Qihang Zhang

My journey into design was shaped by a blend of academic exploration, creative experimentation, and personal discovery. I didn’t grow up knowing I would be a designer—but looking back, the signs were always there. I was fascinated by visual storytelling, drawn to album covers, digital interfaces, and the emotional impact of thoughtful design. I studied Communications and History at UCLA, later attended Oxford as a visiting student, and earned a Master’s in Learning Design, Innovation, and Technology from Harvard. I’ve also been admitted to Stanford’s MBA program, which I plan to pursue in the future. These interdisciplinary experiences gave me a strong foundation in narrative, systems thinking, and cultural empathy. It was during my time at UCLA that I first recognized the power of design as a form of storytelling—one that can influence behavior, evoke emotion, and drive change. What began as casual tinkering with album redesigns and data visualizations quickly became a calling. I taught myself Figma, built my own music data tools, and eventually transitioned into product design—driven by a desire to create human-centered experiences that are both visually compelling and deeply functional. Today, as a Senior Product Designer at Chartmetric, I lead the design of AI-powered music analytics tools used by top artists, labels, and managers around the world. For me, design isn’t just a profession—it’s a way to translate empathy into action, and to help others see and shape the world differently.

Chartmetric is an award-winning music data analytics platform that helps artists, labels, managers, and executives make smarter, faster decisions in the digital music economy. We aggregate and analyze millions of data points daily from platforms like Spotify, TikTok, YouTube, Apple Music, Instagram, and more—offering powerful insights into artist performance, audience demographics, playlist placements, and market trends. Our users span across the music industry, from global powerhouses like Sony Music and Warner Records to indie labels, booking agencies, and creative professionals worldwide. As a Senior Product Designer at Chartmetric, I lead the design of core features across our web and mobile apps, with a particular focus on building intelligent, human-centered tools that simplify complex datasets. One of my proudest contributions is the design of our mobile app, which won the A’ Design Award for transforming how music professionals track real-time analytics on the go. My work bridges UI/UX, visual design, and product strategy—ensuring our platform is not only data-rich but also intuitive and delightful to use. Chartmetric sits at the intersection of technology, creativity, and culture. We believe that data should empower—not overwhelm—the people who shape the future of music. Through thoughtful design and collaboration, we aim to democratize access to industry intelligence and support artists and teams at every stage of their journey.

To me, design is the art of intentional problem-solving—where empathy meets functionality and form serves purpose. It’s not just about how something looks, but how it works, how it feels, and most importantly, how it serves the people using it. As a product designer, I see design as a bridge between data and human experience. Whether I’m simplifying a music analytics dashboard or shaping the flow of an interactive storytelling app, my goal is always the same: to make the complex feel intuitive, and to craft experiences that inform, empower, and emotionally connect. Design is also a form of quiet advocacy. Every layout, interaction, or micro-decision reflects values—what we prioritize, who we include, and how we define clarity or accessibility. In this way, design becomes a tool for inclusion, equity, and transformation. It’s not just a discipline—it’s a responsibility.

I’m most drawn to designing digital tools that sit at the intersection of data, emotion, and utility—products that help people make smarter decisions while also feeling seen and supported. I particularly enjoy crafting experiences that simplify complex information. Whether it’s designing AI-powered insights for music professionals or building interactive platforms for emotional storytelling, I thrive when I’m turning abstract ideas into intuitive, meaningful interfaces. I believe good design should feel invisible—it should guide, not distract; empower, not overwhelm. Projects that involve systems thinking, narrative layers, and high-impact social or cultural value resonate most with me. I’m especially passionate about tools that amplify underrepresented voices or offer new ways of engaging with music, memory, and identity. Ultimately, I enjoy designing products that are not only functional but also emotionally intelligent—where every detail, from color to micro-interaction, contributes to a deeper human connection.

One of my favorite design projects is the Chartmetric Mobile App, which recently won the A’ Design Award. This app was a deeply rewarding challenge—it pushed me to rethink how music professionals access real-time data in the fast-paced digital landscape. Our goal was to create a mobile-first experience that didn’t just replicate our desktop analytics tools, but truly reimagined them for artists, managers, and A&R executives on the go. I focused on distilling large, complex datasets—playlist movement, audience shifts, social metrics—into clear, actionable visuals that could be understood at a glance. What makes this design meaningful to me is not just the interface, but the impact. The app is now used by music professionals across the globe to track trends, discover talent, and make smarter decisions—anytime, anywhere. It also reflects my core design philosophy: that data can be empowering when it’s made accessible, beautiful, and human-centered. From color systems to micro-interactions, every detail in the app was thoughtfully considered. Winning the A’ Design Award was a great honor, but even more rewarding was hearing from users that the app helped them discover their next breakout artist or prepare for a label pitch. That’s when I know the design truly worked.

The first thing I officially designed for a company was a set of social media graphics for National Geographic’s World Heritage Journeys initiative, in collaboration with UNESCO and the European Union. As part of a storytelling team, I was tasked with creating visually compelling content that could highlight cultural heritage sites across Europe—ranging from medieval towns to sacred pilgrimage routes. It was my first time working within strict brand guidelines while also trying to bring emotional and historical depth to digital assets designed for Instagram and Facebook. I had to balance storytelling with brevity, and visuals with platform constraints. More importantly, I learned how design can serve as a cross-cultural bridge—sparking curiosity, empathy, and global dialogue through carefully crafted images and copy. Looking back, this project shaped my early understanding of design’s power beyond aesthetics. It was my first real experience turning research, culture, and mission into a visual language that people across the world could connect with in seconds. That sense of clarity and impact still drives my work today.

My favorite “material” is data—especially when paired with intuitive interface design and intelligent systems like AI. I’m fascinated by how raw information, when structured and visualized correctly, can become a powerful storytelling tool. Whether it’s music metadata, audience demographics, or social trends, I see data as a medium for insight, not just numbers. In terms of tools, I rely heavily on Figma for design and prototyping—it allows me to move quickly, collaborate in real time, and maintain design systems at scale. For more dynamic work, I also enjoy using Webflow and Framer to prototype interactions and test ideas visually. On the technology side, I’m deeply interested in generative AI and how large language models can enhance user workflows, which is something I’ve integrated into features at Chartmetric. Ultimately, I’m less loyal to any single platform and more inspired by technologies that help me bridge the gap between logic and emotion—turning complexity into clarity.

I feel most creative in two moments: during quiet, focused solitude—and during collaborative energy with people I trust. In solitude, especially late at night or early in the morning, my mind is free to wander without constraint. That’s often when I connect unexpected dots, sketch ideas, or reimagine a complex problem from a new angle. But I also find creativity in collaboration—when I’m brainstorming with engineers, writers, or fellow designers. There’s something generative about exchanging perspectives across disciplines. I find that my best ideas often emerge not from a blank canvas, but from tension, feedback, or a shared constraint that challenges me to think differently. Ultimately, creativity for me is less about waiting for inspiration and more about creating the right environment—one where curiosity, clarity, and empathy can thrive.

I focus most on clarity, emotion, and scalability. Clarity is fundamental—if a user can’t understand what to do within the first few seconds, the design has failed. I pay close attention to hierarchy, typography, and interaction flow to ensure that users feel guided, not confused. Every element must serve a purpose. Equally important is emotional resonance. Whether I’m designing for music professionals or people navigating grief, I think about how the product makes them feel. Does it reduce anxiety? Does it create a sense of momentum, trust, or delight? These emotional cues often come from subtle choices in color, motion, tone, or spacing. Finally, I always think about scalability—can this design grow with the product? Can it support localization, future features, or different user types? I aim to build systems, not just screens—so my designs are modular, adaptable, and resilient over time.

Designing evokes a mix of focus, curiosity, and quiet joy. At the beginning of a project, I often feel a surge of curiosity—eager to explore the problem space, understand the users, and uncover insights that will guide the experience. That sense of discovery energizes me. As the work progresses, I shift into a state of deep focus. There’s something meditative about aligning pixels, crafting interactions, and refining flows. Time disappears when I’m fully immersed—it’s a feeling of being both grounded and in motion. When a solution finally clicks—when something complex becomes simple, or when a visual metaphor perfectly lands—I feel a quiet joy. It’s not dramatic, but deeply satisfying. And when I see that design helping someone in the real world—saving time, reducing confusion, sparking delight—that’s when the emotion becomes profound. In those moments, design feels like a small but meaningful act of care.

When a design is realized and launched into the world, I feel a mix of pride, humility, and anticipation. There’s pride, of course—in seeing something that began as a rough sketch or a fleeting idea become a fully functional product. It’s especially meaningful when the final result stays true to the original intent, yet evolves through collaboration and iteration. At the same time, I feel a sense of humility. Once a design is live, it no longer belongs to just the designer—it becomes part of people’s everyday experiences. That’s when I become the learner again—observing, listening, and sometimes being surprised by how people use (or don’t use) what we’ve built. But perhaps the strongest emotion is anticipation. I’m always eager to see what impact the design will have: Will it make someone’s job easier? Will it empower an emerging artist? Will it help someone feel more confident, curious, or connected? For me, the realization of a design isn’t the end—it’s the beginning of a new feedback loop, a new chapter of learning and refinement. That’s what makes the work so meaningful.

