When I was a kid, I used to organise my Match Attax cards in alphabetical order. Then by team. Then by position. I’d sit on the floor of my bedroom, sorting and re-sorting until every single card was exactly where it should be. And then I’d go round to a mate’s house, see his book, cards jammed in sideways, duplicates everywhere, no logic whatsoever, and genuinely think: why would you do that? Why would you choose chaos?

Looking back, that probably tells you everything you need to know about me as a designer. I’ve always been someone who appreciates the craft, the time it takes and the process in its entirety. I like to do things right from the start, not just for me, but for everyone who’s going to touch the project after me. Everything I produce is neat, tidy, organised. Files labelled, layers named, grids respected. If design was a kitchen, mine would pass a hygiene inspection with flying colours.

For a while, that felt like enough. My background in digital design reinforced it. I worked within parameters. I followed systems. Nobody ever asked me to think outside the box, and honestly? I didn’t want to. The box was comfortable. The box made sense.

Early in my career, I worked with someone who thought the same way I did: structured, methodical, process-first. And it made me feel validated. I thought, okay, this is just how designers work. This is the done thing.It wasn’t until later that I realised: no, it isn’t. Not for everyone. Some designers sketch loose, think wild, or throw paint at the wall and see what sticks. Some people thrive in that chaos, the same chaos that would have made 10-year-old me reorganise their entire card collection.And that’s when the doubt crept in.I started looking around at other creatives, the ones with messy sketchbooks full of beautiful scribbles, the ones who could riff on a concept at the drop of a hat, the ones who seemed to just get it in a way that felt effortless. And I’d think: why can’t I do that? Am I even a real designer?

The irony is, I’ve always admired that kind of work in other people. I love seeing someone’s rough workings, their scamps, the raw thinking before the polish. But when it came to myself? Absolutely not. Even at school, my sketchbook was mostly printouts. The thought of drawing something bad and it being permanently there, on the page, for someone to see... that terrified me. I’d rather show nothing than show something imperfect.

People call me a perfectionist and for a long time, I wore that like a burden. Because perfectionism, when you’re in the thick of it, doesn’t feel like a superpower. It feels like paralysis. It’s the panic that hits when you’re asked to push a concept further and your brain starts screaming: have I gone too far? Will anyone even like this? It’s wasting hours overthinking something that nobody else would think twice about. It’s wanting to impress everyone, your peers, your colleagues, even your brother who works in the same industry, while simultaneously being convinced that none of them think you’re good enough. Imposter syndrome. Fear of judgement. The constant, nagging question: am I a designer, or am I just someone who’s good at tidying things up?

Here’s what I’ve come to understand though. The box I was so desperate to think outside of? I’d built it myself. Every wall of it. The fear of judgement, the comparison, the impossible standards, none of that was coming from anyone else. My biggest critic was never a client or a creative director. It was me, alone, overthinking at midnight.So I stopped trying to escape the box. I started looking at what was actually inside it.

And you know what’s inside it? Someone who spots problems before they become problems. Someone who thinks about every single step of the process at once, who’s considering the build while everyone else is still on the moodboard. Someone who ensures brand consistency, who keeps the details tight, who makes sure the work doesn’t just look good, it actually functions. The person who asks the questions nobody else wants to hear, like, when are we planning on purchasing that £1,000 font? Or, has anyone actually bought that stock imagery yet, or are we just vibing?

That used to feel like a hindrance. Now I know it’s a strength. Because every team needs someone who’s diligent. Someone who’s attentive. Someone who takes a raw concept, even just the first 10% of an idea, and pushes it all the way to the finish line, polished and production-ready. A safe pair of hands that the rest of the team can trust.At We Are Fred, I’ve started to find where I really fit. I’ve been dipping into UI and UX alongside our Digital Director, Jacob, and honestly, it’s been a revelation. There are constraints to work within, grids, systems, user flows, and that’s where I come alive. But the standard we hold ourselves to means I’m never just colouring inside the lines. I’m learning new skills, staying across trends, and finding confidence in pushing ideas further than I thought I could. Working on the Hills Residential website from start to finish was a turning point because it showed me that structure and creativity aren’t opposites, they’re partners.

And the team here gets that. I complement the conceptual thinkers and they complement me. Sometimes I’m their worst nightmare, the one grounding a wild idea with a logistical question at the worst possible moment, but that tension is where the best work lives. After two years at Fred, we’re finally speaking the same language. We’ve learned how to lean on each other’s strengths instead of expecting everyone to be the same kind of creative. We win together, we lose together, we back one another. We’re stronger for it.

So if you’re reading this and you’re a designer who doesn’t 'feel' like a designer, if your sketchbook is too clean, if your process is too rigid, if you’ve ever looked at someone else’s chaotic genius and wondered why you can’t be more like that, hear me out.There is no cookie-cutter designer. We’re not being mass-produced on some conveyor belt of creativity. Design is everything in between the brief and the final file, and how you get there is entirely yours. Your process is valid, and your brain is wired the way it’s wired for a reason. And the things you’ve been calling weaknesses? They might just be the things that make you indispensable.

The box isn’t the problem. I built it, and I get to decide what it means. And right now, it means I know exactly who I am as a designer, even if it took a while to get here