I used to believe good UX was about structure—grids, systems, predictable behavior. Then I chose a life without structure and realized how fragile my thinking actually was.

My first year working remotely wasn’t freedom. It was panic disguised as flexibility. I remember sitting on a hostel bunk at 3 a.m., staring at a wireframe that made perfect sense to me and absolutely none to the client. The problem wasn’t the design. It was me. I was designing from habit, not understanding.

When you move constantly, your sense of identity gets blurry. You stop being “the designer at that company” and start being “the person with the laptop.” That’s when your work either sharpens or collapses. Mine collapsed—hard.

I shipped an onboarding flow once that failed completely. Users dropped off at step two. The data was brutal. Instead of blaming the users, I blamed the environment. Bad Wi-Fi. Cultural differences. Time zones. All excuses. The real issue was that I hadn’t listened. I assumed clarity instead of earning it.

Rebuilding my process meant slowing down. I began interviewing users properly, even if it meant waking up at odd hours. I stopped designing for impressiveness and started designing for relief—screens that made people feel less stupid, less rushed, less trapped.

Living without a permanent base teaches you something important: nothing stays stable long enough to hide bad decisions. Bad UX shows immediately. Confusing flows feel heavier when your own life is already uncertain. That pressure made me better.

Now, I design like I live—light, intentional, and ready to change direction. I document obsessively. I question every assumption. I design systems that forgive mistakes, because I make plenty of my own.

I don’t romanticize this lifestyle anymore. It’s messy. It exposes you. But it also strips away ego. When your life doesn’t have a fixed structure, your designs must create one—for others.

And somewhere between missed flights and failed prototypes, I learned that good UX isn’t about control. It’s about trust.