A successful design balances clarity, emotion, and context. It solves the right problem, for the right user, at the right time—while feeling effortless and intentional. At its core, good design must function. It should guide users seamlessly toward their goals, reduce friction, and provide value with minimal cognitive load. But success isn’t just about usability—it’s about emotional impact. A design that’s intuitive but also builds trust, inspires confidence, or sparks joy creates a deeper, lasting connection with users. Context also matters. A beautiful interface that ignores business needs or technical constraints may not be sustainable. A successful design works within real-world limitations—yet still finds room for elegance, efficiency, and adaptability. To me, success is also measured by longevity. Can the design evolve as the product scales? Can it support edge cases, localization, and future features? If yes, it’s not just a design—it’s a system. Most importantly, I consider a design successful when it quietly improves someone’s day—when users don’t notice the design itself, but feel empowered by what it enables them to do.

The first thing I look for is clarity: Does the design make it immediately obvious what the user should do, and does it reduce cognitive friction? A good design doesn’t make people think too hard—it guides them intuitively toward their goal. Next, I assess intent. Is the design solving the right problem, or is it just solving it beautifully? Aesthetics are important, but without a strong rationale behind layout, flow, and interaction, even the most visually polished design can fall short. I also pay close attention to emotional tone—how does the design feel? Is it respectful, engaging, trustworthy? Does it acknowledge the user's context and create a positive, empowering experience? Finally, I consider how the design holds up across different devices, users, and use cases. Scalability, accessibility, and flexibility are often overlooked—but essential traits that distinguish great design from merely good design. In short: purposeful clarity, emotional resonance, and adaptability are the key signals I use to evaluate design quality.

Designers have a responsibility to shape not just products, but the world we live in. Every design decision—big or small—has ripple effects on behavior, accessibility, inclusion, and sustainability. That gives our work both power and responsibility. Socially, we must design with empathy and equity in mind. Who are we designing for? Who might we be excluding? Good design should serve diverse communities, remove barriers, and create opportunities for connection and empowerment—especially for those historically underrepresented or marginalized. Environmentally, we must recognize that even digital design has a footprint. The systems we create influence consumption patterns, screen time, server load, and even hardware lifecycles. Responsible design means choosing simplicity over excess, and efficiency over indulgence—creating products that are not only effective but also mindful of their long-term impact. At a broader level, designers are cultural translators. We help people navigate complexity, make decisions, and form meaning. That means our work carries ethical weight. We must design transparently, resist manipulation, and use our craft to foster understanding rather than exploitation. In short, our responsibility is to design not just for users—but for humanity.

The design field is evolving from being primarily visual and artifact-driven to being increasingly systemic, adaptive, and AI-augmented. We’re moving beyond screens and pixels—into ecosystems, behaviors, and ethical frameworks. In the near term, generative AI will drastically reduce the barrier to entry for basic design execution. Tools will get smarter, faster, and more accessible. But this doesn’t mean designers will be replaced. Instead, it shifts our focus from creating individual assets to orchestrating entire experiences—designing intent, flow, and impact across time and contexts. The future of design lies in our ability to integrate logic and empathy, data and narrative. Designers will act more like facilitators, strategists, and translators—connecting technical capability with human need. Design will be increasingly collaborative, interdisciplinary, and conscious of global challenges like mental health, digital well-being, and sustainability. Ultimately, design’s future is not just in making things look better—it’s in helping society work better. As our tools evolve, so must our values. The next generation of designers will be judged not just by what they make, but by what they enable.

My most recent exhibition was Art Shopping Paris in April 2025, held at the Carrousel du Louvre. I showcased Radiant Embrace, an interactive digital work that explores emotional memory through immersive design. Exhibiting alongside a global roster of artists and designers, it was a powerful reminder of how design can transcend language and connect us through shared human experiences. My next exhibition will be RE-CRAFT at ICFF NYC 2025, an international design showcase supported by Dezeen. I’m honored to be part of this forward-thinking platform that highlights sustainability, material innovation, and the future of craft in design. Looking ahead, I hope to present a solo or thematic exhibition that explores the intersection of memory, data, and identity—using immersive storytelling and AI-generated visuals to invite reflection on how we construct and preserve personal histories in the digital age.

My design inspiration often comes from unexpected intersections—between data and emotion, structure and story, memory and technology. I’m fascinated by how information can become a narrative, how interfaces can evoke feeling, and how design can create meaning from complexity. I draw a lot of inspiration from music—not just sonically, but structurally. The way a song builds tension, plays with rhythm, or uses silence is not unlike how a user experience unfolds over time. Artists like Björk, FKA twigs, and Ryuichi Sakamoto remind me that creative work can be deeply experimental yet emotionally resonant. I also look to architecture and cinema. The way a space is shaped or a scene is framed often teaches me something about flow, contrast, and presence. I’m especially drawn to the visual clarity of minimalist Japanese architecture and the layered symbolism in Wong Kar-wai films. To feed my creativity, I maintain a “curiosity habit”—I document fragments of ideas, textures, layouts, or even overheard conversations in a running digital journal. I regularly visit design blogs, exhibitions, and music videos, but I also stay curious about fields outside of design—psychology, education, AI, even urban planning. Ultimately, I believe inspiration isn’t something you wait for—it’s something you train your attention to recognize in the world around you.

I would describe my design style as emotionally intelligent, data-aware, and narratively grounded. It sits at the intersection of clarity and feeling—where structure meets storytelling. Visually, I gravitate toward clean, modular systems with purposeful use of color, hierarchy, and motion. I aim for simplicity, but never at the expense of depth. I often use subtle gradients, micro-interactions, and layered layouts to guide attention and evoke emotional resonance. I believe that even highly technical tools—like music analytics dashboards—can feel warm, empowering, and intuitive when designed with care. My style evolved naturally from my background in storytelling and my love for systems. I’ve always been fascinated by the challenge of making complexity approachable—whether it’s mapping artist growth across platforms, or creating immersive memorial experiences that help people process grief. I’m drawn to themes of memory, time, identity, and the hidden narratives beneath the surface. My approach to design is grounded in systems thinking and human insight. I start by understanding users deeply—their emotions, pain points, and aspirations. Then I build frameworks that scale, while leaving room for nuance and surprise. I believe the best designs don’t scream for attention—they quietly earn trust, invite engagement, and reflect empathy in every interaction.

I currently live in the San Francisco Bay Area, but I was born and raised in China. My design perspective is deeply shaped by this bicultural experience—navigating between East and West, tradition and innovation, history and future. Growing up, I was surrounded by a rich visual and philosophical heritage—from the symmetry of Ming gardens and the restraint of Song Dynasty ink paintings, to the layered symbolism of Chinese characters. These early exposures taught me to appreciate balance, negative space, and the beauty of subtlety—elements that continue to inform my design language today. At the same time, living and working in the U.S.—especially in a fast-paced, tech-driven environment like Silicon Valley—has pushed me to embrace rapid iteration, systems thinking, and cross-disciplinary collaboration. It’s a space that values innovation, but also demands clarity and speed. The greatest advantage of this dual cultural lens is adaptability. I can design with empathy for global users, balancing emotional depth with technical precision. The challenge, however, is sometimes navigating differing expectations—between aesthetic sensibilities, communication styles, or definitions of “good” design. But I see this tension not as a limitation, but as a source of creative richness. Ultimately, my work is shaped by the belief that design is a universal language—but one that must always respect and reflect local nuance.

I work with companies as a strategic design partner—someone who doesn’t just deliver visuals, but helps define problems, shape solutions, and translate business goals into meaningful user experiences. At Chartmetric, I collaborate closely with product managers, engineers, data scientists, and executive stakeholders to drive feature development from concept to launch. My role is often cross-functional: I lead user research, define design systems, prototype interactive flows, and advocate for design quality throughout the product lifecycle. Whether I’m working in a startup or enterprise setting, I approach each engagement with curiosity, structure, and empathy. I believe in building strong relationships based on trust, shared language, and mutual respect. I listen closely to both user and stakeholder needs—and then work to align them through thoughtful, scalable design. I also bring a strong storytelling lens to my work. I often help companies not only refine the user interface, but also clarify their product narratives, value propositions, and long-term design vision. In short, I don’t see design as a service, but as a partnership—one that blends creativity with strategy, and vision with execution.

My first suggestion is: treat designers as strategic partners, not just executors. The earlier a designer is brought into a project, the more value they can contribute—not only in visual execution, but in framing the problem, shaping the user journey, and aligning design with business goals. Companies should look for designers who ask thoughtful questions, not just produce beautiful outputs. A good designer is someone who’s curious about your users, comfortable with ambiguity, and able to translate complexity into clarity. Technical skills matter, but what truly sets a designer apart is their ability to connect with users, collaborate across teams, and think in systems—not just screens. When hiring or collaborating with a designer, ask: Can they articulate the “why” behind their decisions? Do they show empathy for both users and stakeholders? Can they adapt to your product’s evolving needs over time? Finally, set designers up for success. Give them context, access to users, and a seat at the table. The best results happen when design is integrated—not isolated. Good design is never just decoration—it’s decision-making, empathy, and long-term thinking made visible. Companies that recognize this will always build better products and stronger teams.

