Once, I flew with my mother.

By then, she had already entered the early stages of dementia. On the surface, she still seemed capable, but underneath, certainty had begun to slip. An airplane restroom is uncomfortable for most people. For her, it was a maze of unknowns.

Before she went in, my mind wouldn’t stop racing: Would she press the wrong button? Would she find the flush? Would she know how to turn on the tap? Where would the cup be after washing her hands? How would she lock the door? How would she open it again?

The space was so small that two people couldn’t fit inside. The door couldn’t stay open either, outside were strangers constantly passing by. All I could do was stand there, guiding her with my voice, step by step, question by question.

But I knew very clearly, I was not in control.

That was the first time I truly understood that design is not about aesthetics. It is about whether the world becomes cruel to someone when they begin to lose their abilities.

Even the thin paper placed on the toilet seat. Which side faces front? Which side faces back? There is no clear instruction. For a healthy person, it’s trivial. For someone already confused, it can be enough to stop them completely, to trigger doubt, hesitation, even panic.

In that cramped space, every object became an obstacle. And suddenly, I understood how helpless she must have felt.

I could help only with the confusion I could see. But what about the anxiety I couldn’t see? The fear she couldn’t explain, couldn’t name?

Many struggles in daily life aren’t about malfunctioning tools, but about invisible psychological weight. And that weight never comes with a manual. Those of us standing outside often judge others using our own speed of understanding. “Why are you so slow?” “How can you not get this?”

But the truth is simple: because we cannot see it, we do not understand it.

If design only serves the alert, the young, the skilled, and the fast-reacting, then it is quietly excluding everyone else.

Good design should allow people to act without thinking. Not force them to suffer confusion just to understand.

After that experience, I began to distance myself from designs that look “smart.” Not because they aren’t beautiful, but because they aren’t kind enough.

We need to slow down. Slow down enough to place ourselves inside someone else’s condition and ask: If today I were the one confused, lost, or losing control would the world treat me gently?

Before rushing to blame, pause. Because often, it isn’t that someone is doing things wrong. It’s that we cannot see what they are carrying.

This applies to design. And it applies to life.



—— 🎐 XC Scribbles · 捌拾貳 LXXXII ♿