower my standards for both ideation and execution because “shit’s gotta get done.” This is sound advice in an era of hyper-growth, design sprints, and optimization, where we need to make quick decisions, moment by moment.
There are many takes on the current job market, so I won’t add mine here. Instead of clawing my way through ATS filters, fake job posts, and younger, hungrier peers, I was privileged and fortunate enough to take a career sabbatical and avoid the grind altogether. The resulting space allowed me to focus on connecting with friends, traveling, and my health, but more importantly, to really question what I wanted to do next and whether I could improve my execution gap. This wasn’t just a break to realign my values; it was about creating work without fear. I no longer had to rush projects I didn’t believe in, pivot due to executive whims, or meet some inscrutable bar of excellence set by people whose advice I wouldn’t take in general. But even with limitless freedom of creative expression, I still struggled.
This wasn’t just a break to realign my values; it was about creating work without fear.
After a few months into my sabbatical, I started feeling restless. It felt less like a break and more like an unguided workshop. I thought to myself, “Okay, you have all the time, all the tools, all the freedom. Show yourself what you can really do!” I had so much material and emotional spark that I started a sprawling list of dream projects:
A line of purposeful deck-based products that spark delight.
A set of images about emotions created as if they were roadside motels.
A series of activist posters for up and coming political races.
Food and beverage packaging design systems.
Write, direct and create music videos with pulsing, rhythmic shapes.
A music data visualization project based on generative AI forms.
Risograph prints of local birds using economy of line.
Reigniting my love of hand-drawing likenesses of people I admired.
Branding a whole music festival based on an older project.
Designing a periodical about my travels with obscure facts about each country.
These ideas sat on my notes, on my desktop, named “ideas to work on.” I had spent hours detailing steps for each one, alongside my own made-up constraints to facilitate creative solutions. Yet, nothing moved forward! It was more depressing than any corporate meeting and that’s when I realized the problem wasn’t the restrictive environments I worked in. It was how I approached my process.
I knew I could solve challenging problems and synthesize information, yet I found my own ideas feeling a bit flat and one-sided. They were self-serving, no one was asking me to create them. I paid close attention to what came easily—the soft skills that mapped to diverse creative projects: empathy and connection. My innate curiosity leads me naturally into cross-functionality, open communication and building relationships with colleagues. After talking to peers with similar challenges, I noticed utility was a surprising value in how I perceive my role in this world—to serve and to help foster growth. Which is why I couldn’t get my own ideas off the ground, I needed something, I needed the push and pull of compromise.
What was truly holding me back from realizing these ideas became even more apparent when a friend wrote about the era of post-individualism and what it means to create with intentionality in a world that’s continuously shifting and collapsing. This idea of moving beyond the self, toward a shared context, fluidity and affiliation, made it clear that my best work wouldn’t be a solo product, but an emergent process co-created through interaction and response.
That’s when it clicked: I didn’t need to master every new tool; I needed collaborators and supporters with the same convictions and excitement, who wanted to build on each other’s ideas and projects. I went from seeking validation through hard work and a job title as identity to uplifting the voices of talented and disenfranchised people who just need a chance. This was key to my own sense of belonging and purpose.
How do I find a balance between ideation and execution when I’m constantly pulled in different directions? I’ve come to realize I can never be consistent or experimental enough to push past my own limitations—something my ideas can do without effort. The answer, I’ve found, is letting go of control.
Creative people in visual, spatial, and experiential industries are always a little egotistical and controlling. That’s not a bad thing; it’s how you fight for an idea you believe in. While collaboration can be passionate and adversarial—requiring good management to build the right team—it can also be a process of building shared excitement when an idea works in so many ways. The ultimate goal is to continually build on the idea, giving it a life of its own beyond its originator.
Instead of focusing on my own projects, I’ve spent my creative energy helping friends and collaborators with theirs. For instance, I recently developed the brand strategy for a local chef’s new product line. My role wasn’t to design the packaging, but to synthesize market data, build the narrative, and articulate the core value—giving the design team a clear foundation. In a similar project, I brought clarity to a friend’s vanity project for a whiskey label and its distillery’s visual identity.. By diving into their vision, I not only crafted a natural extension of their goals but also helped them question their fundamental reasons for doing the project in the first place. These experiences have shown me that my strength lies not in being the “idea guy” or “design rockstar,” but in being the Connector and the Architect.
Reconciling my need to control every aspect of a project has helped me build a stronger vision through collaboration.
I’ve learned that I don’t need to be the most technically skilled at everything, because so many others are. Reconciling my need to control every aspect of a project has helped me build a stronger vision through collaboration. This shift freed me from the weight of what I thought I was supposed to do, allowing me to contribute from a higher altitude.
Consulting has proven to be the best channel for this. In this role, thinking and analyzing serve as guides to purpose, teaching me about go-to-market strategy, building coalitions, and weaving data into a strong narrative. This approach allows many talented people to contribute long after my part is complete, proving that collective participation is key. Ultimately, it was a pause in my own creative sprints that helped me overcome my fear of failure and realize that collaborative work is just as important as individual vision.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.