My design process is grounded in systems thinking, user empathy, and iterative collaboration. It’s not linear—it’s adaptive, evolving with the complexity of the problem and the needs of the team. I usually begin with immersion: understanding the problem space through stakeholder interviews, data analysis, competitive research, and most importantly—user input. I want to grasp not just what users do, but how they think and feel. From there, I move into definition—shaping a clear problem statement and design principles to guide the work. This phase helps align product, engineering, and business around a shared direction. Next comes ideation and prototyping. I sketch multiple approaches, build wireframes or interactive mockups in Figma, and test early concepts with real users. I strongly believe in designing with—not just for—the user, so feedback is integrated early and often. After refining the flow, I shift into visual design and documentation, ensuring accessibility, scalability, and consistency with the design system. I collaborate closely with engineers during handoff, supporting implementation and QA to ensure high fidelity in the final build. But the process doesn’t end at launch. I treat every release as the beginning of a new feedback loop. I monitor usage, gather insights, and iterate continuously—because great design is never static, it adapts and improves with real-world context. Whether I’m designing a mobile app for music professionals or an interactive platform for memory preservation, this process allows me to balance structure with creativity, and vision with execution.

MUJI Wall-Mounted CD Player – This piece by Naoto Fukasawa is a perfect example of minimalism with emotional warmth. Pulling the cord to play music feels both analog and nostalgic, reminding me that interaction design doesn’t always require a screen. Apple Magic Trackpad – As a designer, this is my go-to tool for flow-state work. Its tactile precision, subtle haptics, and seamless integration make it a quiet yet powerful part of my daily creative routine. Kindle Paperwhite – I love how it blends thoughtful digital interaction with the simplicity of reading. The e-ink display, long battery life, and distraction-free interface embody design that truly respects the user’s attention. A vintage flip clock – It’s not the most efficient device, but its physicality and rhythm bring a kind of calm that digital clocks can’t replicate. I love how it turns time into a kinetic experience—click by click. A handmade ceramic incense holder from Kyoto – It’s small, irregular, and imperfect—but that’s what makes it beautiful. It reminds me that good design doesn’t have to be mass-produced or symmetrical. Sometimes, feeling is more important than form. Each of these objects brings together form, function, and feeling in a unique way. They remind me, daily, of what thoughtful design can achieve.

My days usually begin with quiet focus. I wake up around 7:30 AM, start with a short walk or mindfulness practice, and then ease into work with a cup of coffee and a review of my design to-do list. I like to block out the first few hours of the day for deep work—whether that’s wireframing a new feature, refining flows in Figma, or writing UX copy for an AI-powered tool at Chartmetric. By late morning, I shift into collaboration mode—syncs with product managers, engineers, and sometimes marketing or data teams. As a Senior Product Designer, a big part of my role is aligning across disciplines and making sure design decisions are grounded in both user need and product strategy. Lunch is my reset time, often soundtracked by new music releases or a podcast on design or technology. I find that letting my mind wander a little mid-day actually helps me problem-solve better in the afternoon. Afternoons are a mix of critique sessions, user feedback reviews, and hands-on iteration. I also try to leave space for mentorship—whether reviewing a junior designer’s work or offering portfolio feedback to a mentee. Evenings are more fluid. Sometimes I’ll attend a design event, sketch personal ideas, or work on passion projects like Memory Land. Other times, I disconnect entirely—read, cook, or catch a live performance. I believe creative energy is renewable, but only if you protect it. My life isn’t perfectly structured, but I try to balance rhythm with flexibility—so that I can show up consistently for my team, while still leaving room for curiosity and surprise.

Don’t wait until you feel “ready” to start. You grow by doing, not by perfecting. Some of my most meaningful opportunities came when I said yes before I felt fully qualified—and then figured it out along the way. Learn to embrace feedback as a gift, not a threat. The best designers I know are not the ones with the flashiest portfolios, but the ones who listen well, stay curious, and adapt without ego. Invest in understanding people, not just pixels. Tools and trends will change, but empathy, storytelling, and critical thinking will always be essential. Read outside of design. Observe human behavior. Stay emotionally attuned. Also, don’t be afraid to shape your own path. I didn’t take a traditional design degree route. I taught myself Figma, built side projects, and combined my background in storytelling and systems thinking to craft a design identity that’s uniquely mine. You can too. And finally—take care of your creative spirit. The design industry can be intense, but remember that rest, play, and inspiration are not luxuries—they’re part of the process. Protect your perspective. It’s what makes your work matter.

One of the biggest positives of being a designer is the ability to shape experiences that impact people’s lives—often in quiet but powerful ways. We get to make the complex feel simple, the invisible feel seen, and the ordinary feel meaningful. There’s immense fulfillment in watching your work empower someone, solve a problem, or spark an emotion. Design also gives you access to incredibly diverse domains. You might work on healthcare one year, music the next, and sustainability after that. It’s a profession that thrives on curiosity and offers constant opportunities to learn, grow, and collaborate with others. But the challenges are real too. One downside is the emotional weight of care. Designers are expected to empathize deeply—with users, stakeholders, and even constraints—often absorbing tensions that others overlook. This can be both exhausting and invisible. Another challenge is ambiguity and undervaluation. In some environments, design is still seen as an add-on rather than a strategic force. You may have to constantly advocate for your seat at the table, explain your value, or navigate unclear expectations. And then there’s the pressure to stay current. The field moves fast, and it’s easy to feel like you’re falling behind. But I’ve learned that depth matters more than trend-chasing. Being a good designer isn’t about knowing every tool—it’s about staying grounded in purpose, people, and process. Despite the trade-offs, I wouldn’t trade this path for anything. Design is one of the few disciplines where imagination meets responsibility—and that, to me, is both a privilege and a challenge worth embracing.

Design with intention, not decoration. Every element—every color, line, interaction, or word—should have a reason to exist. If it doesn’t serve clarity, emotion, or function, it doesn’t belong. Great design isn’t about adding more, but revealing what matters. I often ask myself: Does this choice help someone feel more confident, informed, or empowered? If not, I revisit it. Because to me, good design is quiet but purposeful—it gets out of the way, so people can do what they came to do.

The most important skills for a designer go beyond tools—they lie in how we think, listen, and solve. First, empathy is foundational. You need the ability to see the world through someone else’s eyes, to understand not just what people do but why they do it. Great design starts with understanding real human needs. Second, systems thinking—the ability to zoom out, see connections, and design for scalability and longevity. Whether you’re creating a component library or mapping an onboarding journey, understanding how parts relate to the whole is critical. Third, communication. You need to articulate your ideas clearly, advocate for design decisions, and build alignment across disciplines. A designer who can explain why something works earns trust and influence. Fourth, visual and interaction design fundamentals—typography, hierarchy, layout, motion, accessibility. These are the craft skills that bring ideas to life with clarity and beauty. And finally, adaptability. Tools, trends, and constraints will keep changing. What doesn’t change is your ability to learn, unlearn, and stay curious. A good designer makes things look good. A great designer makes things work, feel right, and matter.

My toolbox spans across software, hardware, habits, and inspirations—because great design requires both precision and perspective. On the software side, Figma is my daily driver—for wireframing, prototyping, and system design. I also use Framer and Webflow for high-fidelity interaction and motion exploration, and Notion or FigJam for early ideation, mapping, and collaboration. For more technical prototypes or data-driven interfaces, I work closely with tools like Dovetail (for user research), Miro, and occasionally GPT-powered systems for interaction logic or copy suggestions. Hardware-wise, I keep it minimal: a MacBook Pro, Apple Magic Trackpad, and iPad Pro with Pencil for sketching and feedback annotation. I also keep a physical notebook nearby—because sometimes the best ideas come when I step away from the screen. Beyond tools, I rely heavily on rituals and resources to feed creativity. I visit Are.na, Mindsparkle Mag, and The Brand Identity for visual inspiration, and I keep a rotating playlist of music to match different stages of my workflow—from deep ambient tracks for focus to cinematic scores for concept exploration. Books like The Design of Everyday Things, Emotional Design, and Speculative Everything have been foundational. But I also draw from literature, architecture, and even film—especially for understanding narrative, flow, and emotional timing. To me, tools aren’t just about execution—they’re a reflection of how I think, observe, and translate the world into meaningful experiences.

I manage my time by designing my schedule as intentionally as I design products. I typically structure my day around energy levels rather than just time blocks. I protect my peak creative hours—usually in the morning—for deep design work like wireframing, ideation, or systems building. Meetings and collaboration sessions are scheduled in the afternoon when I’m more externally focused. I also apply product thinking to my calendar: breaking large projects into smaller, testable milestones and aligning them with feedback cycles. This helps me stay nimble and avoid over-designing before direction is clear. Tools like Notion and linear task systems help me track progress, but what matters most is priority clarity: I always ask, What is the single most important design decision I need to move forward today? Importantly, I build in space to rest and reflect. Creativity can’t be rushed, and burnout helps no one. I’ve learned that stepping away—whether for a walk, music break, or short journaling session—often leads to better ideas and faster resolutions. In short: I manage time by managing focus. It’s not about doing more—it’s about doing the right things, at the right pace, with the right presence.

