Let me set the scene.
I’m on the side of a road. Hazards on, laptop balanced on my lap, family waiting in the car. There’s a newspaper somewhere that needs an ad in the next twenty minutes, and the edits have just landed on my phone. So there I am — exporting, saving, checking, resizing, praying the file is right — on the shoulder of a road, on a day I was meant to be away. Having a life.
And here’s the mad part. At the time, it felt completely normal.
That’s the bit I want to talk about, because if you’re a freelancer or you run a small studio, I think you already know exactly what I mean. And if you don’t yet — sit down, my friend. We need to talk.
I didn’t stop loving design. I promise.
I’ve been in design for more than twenty years, and for most of that time I genuinely believed this was just how it worked. The deadlines. The urgency. The “can you just quickly change this” at 4pm that has to be done by 8. The printer waiting. The campaign launching. The file that needs to be smaller, bigger, faster, approved, exported, and then changed again anyway.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I was supposed to have a life. Cook the dinner. Be present with my family. Watch a film without checking my phone. Sleep without dreaming about a missing logo.
When you live in design long enough, your whole life slowly starts to bend around other people’s deadlines. And you don’t notice it at first, because at the start it feels exciting. You’re needed. You’re busy. Clients trust you. As a young designer, that feels like proof you’re doing well.
So you say yes. And then you say yes again. And then you say yes to the weekend one, and the after-hours one, and eventually you take your laptop on holiday “just in case.” And one day you realise you don’t have working hours anymore. You have waiting hours.
Waiting for the client. Waiting for changes. Waiting for approval. Waiting for the final text. Waiting for the final, final, final version of the final file. And while you wait, you can’t fully relax, you can’t fully switch off, you can’t fully be where you actually are — because part of you is always still in your inbox.
That is exhausting. Not dramatic, big exhausting. Quiet exhausting. The kind you stop being able to feel.
Freelance guilt sits on both chairs at once
This one’s my favourite, and by favourite I mean it nearly finished me.
When you’re working, you feel guilty you’re not with your family. When you’re with your family, you feel guilty you’re not working. There is no chair you can sit in without the other one calling your name. And little by little, in the middle of all that guilt, you sort of… disappear.
Now — I know what you’re thinking, because I thought it too. Nelett, that’s what boundaries are for. And yes. Completely. But boundaries are not so simple when you’ve built your entire business on being the helpful one. When you’ve quietly trained your clients that you’ll always make a plan. When part of you believes that if you say no, they’ll leave.
Because here’s the thing nobody says out loud: this isn’t only a designer problem. It’s an industry problem. For years, clients have been taught that design is quick. Just change it. Just move it. Just make it bigger. Just send it over. Just.
That word “quickly” started following me everywhere. I have to quickly finish this, quickly reply, quickly make dinner, quickly bath the children, quickly rest. Imagine that — quickly rest. In Afrikaans we’d say “Ek moet net gou.” Every second sentence, “ek moet net gou.” That’s when you know your nervous system is fried. When even resting has become another task you’re failing at.
The uncomfortable mirror
I didn’t know how tired I was until Covid.
I know how strange that sounds, because it was a terrible, frightening time for so many people. For me it was the worst and the best time of my life at once. The worst, because everything felt uncertain, and because I lost my dad. But also — and I’ve had to sit with this — the best, because for the first time in years I had a reason to stop. A reason to say no. A reason not to rush. The whole world had paused, and my body felt relief. Instant relief.
And then I had to face the question underneath it: what does it say about my normal life, if a global crisis is the thing that finally gives my body permission to breathe?
That was an uncomfortable mirror to look into. But it was also the beginning of everything. Because I knew, right then, I did not want to go back to the version of it I’d been living.
Design was never the enemy
Please hear me on this, because it matters: I’m not blaming clients. I’ve had wonderful, kind, respectful ones who value me deeply. But even with good clients, if there’s no structure — no boundaries, no process, no clear pricing, no proper timeline — everything becomes urgent. And if you’re the kind of designer who cares, you carry it. All of it. The project, the deadline, the brand, the client’s panic, the printer’s pressure, the late feedback. You carry it until your body says enough.
Mine did. I got to a point where I couldn’t sit in front of the computer. Couldn’t open Illustrator, couldn’t open a brief, couldn’t open a client email. It all felt so heavy.
And when I finally looked back properly, I realised something that changed how I think about all of it. Design was never what hurt me. The lack of structure was. The underpricing. The always being available. The fear of disappointing everyone. The belief that being a good designer meant making everyone else’s emergency my own.
You can be a brilliant designer with no boundaries and still break. You can be talented and still undercharge. You can have a gorgeous portfolio and a business that is quietly hurting you. I don’t want that for you.
So what do we actually do about it?
Here’s what I love: none of this is about becoming hard, or rude, or sending cold emails with big-boss energy while secretly terrified. It’s not a massive reinvention. It’s small things, done right, consistently. That line has become a bit of a motto for me, and I mean it more the older I get.
Small looks like:
- A proper quote — one that includes the thinking, not just the file.
- A deposit before you start.
- A feedback process, and a limit on revisions.
- Office hours. An actual end to the day.
- A little breathing space before a deadline instead of promising the impossible.
- A sentence like “I can do this, but not by tonight.”
- A sentence like “That’ll need a new quote.”
- A sentence like “I’m not available this weekend.”
And a sentence like “No.” Because — say it with me — no is a whole sentence. I know it doesn’t feel like one, especially if you’re used to explaining yourself. We want to soften it, add three paragraphs, promise them we’re not a bad person. My friend: no can be clean. No can be kind. No can be professional. It protects the work, the relationship, and you.
Where I am now
At the moment, I refer about 99% of the design work that comes my way to other designers. That was not an easy thing to admit, because being a designer was my identity for so long. It’s the thing I built. It’s the thing I’m known for. It’s a thing I’m genuinely good at.
But there comes a point where you have to ask: is this still the work I’m called to do in this season? Or is my experience meant to become something that helps someone else not get to the point I got to?
For me the answer became clear. I want to help you build the business side earlier. I want you to understand pricing before resentment sets in. I want you to have systems before your inbox becomes too heavy, and boundaries before your body has to shout. That’s the whole reason Beyond Design exists — to talk about the things nobody covered at design school. Nervous systems. Money. Guilt. Confidence. Client relationships. The way your body reacts before your brain even catches up when a WhatsApp comes in after hours.
That’s the real business of design. Not just the pretty portfolio and the brand reveal — learning how to create without constantly losing yourself.
And if you’re reading this from right in the middle of it — still needing the client, still with bills and school fees and a business that isn’t stable yet — I’m not sitting here telling you to just set boundaries as if it’s simple. I know it isn’t. But it can start small. One clearer quote. One better question before you begin. One email that says “I’ll send this during office hours tomorrow.” One moment where you don’t apologise for having a life.
You’re not weak. You’re not ungrateful. You’re not bad at business because you feel overwhelmed. You’re most likely working inside a system that was never built to protect you. So now we build better ones. Not perfect. Better.
I didn’t leave design. I left the way it was costing me my life — and now I want to help you build a creative life that doesn’t cost you yours.
I’m building things quietly in the background to take some of this panic off your plate, so you can get back to the part you actually love. Most of it goes out on my email list first — the proper, honest stuff that never makes it onto socials. Come and join me at kunshuis.com, and if you want to be first in line for the membership (and the two courses inside it — The Business Side of Design and How to Think Like a Designer), the waitlist lives at kunshuis.com/membership.
You’re not alone in this. Design your life, wherever you are. We’ll talk again soon. x
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