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Hi Sloane,

Thank you so much for your thoughtful concepts. After conducting a deep, energetic review, I think the designs may be too minimal. Could we make them more bold, expressive, youthful, luxurious, playful, timeless, and edgy while preserving the clean simplicity?

I read and reread the request, hoping the words would eventually develop a relationship with one another if I read them enough times.

They did not.

The next email came from a wedding planner who wanted to know whether I could make the invitation suite “less floral” despite having rejected my first two drafts for not being floral enough.

Another client had attached a logo generated by an artificial intelligence program and asked if I could recreate it exactly, but with cleaner lines, different colors, another font, and “a more original icon.”

Someone else had used artificial intelligence to write six paragraphs of critique about a poster I had designed. The feedback included phrases such as enhance visual storytelling, leverage emotional hierarchy, and create a more resonant design ecosystem.

It contained no practical instructions.

I opened the attachment and discovered a photograph of a woman with seven fingers holding a wineglass that appeared to be growing from her wrist.

Beneath it, the client had written: Can you do something along these lines? We really love how premium it feels.

I sat back.

I had developed a professional process for dealing with impossible feedback. First, I translated the client’s emotional reaction into a practical concern. Then, I asked precise follow-up questions. After that, I offered controlled options that prevented them from turning the entire project into an endless wandering exercise.

It was a good system, and it worked most of the time. Unfortunately, using it required a functioning nervous system. Mine had left the building sometime around the phrase silver fox.

I opened a new reply and typed.

Thank you for your feedback. To make sure I’m understanding your goals correctly⁠—

I stopped typing. The sentence looked reasonable. It sounded mature and competent. It sounded like it came from a woman who owned matching storage containers and remembered to buy new spinach before the old spinach liquefied in the fridge.

I hated her. I wasn’t her.

I deleted what I wrote, closed the browser, and stood.

I needed a break before I replied to anyone with the honesty they hadn’t technically purchased.

So, I was going to make cupcakes.

Baking had begun as an act of minor rebellion when I was thirteen. My mother didn’t keep sweets in the house because we all needed to watch our weight.

There’d always been almonds available for snacks, though.

Raw almonds. Roasted almonds. Individual bags of almonds for emergencies I never encountered. My mother carried them in her purse and ate six at a time, claiming they were surprisingly filling. They weren’t. Six almonds were barely worth mentioning.

If I wanted cookies, cake, or anything containing enough sugar to create happiness, I had to make it myself.

I started with boxed mixes, then I learned that flour, sugar, butter, and eggs could become almost anything if I followed instructions carefully enough. I liked the reliability. I liked that measurements mattered and results could be reproduced. I liked knowing that if something went wrong, I could usually identify the reason and correct it the next time.

Too much flour.

Butter too warm.

Oven temperature incorrect.

Baking never told me I had misunderstood the assignment after approving the sketch.

After putting some music on, I pulled my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, then gathered the ingredients. The kitchen was small enough that I could reach nearly everything without taking more than two steps, which suited both the apartment and my general lifestyle.