It depends on the object, the context, and the level of fidelity required—but in most cases, designing something meaningful is not a linear sprint—it’s an evolving cycle. For a feature in a digital product, the process might take anywhere from 2 to 8 weeks, depending on complexity, cross-functional coordination, and iteration rounds. A small UI component or empty state may be done in a few focused days. A system-level redesign or AI-powered tool can take several months, especially when research, data modeling, and scalability are involved. But more than time, I think in terms of phases: Discovery & research Concept & prototyping User testing & iteration Final design & handoff Post-launch evaluation Some projects move through these rapidly, others slowly—but each phase adds layers of insight that improve the outcome. I’ve also learned that no design is ever truly “finished.” Even after launch, feedback loops and real-world use reveal opportunities to refine and evolve. So rather than chasing perfection from the start, I focus on crafting value early and improving over time. Design is not just about delivery—it’s about learning. And that process takes the time it needs to be thoughtful, relevant, and human-centered.

The question I get most often is: “How did you get into design?” People are often surprised to learn that I didn’t come from a traditional design school background. I started in communications, storytelling, and education—and slowly transitioned into product design by teaching myself the tools, building side projects, and focusing on human behavior and systems. I think people ask this because design can feel like a mysterious field from the outside. My answer is always this: design is a mindset, not just a job title. If you’re curious, empathetic, and willing to learn how things work (and break), you’re already halfway there. And the follow-up question is often: “What tool should I learn first?” My answer? Start with your eyes and ears—watch how people interact with everyday things. Then pick up Figma.

My most important job experience has been my role as a Senior Product Designer at Chartmetric. It’s where I’ve had the opportunity to work at the intersection of data, music, and design—building tools that empower artists, managers, and labels in over 70 countries to make smarter, faster decisions. One of my proudest moments was leading the design of the Chartmetric Mobile App, which won an A’ Design Award for its intuitive approach to delivering real-time analytics on the go. It wasn’t just a UI challenge—it was a strategic one: how do we turn complex data into simple, actionable insights for people with very different goals and workflows? At Chartmetric, I’ve learned how to balance user empathy with technical feasibility, how to collaborate closely with engineers and data scientists, and how to design at both the pixel level and the system level. I’ve also had the chance to mentor younger designers, shape our design culture, and advocate for design as a core driver of product strategy. More than anything, this experience taught me that great design happens when you listen deeply, build collaboratively, and stay relentlessly curious—even when the data is messy and the deadlines are tight.

Through my work at Chartmetric, I’ve had the opportunity to design for some of the most influential names in the global music and entertainment industry. Our platform is used by teams at Sony Music, Warner Music Group, Universal Music Group, TikTok, Live Nation, BMG, Netflix, and many others—ranging from major record labels to independent distributors, artist managers, booking agencies, and data-driven creative professionals. In addition to enterprise clients, I’ve also designed tools that directly support independent artists, content creators, and emerging talent scouts—providing them with access to the same level of insight and intelligence previously reserved for the industry’s biggest players. Outside of Chartmetric, I’ve also worked on creative projects and campaigns with organizations such as Tesla, National Geographic, and UNESCO, where I focused on brand storytelling, content strategy, and digital experience design. I’m proud that my work has served such a diverse spectrum of users—from grassroots creators to global executives—and that each design, no matter the scale, contributes to smarter decisions, stronger stories, and more human-centered digital experiences.

I enjoy designing human-centered systems—tools that make complex information feel intuitive, and experiences that balance clarity with emotional resonance. Whether I’m working on a music analytics platform or an immersive memory-preservation app, I’m most energized when I get to translate abstract, often overwhelming data into something useful, beautiful, and humane. I love the challenge of building structure out of ambiguity—creating systems where users don’t just navigate, but feel guided. I’m especially drawn to projects that combine logic and empathy—where functionality meets storytelling. That’s why I’ve found deep fulfillment in working on products like the Chartmetric Mobile App or Memory Land, where the impact goes beyond screens and into the decisions, memories, or healing journeys of real people. Ultimately, I love design work that requires both precision and poetry—where I get to solve hard problems while staying connected to the human experience at the core.

Looking ahead, I’m excited to keep building at the intersection of design, data, and emotional intelligence—crafting tools and experiences that empower people not just to act, but to feel, remember, and grow. In the near future, I plan to deepen my work in AI-powered product design—exploring how large language models and intelligent systems can simplify decision-making without sacrificing nuance or empathy. I’m particularly interested in how these technologies can be used to support underrepresented voices in music, education, and mental health. I also plan to continue expanding Memory Land, the immersive storytelling platform I co-founded. I believe there’s still so much to explore in how we design for grief, remembrance, and legacy in the digital age—and I want to help create a future where digital memorials are as thoughtful and healing as physical ones. Longer term, I hope to mentor and collaborate with more designers across disciplines, contribute to design education, and possibly exhibit more conceptual work that blends technology, culture, and memory on an international stage. Whatever comes next, I know this: I want to keep designing with purpose, asking better questions, and using my craft to make complexity more human.

Both—and I believe being able to do both well is what makes a designer truly versatile. At Chartmetric, I work as part of a highly collaborative, cross-functional team that includes product managers, engineers, data scientists, and fellow designers. We operate in agile sprints, and my role involves not only crafting design solutions, but also facilitating alignment, clarifying scope, and ensuring a shared vision across disciplines. I thrive in these team environments—where ideas are challenged, perspectives are diverse, and great design emerges through iteration and dialogue. At the same time, I also pursue independent design work—especially for concept-driven or emotionally sensitive projects like Memory Land. In these solo or small-team efforts, I often take on multiple roles: researcher, visual designer, interaction architect, and storyteller. This allows me to push boundaries, prototype freely, and explore themes like grief, identity, or memory in more personal ways. Ultimately, I see design as a team sport guided by individual clarity. Whether leading or supporting, collaborating or creating solo, I always aim to stay grounded in purpose, and to bring out the best ideas—regardless of where they come from.

Yes—I'm currently working on two exciting fronts that blend design, technology, and human experience. At Chartmetric, I’m leading the design for our next generation of AI-powered tools, including a more conversational interface for exploring music data and an intelligent assistant that helps artists and managers make strategic decisions faster. The challenge is turning dense, multidimensional data into a flow that feels human, intuitive, and even inspiring. We’re rethinking how people search, filter, and learn—not through dashboards, but through dialogue. In parallel, I’m also expanding Memory Land, the immersive storytelling platform I co-founded. We're currently prototyping a new module that helps families co-create memory timelines—layering multimedia, voice notes, and even generative art to preserve collective memories in a way that feels deeply personal and emotionally healing. We're exploring how design can hold space for grief, nostalgia, and reflection—especially across generations. Both projects are pushing me to think beyond interfaces—toward experiences that are adaptive, emotionally aware, and grounded in meaning. It’s a space where I feel challenged and deeply fulfilled, and I’m excited to keep building.

You can reach me via email at gemike.zhang@gmail.com, or connect with me through my portfolio website: www.zhangqihang.com. I’m also active on LinkedIn under the name Mike (Qihang) Zhang, where I share thoughts on design, creativity, and technology. Whether you're interested in collaborating, learning more about my work, or just exchanging ideas—I’m always happy to connect.

Just one thought: I believe design is ultimately an act of care. It’s easy to get caught up in pixels, prototypes, or performance metrics—but at the heart of it, we design to help people navigate their lives with a little more clarity, dignity, or joy. Whether I’m building tools for artists, experiences for families, or systems for scale, I try to hold onto that purpose. Design isn’t just about solving problems—it’s about honoring the human experience. And I’m incredibly grateful for platforms like A’ Design Award that recognize that deeper intent. Thank you for making space for stories like mine, and for reminding all of us why design matters.

I am a product and visual designer with over seven years of experience spanning music technology, data visualization, and digital storytelling. Currently, I serve as the Senior Product Designer at Chartmetric, where I lead the design of AI-powered analytics tools used by global music professionals—from major labels to indie artists. My past roles include work at Tesla, National Geographic, Harvard Business School, and the Born This Way Foundation, allowing me to apply design across industries and at varying scales of impact. My educational background includes a Master's degree from Harvard University in Learning Design and a Bachelor's degree from UCLA, where I also spent time at the University of Oxford studying digital humanities. Throughout my career, I've been recognized with more than 40 international design awards, including the iF Design Award, A’ Design Award, and NY Product Design Awards, and I’ve exhibited works at venues such as the Louvre (Art Shopping Paris) and ICFF New York (curated by Dezeen). My work merges clarity, emotion, and strategic functionality—grounded in the belief that good design should not only be beautiful, but deeply meaningful and accessible.

