I used to believe that if I worked hard, stayed honest, and loved design deeply, I would naturally arrive at the future I dreamed of.
In design school, I gave everything to my work and my mentors. I thought everyone was like me—obsessing over the shadow of a button, the layout of a page, or pulling all-nighters trying to perfect a transition animation. I believed the future would be bright, that brilliant people never die, and that I could always follow someone wiser, eventually becoming “a designer with firm, unshakable convictions and impeccable work.”
But then he died.
And something in me broke.
I started questioning everything. Did I truly love the company he worked for, or just the meaning he infused into it? Without him, who was I following? And what was I aiming for?
In 2020, everything cracked wider open. I read a news story: someone infected with the virus, not yet fully dead, was taken to be cremated. What chilled me wasn’t the brutality—it was the cold logic behind it. “They were not wrong,” I thought, “but if it were my family, how could I accept that?”
I used to think systems could be trusted. That society had warmth. That people were kind.
But I learned: organizations are machines. Machines have no blood, no empathy. They run efficiently, but they don’t calm a fragile heart.
That’s when I started to understand something deeper:
“You must judge for yourself.” “You must choose your own fate.” “You must become someone you can absolutely rely on.”
So I walked my own path.
I once had big dreams—design that served people, systems that made life better. But organizations have their own logic. Rules. Politics. Power. And I was constantly told I was “too idealistic,” “too much,” “too serious.”
Eventually, I stopped wanting to serve “the greater good.” How could I, when I hadn’t even defined my own meaning?
There was a long silence after that.
My friends and I had a podcast we never released. It was supposed to explore “the meaning of life.” But none of us could articulate it, so it stayed a plan. A topic “to be discussed later.”
Until one day, I stopped looking for meaning—and decided to become it.
“A passionate life is a life that brings value to the world.”
This sentence became my anchor.
I began creating. I launched my independent brand, Fairies Whisper—not for trends or validation, but to say something.
“Being bound doesn’t mean you’ve lost passion.”
“Stillness doesn’t mean emptiness.”
One series I made— The Feast—uses golden-toned jewelry mixed with fast-food visual language to mock the tired pomp of traditional gold.
Another—Fish Market—was inspired while grocery shopping. The subtle iridescence of seafood skins, their rich textures, played beautifully against silver jewelry. A calm contrast, somehow alive.
(Someone might accuse me of not protecting animals—but they were already dead, and using them in design is perhaps my most sustainable act yet.)
So no, I’m not making fashion.
I’m making a satirical slice of life, wearable like a comic strip of resistance.
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