On losing yourself
There is a particular kind of grief that comes with losing your creative confidence. It doesn’t arrive all at once — it creeps in slowly, disguised as feedback, as silence, as the look on someone’s face when you share an idea. And if you’re neurodivergent, you already know how loud the world can be before you even sit down to design anything.
A few years ago, I moved to Japan with a suitcase full of excitement and a head full of ideas. What I didn’t pack (what I didn’t even know I’d need) was an armour. Because what followed was one of the hardest seasons of my creative life. Surrounded by negative people and, at times, genuinely abusive dynamics, I found myself shrinking. Not all at once. But piece by piece, the version of me that loved design began to disappear.
“The negative experiences let my internal critic run wild. Impostor syndrome moved in, unpacked its bags, and made itself at home.”
I spiralled. I second-guessed everything,,, my ideas, my instincts, my right to even call myself a designer. And the hardest part? A new country, a new routine, a new culture to navigate. There was no soft landing. Just the daily work of survival, with creativity feeling very, very far away.
On finding your way back
Here is what nobody tells you about creative confidence: it doesn’t come back in a single breakthrough moment. It comes back in quiet accumulations. A project that goes well. A colleague who says “this is exactly right.” A morning where you open your design tool and something just… flows.
For those of us who are neurodivergent, positive experiences carry extraordinary weight. Our nervous systems are wired to feel things deeply, which means the bad can cut very deep, but it also means that the good can genuinely heal us. Each positive experience is not just a nice moment. It is evidence. Evidence that we belong here. That our way of seeing the world is not a liability, it is a gift that design desperately needs.
“Positive experiences don’t just feel good. For neurodivergent creatives, they rewire the story we tell about ourselves.”
I am not fully “fixed.” I don’t think that’s the goal, but I am in a better place now… one filled with experiences that outweigh the dark ones. And what surprised me most was what came back first: the joy. The pure, uncomplicated delight of making something. Of seeing a design come together. Of solving a problem in a way that only my brain would solve it.
A few things that helped me
Seek environments that amplify, not diminish. This is harder than it sounds, especially when you’re new to a country or a company. But toxic environments do not build character; they erode it. Protect your creative energy fiercely.
Name the critic. Impostor syndrome thrives in silence. The moment I started saying “there’s my impostor syndrome again” out loud (even just in my head), it lost some of its grip. It became a character, not a verdict.
Collect wins, no matter how small. A screenshot of positive feedback. A note about a problem you solved elegantly. Your brain needs evidence that you are capable, especially when the critic is loud. Build a file. Fill it.
Let your neurodivergence be part of your design identity. The hyperfocus, the pattern recognition, the ability to notice what neurotypical eyes skip over, these are not quirks to manage. They are tools. Own them.
To the version of you who is still in the hard part
If you are reading this from inside that spiral, if the negative voices (inside or outside your head) are still louder than the good ones…
I just want to say: the creative part of you is not gone. It is waiting. It is patient. And it will come back when you give it a safe enough place to land.
The UX/UI world needs your specific, unusual, wonderful way of thinking. It always did. The problem was never your brain.
It was never you.
Written with honesty and hope, for every neurodivergent designer who has ever had to find their way back to themselves. You are not alone in this. ✦