I didn’t grow up sketching in a notebook or dreaming of pixel-perfect interfaces. My path to design began with pop music, and more precisely—with the desire to be heard. As a queer kid navigating silence, misunderstanding, and isolation, I found my voice in music first. I wasn’t a singer, but I resonated deeply with the emotional clarity in the melodies of artists like Mariah Carey and Beyoncé. Their worlds made me feel seen—and I wanted to build worlds like that too. I began designing CD covers, creating fan magazines, and layering meaning through every font, photo, and layout. I didn’t know it then, but I was designing safe spaces—through visuals. In college, I studied communication and history to better understand how people make meaning. Then I took that further—into digital storytelling, then UI/UX, and eventually product design. From building co-creative play environments out of recycled cardboard at Harvard, to reimagining how indie artists access insights at Chartmetric, the design journey has always been the same for me: turning creative energy into impact. Design, for me, is not a profession I chose one day. It’s a language I slowly discovered—a way to translate identity, community, and purpose into something people can actually interact with. I became a designer the moment I realized beauty alone wasn’t enough. It had to connect.

Every time I start a new design, I ask myself one question: Can someone feel seen here? Empathy is always the starting point. Whether I’m designing for data-heavy music analytics or building an interactive exhibit for kids, I prioritize emotional clarity—making complexity feel human. Design isn’t just about solving a problem; it’s about making people feel welcome, capable, and understood. The second priority is narrative logic. I often draw from my background in storytelling and cultural analysis. To me, every interface, visual, or product tells a story—whether we intend it or not. I work to structure user journeys like narrative arcs, where each screen or step has a purpose, a rhythm, and a payoff. That’s how we earn trust and attention. Lastly, I focus on co-creation and iteration. I never treat my first idea as sacred. I sketch quickly, prototype often, and test early—with real people, not just personas. Whether I’m using Figma, motion tools, or AI-generated inputs, I stay open to what emerges through feedback. The magic often happens when the design starts talking back. Across all my projects, I return to the same principle: design should feel like a dialogue, not a monologue.

Designing makes me feel both grounded and electrified. There’s a quiet joy in the early stages—when I’m sitting with a vague problem, a hunch, or even just a feeling I want to translate. That moment when chaos begins to form into clarity—it’s like tuning into a frequency only I can hear at first. The most exciting phase is somewhere in the middle: not the first idea, not the last polish, but when the design starts pushing back. When a prototype surprises me, or when a teammate reacts in a way I hadn’t expected—that’s when I know something real is taking shape. It becomes a collaboration between intention and emergence. There’s also deep fulfillment in watching others use what I’ve designed. When an indie artist finds new fans using a feature I helped build, or when a child repositions a handmade paper animal in a sanctuary we prototyped, I feel a quiet kind of pride—like I helped set the stage for someone else’s voice to come through. Design gives me a sense of presence. It’s how I process the world, and sometimes, how I repair it.

Before I formally became a designer, I was a communicator, researcher, and educator. These non-design experiences didn’t just shape me—they are the foundation of how I design. My background in communication and history trained me to spot patterns, question assumptions, and understand how people construct meaning. That made me more attuned to context—whether I’m designing a learning experience, a data dashboard, or a mobile app. I don’t just ask, “Is it usable?” I ask, “Is it culturally legible? Is it emotionally respectful?” Working in early childhood education and learning design at Harvard taught me the power of co-creation. Kids don’t care if your UI is polished—they care if it makes sense to them, if it lets them explore. That mindset carried over into my product work, where I now prototype not just for aesthetics but for agency, asking: Does this give the user a voice? Storytelling remains one of the most transferable tools I have. Whether I’m mapping a user journey or presenting to stakeholders, my ability to frame, connect, and sequence ideas has helped me drive clarity and buy-in in fast-moving teams. If there’s one influence that ties it all together, it’s music. It taught me how rhythm, emotion, and structure work together—and I’ve carried that sensibility into every design I create. My design journey hasn’t been a straight line, but every step—academic, personal, professional—has made the work more human.

I’ve always seen design not just as a career path, but as a way to reclaim and rewrite my narrative. From designing fan-made Mariah Carey CDs as a closeted teenager in China to leading product design for AI-powered music tools at Chartmetric, my growth has been driven by one constant belief: design should amplify unheard voices. I used to think I had to “overcome” my identity to be taken seriously as a designer. Now, I see that my lived experience as a queer Asian designer is not a detour but a design lens—one that is inherently empathetic, critical, and community-driven. My education at Harvard in learning design further helped me shape my voice into tools that are not only functional, but healing and empowering. Looking forward, I want to keep designing systems that allow creators—especially those historically marginalized—to be seen, discovered, and celebrated. One dream project is to create an open, visual storytelling toolkit for emerging artists of color and queer musicians to narrate their journeys through data, music, and memory. Not a portfolio builder, but a digital sanctuary—part archive, part map, part stage. I hope to be remembered not just for the products I designed, but for the safe spaces I helped create—for how I used design as a bridge between creativity and identity, data and dignity.

Don’t rush to fit into a mold—design is not about blending in, it’s about showing up fully. When I started, I thought I had to imitate “successful designers” to be taken seriously. I over-polished my portfolio, mimicked others’ language, and hesitated to show the parts of me that didn’t seem traditionally “design-y.” But the more I tried to conform, the more disconnected I felt from the work. It wasn’t until I started designing from my story—not around it—that opportunities became aligned, and impact became real. To young designers: embrace the questions that make you feel uncomfortable. Your background, your identity, your pain points—these are not distractions from good design. They are the soil for meaningful work. Here’s some advice that stayed with me: “Design isn’t what you make. It’s what you make possible.” That came from a mentor who reminded me that our job is not to perfect pixels, but to open access, shift narratives, and invite participation. Practically speaking: prototype early, listen more than you pitch, and don’t fear the “nonlinear.” Take internships that feel strange. Read outside of design. Learn how people feel before you decide how they click. And most importantly: find your people. Design is not a solo journey—it’s a team sport. Just maybe, it’s your version of the basketball court.

At a certain point in our design careers, the most important question is no longer “Can I make this?” but “Why am I making this?” That shift—from execution to intention—is where meaningful, lasting design begins. In my own practice, I’ve found that the most powerful designs often emerge from tension, not ease. Whether it's reconciling user needs with business goals, or balancing aesthetics with accessibility, I try to lean into those moments where things feel unresolved. That's usually where insight hides. If everything feels smooth from the beginning, chances are I'm not challenging myself—or the system—enough. Feedback, for me, is not a checkpoint—it’s a way of designing. I seek it early and often, not just from other designers, but from people outside of design altogether. Some of my most eye-opening breakthroughs came from conversations with marketers, educators, or independent musicians trying to understand the tools I helped build. Those voices keep the work grounded and alive. I also believe that simplicity should never come at the cost of inclusivity. What feels intuitive to one group might feel confusing—or even exclusionary—to another. So I try to question my defaults, to ask whose comfort I’m prioritizing and whose I might be ignoring. Design is never neutral. Every choice reflects a value, a bias, a worldview. It’s easy in this industry to chase polish, to value visibility over impact, or to stretch yourself so thin across styles that you lose your own voice. I’ve fallen into those traps too. But what’s helped me is coming back to the idea that success is not defined by what I ship, but by what I shape—within a team, a community, or a cultural moment. In the end, I want the spaces I design—and the spaces I work in—to feel generous, challenging, and real. That’s the kind of design practice I’m committed to building.

My workdays usually begin quietly—with a cup of tea, soft music, and a glance at the latest product or design trends. I don’t always chase what’s new, but I like to stay aware of what conversations the design world is having. Then I move into reviewing Slack threads and Figma comments—our team at Chartmetric spans time zones, so there’s often a stream of overnight thoughts waiting to be considered. Late mornings are usually reserved for deep focus. Whether it’s prototyping a new feature, synthesizing user feedback, or refining microinteractions, I try to carve out uninterrupted blocks for the work that requires clarity and emotional presence. I often listen to instrumental versions of my favorite albums—music keeps me grounded and motivated without overwhelming my focus. Afternoons tend to be more collaborative: cross-functional check-ins, critique sessions, async reviews, and lots of impromptu problem-solving. What I love most, even on slower days, are the small sparks—when a teammate suggests something unexpected, or a user insight flips our assumptions. Those moments make routine feel worthwhile. And then there are the little rituals. Lighting a candle before I present work I care about. Taking a walk around the block after shipping a prototype. Saving screenshots of tiny wins. These gestures remind me that even the most pixel-based work can carry a human rhythm. Not every day is exciting. But I’ve learned to find joy in the patterns—in the way design teaches me to see, ask, and try again, over and over.

I observe trends, but I don’t chase them. I see design trends the way I see music charts—interesting snapshots of the cultural moment, but not the full story. They can be helpful signals, especially in fast-evolving areas like UI motion, AI tooling, or accessibility standards. I track them through platforms like Are.na, design blogs, and by staying close to what adjacent industries are doing—film, fashion, indie games. But I don’t let trends define my process. Instead, I try to stay tuned to the underlying questions that drive certain trends: Why are brutalist interfaces resurfacing? What does the rise of nostalgic skeuomorphism say about users’ emotional needs today? I’m more interested in why something feels relevant than in replicating the style itself. My inspiration often comes from outside the design world. A song lyric that holds tension. A museum exhibit that layers time and narrative. A user’s offhand comment that reveals a deeper need. These things stay with me longer than any Dribbble shot. Trends can be useful—but only when they serve the story I’m trying to tell or the community I’m trying to serve. At the end of the day, I want my work to feel not just “of the moment,” but of meaning.

