Dear Me
In the summer of 2020, I moved home unexpectedly—without a job, a visa, or much of a plan. Like many in the profession, I found myself suddenly adrift. I hadn’t led a project, wasn’t working at a practice, and didn’t feel like I had much of a story to tell.
The months that followed were quiet. I began setting small goals—drawing again, taking up Muay Thai, slowly building some sense of routine and strength. I started to see my worth less in titles or output, and more in how I was showing up day to day.
Now, nearly five years on, uncertainty has returned. Redundancies are being discussed, and architecture—true to form—is among the first industries to react and the last to recover. But I’m not where I was then. I have more to fall back on now, both personally and professionally. I’ve built something more stable.
This letter is for the version of me who didn’t yet know that. Who was unsure, but kept going all the same.
Dear 2020 Me,
You didn’t know it at the time, but the moment everything dropped away would turn out to be the beginning of something else.
It was summer, and you were back in your childhood bedroom—jet-lagged, disoriented, with no job, no visa, and not much of a plan. What you’d built over years across cities and studios had unravelled in a matter of weeks. You felt like you’d failed. That you’d lost momentum you might never get back.
So you started small. One sketch. One glass of water. A short Muay Thai session in the heat. You gave yourself tiny things to finish, to feel capable again. Slowly, you worked out how to live differently—not for a CV or a deadline, but for your own rhythm and steadiness.
Drawing came back into your life almost by accident. You bought an IPad 1 week before redundancies - during lockdown, there was nothing else to do. You started posting your drawings online and selling hand drawn Architectural entourage. People started noticing. You started sharing. The illustrations gave you a way to connect, and a way back into yourself.
Fast forward a few years: things look quite different now.
You moved to London. Got into the RCA. You didn’t just complete the course—you actually helped shape the studio culture. You served as student rep, helped run lectures, and used your time there to explore how to design for care, memory, and aging. You met with some of the biggest voices in the industry and collaborated with the Serpentine Pavillion. You exhibited at the Royal Academy. You kept drawing. You launched a website. You kept going.
You’ve now worked across a range of projects—government buildings, social housing, residential refurbishments, mixed-use schemes—seeing things through from early-stage planning to technical delivery. You’ve developed a way of working that’s both precise and people-focused. You’ve earned the trust of clients, led conversations, managed teams, and moved from just being grateful to be in the room to actually shaping what happens in it.
Life outside of work has changed, too. You’ve made space for friends, movement, rest. You’ve built a strong body and a better relationship with your own mind. You no longer measure your worth by how productive you are, or how impressive your title sounds. You’ve found other ways of being useful.
Now, as the industry once again wobbles under the weight of recession and restructuring, you feel it—the unease, the tension. But you’re not scrambling like last time. You have savings. Freelance options. A wider base to stand on. A sense of perspective. It’s still unnerving, yes—but not unmanageable.
You’ve grown up, really. Quietly, steadily. With a bit more patience, a lot more clarity, and a broader understanding of what it means to build a life.
We don’t always recognise the turning points while we’re in them. They rarely feel like breakthroughs—more often, they feel like treading water. But looking back, I can see that even the slow, ordinary days held weight. They laid the groundwork for something more solid. And if you’re in the thick of uncertainty now—just know, it still counts. You’re still becoming.
With love, and care,
Stephanie