For me, good design creates a sense of recognition—not just “I understand this,” but “this understands me.” It’s not just about clean visuals or intuitive flows. A well-designed product feels emotionally precise. It anticipates the user’s mindset, respects their context, and offers clarity without shouting for attention. When I see a design that balances frictionless function with cultural sensitivity—something that feels inevitable yet thoughtful—that’s when I say, aha, that’s it. I also believe good design leaves room for users to show up. It’s not overly prescriptive. It allows for interpretation, interaction, even subversion. The best work I’ve seen often has a quiet generosity to it—it invites, rather than impresses. One common mistake I see is equating consistency with quality. Uniformity can create visual order, but if it overrides accessibility or ignores nuance, it becomes decorative at best, exclusionary at worst. Another trap is over-optimizing for business KPIs while ignoring the long-term user relationship. If people don’t trust or feel seen by your design, conversion doesn’t mean much. So how do I judge good design? I ask: Does it make someone feel capable? Seen? Curious? Respected? If yes—even in a small way—then the design is working. Not just technically, but humanly.

I rarely think of a design as finished. Instead, I ask: is it ready to meet the world as it is right now? In fast-paced product environments like Chartmetric, “ready” often means it’s been tested, aligned with constraints, and able to serve users meaningfully—even if imperfectly. But personally, I also listen for something quieter: when the design no longer feels like it's only mine. When other team members, or even users, begin referring to it as theirs—that’s when I know it has taken root beyond me. There’s always room for refinement. I keep open files, mental tabs, and screenshots of things I wish I had done differently. But at some point, continuing to tinker becomes a form of delay—not progress. So I’ve learned to pause with intention, not guilt. Success, to me, is less about perfection and more about resonance. If someone tells me, “This made me feel understood,” or “This helped me express something I couldn’t articulate before,” I consider that version of the design complete—for now. Design lives in version histories, in people’s habits, and in how long it stays relevant. So yes, I move on—but I rarely walk away.

My most meaningful and ambitious project to date is Memory Land, a digital memorial platform I co-created to reimagine how technology can support the grieving process. It’s not a traditional product—it’s a digital sanctuary where memory, identity, and healing converge. The idea for Memory Land began during a time when many of us were grieving in isolation—grieving people, places, even versions of ourselves. I wondered: in an increasingly digital world, where can we hold grief meaningfully, without flattening it into data or dismissing it with design tropes? How can design serve not just function, but emotional recovery? As the principal UX architect, I led the design of a system that responds not only to user interaction, but to emotional need. Memory Land integrates features like an emotion-responsive interface, 3D scanning of physical mementos, immersive virtual memorial spaces, and collaborative memory sharing tools. We drew from the dual process model of grief in psychology to balance loss-oriented reflection with restoration-oriented engagement. In short: we designed not just for remembrance, but for resilience. One of the most moving responses came from an international student who used Memory Land to preserve his late father’s handwritten calligraphy. For him, it wasn’t just a platform—it became a portable sanctuary of memory, accessible across geographies and time zones. That’s when I knew we had created something that truly mattered. Memory Land was honored with the iF DESIGN AWARD 2025 in the Digital & UX category, selected from nearly 11,000 entries worldwide. It also won Gold at the London Design Awards and was a finalist for the UX Design Awards 2025. But more important than recognition is the quiet impact it has on users who feel seen, heard, and held—often when they need it most. What makes this project my biggest isn’t its scale—it’s the emotional depth, the cultural sensitivity, and the way it repositions design as a tool for care. It affirmed what I’ve always believed: when technology meets humanity with intention, design becomes healing.

If I had to name the creative forces that have most influenced how I think about design, I’d look to Beyoncé’s team—especially the designers, art directors, and choreographers behind the visual worlds of Lemonade, Renaissance, and Cowboy Carter. People like Es Devlin, who designed immersive stage environments for Beyoncé’s tours, have redefined what it means to craft experiences that are not just seen, but felt across bodies and borders. Their work isn’t confined to screens or products—it lives in movement, memory, and message. Every detail, from typeface to lighting to costume, contributes to a larger narrative of cultural reclamation, Black Southern identity, and queer celebration. That’s the kind of design that moves me: not just decoration, but declaration. Growing up, I didn’t know design could look or sound like me. It was through artists like Beyoncé and the people around her—her stylists, motion directors, visual storytellers—that I realized design could be emotional, political, and unapologetically personal. They made me believe that design can be as powerful as a ballad or a protest. If I had the chance, I’d want to sit in on a Parkwood creative session—not to pitch, but to listen. To understand how they translate ancestral memory into modern iconography, and how they build worlds, not just assets. That’s the kind of designer I aspire to be—one who builds with meaning, community, and resonance at the center.

I live between cultures—and that in-between space has shaped everything about how I design. Born and raised in Chengdu, I grew up surrounded by handwritten poetry, family recipes, and the quiet rhythm of courtyard homes. But I also grew up queer in a culture that didn’t always have the language or space for that. Music became my way of navigating that gap. Beyoncé, Mariah Carey, and others gave me not only soundtracks, but frameworks—ways to imagine futures where my identity wasn’t something to hide, but to celebrate. Now based in the U.S., I move between San Mateo and Los Angeles, between product meetings and museum visits, between building for the music industry at Chartmetric and building for memory, healing, and voice through personal work like Memory Land. Music is still deeply woven into my process—I often start ideation with a song. Not because it’s literal, but because it sets an emotional temperature I want the work to carry. My culture doesn’t just influence my design—it grounds it. I think in multiple scripts, carry multiple histories, and design with a consciousness of people who’ve had to code-switch or find belonging in unexpected places. That’s why I’m drawn to co-creation, to nonlinear narratives, to tools that give power back to the user. Design has changed my life in subtle but profound ways. It’s taught me to pause before reacting, to frame problems with compassion, and to believe that small, well-considered changes—a word choice, a button label, a visual rhythm—can shift how someone feels in a space, or about themselves. To me, design is cultural care. It’s how we remember, remake, and reach across.

I design collaboratively, not transactionally. Whether I’m leading a product sprint at Chartmetric or co-creating an art installation like Memory Land, I see design as a shared process—not a deliverable passed from one desk to another. People often tell me I’m easy to work with, not because I avoid hard conversations, but because I approach them with care. I try to create environments where people feel safe enough to challenge each other, and supported enough to take risks. I believe critique should be specific, generous, and never attached to ego. When choosing collaborators, I look less for portfolios and more for perspective. I want to work with people who are curious, emotionally intelligent, and unafraid to ask “why.” I value cultural awareness just as much as technical skill. The best teams I’ve been on weren’t the ones with the flashiest résumés—they were the ones that listened well, iterated fast, and laughed often. In my current role as Senior Product Designer, I translate messy human needs into tools that serve artists, labels, and everyday music lovers. That means aligning with engineers, analysts, and executives while still advocating for the end user—especially those who are often overlooked by default systems. One of the biggest challenges is bridging ambition and feasibility without losing soul. It’s easy to build fast. It’s harder to build meaningfully. To me, a good designer isn’t just someone who makes beautiful things. It’s someone who can ask beautiful questions—and build in ways that include more people in the answer.

I see design not just as a career, but as a responsibility—especially for those of us who have found space in industries that weren’t always built for people like us. Giving back isn’t an afterthought in my practice—it’s embedded in how I show up, build, and share. Over the years, I’ve mentored emerging designers through programs like Founder Institute and Alchemist Accelerator, reviewed portfolios from first-generation creatives, and served as a judge for designathons and awards like Hack for Humanity and the Globee Awards, where I’ve advocated for work that centers impact over polish. I often prioritize reviewing projects from underrepresented creators—because I know how much courage it takes to even enter those rooms. I’ve also led pro bono design workshops for students exploring storytelling through digital media, especially LGBTQ+ youth and international students navigating identity. At Harvard, I helped build learning installations for early childhood education using recycled materials—reminding both myself and the kids that imagination doesn’t require privilege to flourish. I firmly believe that artists and designers should engage with humanitarian projects—not as saviors, but as listeners, co-builders, and witnesses. Some of the most meaningful design moments I’ve experienced weren’t award-winning—they were quiet, relational, and community-grown. What I love about good design is that it scales dignity. It doesn’t just look good—it makes people feel seen, capable, and part of something bigger. That’s the kind of design I want to keep giving back.

Participating in the A’ Design Award has been a transformative milestone in my design journey. In 2025, I was honored to receive Silver Awards for two deeply meaningful projects: Blueline, a public safety app designed to rebuild trust between law enforcement and underserved communities, and the Chartmetric Mobile App, which brings powerful music analytics to artists, managers, and industry professionals on the go. Both projects are grounded in empathy and equity—two values that consistently guide my design practice. The A’ Design Award amplified these works globally, sparking new collaborations and deepening conversations around social impact, accessibility, and digital trust. The platform also gave visibility to Memory Land and Talent Search, both recipients of Iron Awards, which explored grief technology and inclusive talent discovery with equal care and ambition. More than a recognition, A’ Design offered a space for reflection and clarity. Writing about my process pushed me to articulate not just what I designed, but why. It reaffirmed my belief that good design is not just functional or beautiful—it’s responsible, responsive, and deeply human. I’m grateful to be part of a community that celebrates not only outcomes, but intent—and that continues to raise the bar for what design can and should mean in today’s world.

My design journey didn’t begin in a traditional art school—it evolved at the crossroads of storytelling, systems thinking, and human experience. I hold a Master’s degree from Harvard University in Learning Design, Innovation, and Technology, and a Bachelor's degree in Communications and History from UCLA. Though my formal education wasn’t in graphic or product design, it gave me something equally important: a deep appreciation for how people learn, interact, and make meaning. I initially aspired to work in entertainment, but my early experiences in visual communication—designing social media campaigns for National Geographic and creating content strategies at Tesla—sparked my interest in user experience. I began teaching myself design tools like Figma and Sketch, gradually shifting toward product design through hands-on projects, mentorships, and self-directed exploration. That self-taught foundation has become one of my greatest strengths. It trained me to approach design not just as a craft, but as a mindset—one rooted in empathy, iteration, and the courage to bridge disciplines. Today, I work as a Senior Product Designer at Chartmetric, where I lead design for data-driven music analytics tools used by global artists and industry professionals. My work is deeply shaped by my interdisciplinary background, and by the belief that good design starts with understanding people, not pixels.

I became a designer because I believe design is one of the few disciplines where logic and emotion can coexist—where systems thinking meets human stories. My motivation comes from a deep desire to make complex things feel simple, and to help people navigate their world with more clarity, dignity, and connection. Growing up between cultures and disciplines, I often found myself acting as a translator—between ideas, between people, between experiences. Design became my most natural language for doing that. What truly moved me toward design wasn’t just the visual craft—it was the realization that design can heal, empower, and reveal. When I co-founded Memory Land, a project that helps families preserve their loved ones’ legacies through digital storytelling, I witnessed firsthand how design could transform grief into a space for reflection and resilience. That experience showed me that good design isn’t about decoration—it’s about holding space for emotion and making difficult experiences a little more navigable. Even in my current role designing music data tools at Chartmetric, what motivates me isn’t just organizing analytics—it’s knowing that the right interface can help an emerging artist be discovered, or help a team make smarter, faster creative decisions. I design because I care about people. I care about clarity. And I care about using technology in a way that doesn’t just move fast—but moves with intention.

I chose to become a designer—but not all at once. It wasn’t a single decision made in a moment of clarity, but rather a series of choices, curiosities, and turning points that led me here. I started out studying communications and storytelling, thinking I’d work in media or entertainment. But along the way, I found myself more drawn to the structure behind the stories—the interfaces, the experiences, the systems that shape how people interact with information and emotion. So I started teaching myself design—not because someone told me to, but because I couldn’t stop wondering: Could this feel clearer? More intuitive? More human? No one forced me into this path. In fact, I had to carve it out myself—without a traditional design degree, without a linear roadmap. But that’s what made the choice even more meaningful. Every project, every tool I learned, every prototype I iterated was a decision to lean in further. So yes, I chose design—but more than that, I kept choosing it. And I still do, every day.

I design digital tools and experiences that help people make better decisions, tell deeper stories, and feel more connected—to data, to others, and to themselves. At Chartmetric, I lead the design of AI-powered music analytics platforms used by global teams at Sony, Warner, and TikTok. My work focuses on transforming complex data into clear, actionable insights—especially for artists, managers, and executives who don’t always speak “data” fluently. I’m drawn to this kind of systems-level design because it requires clarity, empathy, and vision—three things I believe every great product needs. I also co-founded Memory Land, an award-winning immersive app that helps families preserve memories and grieve through interactive storytelling. That project opened my eyes to the power of design beyond utility—to design as a space for healing, emotional processing, and legacy-building. Going forward, I want to design more experiences that sit at the intersection of intelligence and emotion. Tools that don’t just “work”—but resonate. I'm especially interested in designing for creative professionals, marginalized voices, and intergenerational storytelling. I believe these areas hold enormous potential for meaningful innovation—and I want to be part of shaping that future. Whether it's building a mobile app, architecting a data dashboard, or crafting a memory interface, my goal is the same: to design things that matter. Things that last. Things that feel human.

First, thank you—but I don’t think of myself as a legend. I think of myself as a student of design—just one who’s committed to staying curious, staying kind, and solving real problems with care. If I had to give advice to young designers, it would be this: 1. Design your own path. You don’t need a traditional degree or a perfect portfolio to start. I didn’t. What you do need is the courage to begin, and the willingness to keep showing up—even when things feel messy or uncertain. 2. Lead with empathy, not ego. Design isn’t about making things look pretty. It’s about understanding people—their frustrations, hopes, and goals—and creating experiences that meet them where they are. The more you listen, the better you’ll design. 3. Obsess over the “why.” Anyone can learn tools. What will set you apart is your ability to ask better questions. Why does this matter? Who does this serve? What would make this unforgettable? 4. Don’t wait for permission. Some of my most meaningful work—like Memory Land—started as self-initiated experiments. Design legends aren’t just hired into greatness. They build it—project by project, with relentless purpose. 5. Stay human. It’s easy to get lost in pixels and process. But never forget that design is ultimately about people. If you can bring clarity, dignity, or delight into someone’s day—you’ve already done something legendary.

A good designer creates solutions that work. A great designer creates solutions that work beautifully—and resonate on a deeper level. While good designers often stay within the boundaries of a given brief, great designers have the ability to reframe the problem entirely. They uncover unspoken needs, anticipate edge cases, and often bring clarity to ambiguity that clients or teams couldn’t articulate on their own. The difference lies not only in execution, but in thinking. Great designers operate at multiple levels at once—they can zoom in to perfect a single interaction, and zoom out to shape systems, strategies, and long-term impact. They don’t just improve aesthetics or usability; they influence direction, culture, and the very purpose of the product. But beyond technical ability, I believe the most important trait of a great designer is presence. Great designers listen—not just to stakeholders, but to the tension, silence, friction, and unmet needs within the user experience. They ask better questions, challenge assumptions with humility, and design with a deep sense of care for both form and function. In my own experience, the turning point came when I stopped designing just to meet expectations—and started designing to elevate meaning. That’s when I began to move from good to great.

A really good design goes beyond usability—it demonstrates clarity, empathy, and intention. It solves the right problem, for the right people, at the right time. What elevates a design from simply “good” to truly effective is its ability to connect on both a functional and emotional level. It should feel intuitive, yet surprising; familiar, yet fresh. To me, a great design disappears in use—it doesn’t call attention to itself unnecessarily, but instead makes the experience feel effortless. It also anticipates edge cases and reflects an inclusive mindset, ensuring that a broad spectrum of users can engage meaningfully. Good design respects the user’s time, minimizes cognitive load, and aligns with a deeper purpose. When I evaluate design—whether mine or someone else’s—I ask: Is it solving the right problem? Is the solution human-centered, or just technically impressive? Does it reflect craft and care? And most importantly, does it serve real people in a way that is thoughtful, relevant, and sustainable? Design isn’t just about what’s visible on the screen—it’s about the values embedded in the experience. The best designs don’t just look good; they feel right.

Good design creates clarity in a world full of noise. It transforms complexity into simplicity, friction into flow, and functionality into meaning. When done well, design is not a cost—it’s a multiplier. It elevates how products perform, how brands are perceived, and how people feel when interacting with something. Investing in good design isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about trust. Whether you're building a product, a service, or a community, the design is often your first and most consistent touchpoint. It signals who you are, how much you care, and what kind of experience you promise. When design is thoughtful and intentional, users feel it instantly—and they respond with loyalty, confidence, and engagement. From a business perspective, good design reduces confusion, support tickets, and churn. From a human perspective, it gives people tools that feel empowering instead of overwhelming. It respects their time, honors their needs, and often leaves a lasting emotional impression. In short, good design is good business—but more importantly, it's good humanity. It's how we make systems more humane, technology more accessible, and everyday experiences more beautiful, efficient, and inclusive.

If I had the time and freedom, I would design for those whose voices are often overlooked—people navigating grief, displacement, cultural disconnection, or digital exclusion. I’m deeply interested in how design can serve not just convenience or commerce, but also healing, memory, and belonging. I would love to build tools that help families preserve intergenerational stories, especially in diasporic or marginalized communities where memory is often fragmented. Imagine an interface that combines oral history, multimedia timelines, and AI-generated prompts to help elders and youth co-create a living archive—not just of facts, but of feelings, language, and identity. It wouldn’t be a product for scale—it would be a product for intimacy. I’m also fascinated by how we might design for emotional transitions—moving homes, changing careers, saying goodbye. These are deeply human experiences, and yet most tech today is optimized for productivity, not for pause, reflection, or closure. If I had more time, I’d explore these in-between spaces. I’d design not just for users, but for witnesses, rememberers, and rebuilders—people who are trying to make sense of change, and who deserve tools that are as thoughtful and compassionate as they are capable.

My dream project is to create a global, digital memory atlas—a platform that allows people from different cultures and generations to preserve and explore their personal histories in an emotionally rich, interactive way. It would be part archival tool, part immersive experience, part emotional infrastructure. Users could upload voice notes, old photographs, text fragments, even AI-regenerated visuals of lost places or people—then weave them into story paths that feel alive. These memories could be geolocated, shared with family members, or linked to wider cultural narratives. It would be both personal and collective, capturing the fragments of who we are and where we come from in a way that traditional archives never could. This project stems from my own experience growing up across continents and trying to piece together cultural identity through scattered stories. I believe millions of others feel the same disconnection—and design can bridge it. It’s a project that would require collaboration across design, history, ethics, and AI—but I believe it’s possible. More importantly, I believe it’s needed. I haven’t had the time or resources to build it yet. But one day, I will.

If I had to name one secret ingredient, it would be emotional intelligence. Tools, systems, and processes are important—but what consistently guides my best design decisions is the ability to listen deeply, notice unspoken needs, and respond with empathy. I’m drawn to the subtle things: the frustration behind a click, the memory buried in a photo, the silence that says more than the feedback. I treat every design challenge as a human story in disguise. Another key ingredient is that I didn’t come from a traditional design background—and that turned out to be a strength. I trained in storytelling, communication, and systems thinking, which taught me how to make meaning before I learned how to make mockups. Because I taught myself design, I had to be relentlessly curious and adaptive. I questioned everything. I experimented more freely. That mindset stayed with me. Ultimately, my recipe for success isn’t about knowing all the answers—it’s about asking better questions, caring more than expected, and designing not just for what people do, but for what they feel.

I’m deeply inspired by designers who move beyond aesthetics to create systems, stories, and emotional resonance—those who design not just what things look like, but what they mean. Dieter Rams taught me that clarity and restraint are not limitations—they’re acts of respect toward the user. His principles still influence the way I reduce visual noise and let meaning emerge through form and function. Paula Scher inspires me with her unapologetic energy, typographic intuition, and ability to turn language into visual identity. Her work reminds me that design can be loud, opinionated, and unforgettable—while still being grounded in purpose. John Maeda has had a profound impact on how I view the intersection of technology, art, and humanity. His thinking around “computational design” and human-centered innovation gave me permission to embrace my own interdisciplinary background. Beyond the household names, I’m constantly inspired by everyday designers who work quietly in healthcare, education, or social impact—those creating tools for underserved communities, often without awards or headlines. These designers remind me that design is not about ego—it’s about ethics, empathy, and everyday change. I also draw creative energy from musicians and artists like Brian Eno or Ryuichi Sakamoto, whose works feel like design in sonic form—minimal, emotional, and deeply attuned to time and space. In the end, I’m inspired by anyone who designs not just for performance, but for presence—people who leave behind more understanding than noise.

One of my all-time favorite designs is The New York City Transit Map redesigned by Massimo Vignelli. It wasn’t perfect, but it was daringly abstract—elegant, systematic, and unapologetically modernist. I admire how it challenged people to see the subway not as geography, but as a network of logic. It was a statement: design could simplify chaos without oversimplifying intelligence. I also deeply admire Apple’s Human Interface Guidelines from the early iOS era. While often overlooked as a design object, they showed extraordinary clarity in articulating spatial thinking, motion, and gesture in a way that made touchscreens feel human. It wasn’t just documentation—it was philosophy turned into interface, and it shaped how a generation learned to interact with technology. Another favorite is Naoto Fukasawa’s MUJI wall-mounted CD player. It’s quiet, poetic, and purposeful. I’m drawn to its restraint and subtle nostalgia—it doesn’t try to impress, but instead invites a moment of pause. That kind of emotional humility in industrial design is rare, and I find it deeply moving. In the digital realm, I’ve always admired Airbnb’s Experience Flow from its earlier years. The onboarding, transitions, and tone of voice worked together so seamlessly that the product didn’t feel like software—it felt like a well-traveled friend guiding you through possibility. It showed me that interface design could also be hospitality. What I love most in all of these examples is that they don’t just function—they carry intent, feeling, and perspective. They’re not just tools—they’re thoughtful presences in people’s lives.

Among the many projects I’ve worked on, I consider Memory Land to be my most meaningful and impactful design to date. Memory Land is an immersive digital experience I co-founded and led the design for. It reimagines how we process grief, preserve personal memories, and maintain emotional continuity with those we’ve lost. Instead of presenting grief as something linear or clinical, we designed a space where remembrance becomes a journey—interactive, customizable, and deeply personal. What makes this design great to me isn’t just the interface, but the intent behind it. We combined AI-enhanced storytelling, multimedia memory timelines, and CMS-powered galleries to allow families to build virtual spaces that reflect the lives of their loved ones. From the color palettes to the typography to the pacing of each screen, every element was designed to convey warmth, dignity, and quiet emotional resonance. It was also a project where we innovated on multiple levels—technically, we explored new ways of presenting memory in a digital format; emotionally, we opened a conversation around digital legacy and healing that’s often avoided in the tech space. But what truly makes it great in my eyes is the feedback we received from users. People told us they cried, they felt seen, they remembered. And as a designer, there’s no greater honor than knowing your work didn’t just function—it comforted.

I believe great designers are built more through mindset than credentials. Tools and trends will always change—but curiosity, empathy, and persistence are timeless. To improve as a designer, the first step is to observe the world more intentionally. Notice not just what works, but why. Study your favorite apps. Watch how someone struggles with a form. Pay attention to the spaces between clicks, the silence between feedback. Design is everywhere, if you learn to see it. In my own journey, I didn’t come from a traditional design school. I taught myself tools like Figma and Sketch while working full-time, often staying up late watching tutorials, recreating interfaces, and asking for critique from people I trusted. I read obsessively—not just design books, but architecture, cognitive psychology, storytelling. I wanted to understand how people think, feel, and remember. I also sought out projects that stretched me—leading new product initiatives, co-founding experimental ventures, and collaborating across disciplines. Each challenge taught me how to adapt, communicate, and solve problems at a deeper level. The most important thing I did? I stayed curious. I asked questions even when I felt like I “should” know the answer. I kept pushing when something didn’t work the first—or tenth—time. And I reminded myself that design is not about being the smartest person in the room. It’s about making others feel understood, empowered, and seen.

If I hadn’t become a designer, I would likely have become a storyteller, educator, or cultural researcher—someone still deeply involved in understanding how people make meaning and connect with each other. Before design, I studied communication, history, and learning sciences. I was drawn to how narratives shape behavior, how environments influence memory, and how ideas can be translated across generations and mediums. I think I would have continued along that path—perhaps building educational tools, curating digital heritage archives, or designing new ways for people to engage with culture and history. In many ways, that thread never disappeared. Even as a designer today, I still think like a storyteller. I still obsess over clarity, language, rhythm, and context. My work in memorial design, data visualization, and music analytics is all rooted in a desire to make invisible structures visible—and to help people understand both themselves and the systems they move through. So even if I hadn’t become a designer by title, I believe I would still be doing human-centered work. Design just became the most natural, powerful language for me to do it with.

To me, design is the act of making meaning visible and usable. It’s how we translate chaos into clarity, emotion into experience, and intention into interaction. Design is not just about how things look—it’s about how things work, feel, and live in the hands and minds of others. It’s a conversation between logic and emotion, between creator and audience, between what exists and what’s possible. Whether it’s an app interface, a physical product, or a system of information, design shapes how people navigate the world—and how they feel while doing it. Design is also responsibility. Every pixel, every interaction, every structure carries with it a set of values—what it includes, what it excludes, what it assumes. For me, good design means being conscious of that power, and using it to elevate not just usability, but dignity and empathy. Ultimately, design is a way of seeing. A way of asking better questions. A way of caring, deeply and deliberately, about the experiences of others. That’s what design means to me—and why I choose to return to it, again and again.

While my path has been largely self-directed, I’ve never walked it alone—and I’m deeply grateful for the people who believed in me before the world did. My biggest supporters have been the mentors, friends, and collaborators who saw potential where I saw uncertainty. Professors who encouraged me to trust my interdisciplinary instincts. Teammates who pushed my thinking with humility and care. Managers who gave me room to lead, even when I was still learning how. One of the most defining moments in my journey was when I transitioned into product design from a non-traditional background. I had no formal design degree, but people in my community—fellow creatives, educators, and technologists—offered feedback, guidance, and trust. They reminded me that design is not about credentials; it’s about curiosity, courage, and craft. I'm especially thankful to the collaborators who joined me in building Memory Land and other experimental projects. Their openness to explore uncharted emotional territory gave me the confidence to design not just with logic, but with heart. In the end, I think support isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s someone saying, “That makes sense,” or “Keep going.” And for those quiet voices that stayed with me along the way—I’ll always be grateful.