The last few years have felt like living inside pure magic. AI has profoundly reshaped how I work, think, create, collaborate. As a designer, denying its transformative power would simply be dishonest.

But alongside the magic, a storm of self-questioning I've never experienced before. Consider this post self-therapy, an attempt to wrestle these exploding thoughts about value into something coherent. I've always adapted to new tools – from ML to generating code. But the last two years? A different magnitude entirely. Getting good at Photoshop once felt like climbing a mountain; now, you ask, and interfaces appear, code materializes. It's undeniably magical.

This magic translates into tangible super power. Suddenly, I can 'code' (though I wouldn't call myself a developer) – manifesting ideas directly, making stronger cases for design itself. I can visualize aesthetics previously out of my reach. Brainstorming via chat becomes an expansive dialogue I couldn't have orchestrated alone. So, when the "design is dead" pronouncements echo? My gut reaction is always: you're missing the point. You don't see how this unlocks us, pushes our boundaries outward.

Yet, simplicity is elusive. This same magic fuels a profound, persistent self-doubt. What is the actual worth of my craft, my expertise, in this new landscape? Is my current skillset relevant tomorrow? The pace itself feels unsustainable – how does anyone truly keep up?

The acceleration is undeniable. I work faster. Faster allows for wider exploration. Wider exploration increases discovery. But it also exponentially increases the risk of mistaking polished outputs for truly sound concepts. Projects scoped for a month might now be delivered in half the time. Impressive today, probably expected table stakes tomorrow.

A part of me deeply resists this relentless progress and acceleration. My long-held strategy – continuous adaptation, avoiding tool-specific dogma – still feels correct. Yet, the undeniable truth remains: the electric hum of AI's possibility is often paired with the dull weight of profound exhaustion. I find myself nostalgic for slowness – not for less magic, but for more space. Those seemingly idle moments? They weren't buffer; they were necessity, the breathing room ideas need to mature.

The most significant unlock AI provides might not be infinite speed, but unprecedented width. Napkin sketches can instantly become prototypes. The inherent challenge shifts: when you can explore anything, the critical skill becomes curation – choosing which paths hold genuine promise. High-resolution outputs can too easily mask conceptual weaknesses.

Learning the fundamentals of design – strong concepts, taste (which for me is simply a larger exposure to the wide world and the web), creative processes – before this tech wave hit feels like a hidden advantage. Like navigating the world with a built-in compass others might lack. It makes me a better prompter, better director of the tool. Knowing what to ask for, how to guide the output, is arguably more than half the battle now. But maintaining these fundamentals requires the very time that feels increasingly scarce.

How do I value myself, and by extension, my time, in this new equation? The paradox is constant: I am simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted. Never before so creatively empowered; never before so deeply plagued by doubt.

What exactly is my value-add today? Is my core value the human insight I bring to a tool anyone can access, or is the tool primarily adding value to me? Scrolling through feeds – often showcases of curated success ("success masturbation," as it feels sometimes) – amplifies the anxiety. Am I keeping pace? Am I left behind.

While I embrace sprints, I think of running: balancing speed work with slower, longer runs. Why is it so hard to grant my professional life that same essential rhythm?

I know, intrinsically, that some of my best work springs from exploration, from unstructured tinkering. It's in pursuing those unexpected sideways connections that surprises – the ones that don't just solve the problem but reframe it – emerge. And here I sit, with arguably the most potent tool for exploration ever created, often consciously sidelining its potential because the demands of execution dominate.

Seeing others without that much coding experience, intuitively 'vibe-code' a useful tool is a potent reminder of that raw creative spark AI can ignite. Sometimes, experience can be confining; newcomers now just prompt relentlessly until it magically works. The tools are imperfect, yes, but projecting the trajectory of the last two years forward? The leaps will probably still be staggering. What I miss is feeling like I have – or rather, allow myself – the time for it.

Would I advise anyone to pursue a creative career today? One part of me, the pragmatic, anxious part, warns of a cutthroat field with diminishing returns, demanding relentless speed and expertise just to survive. But another part feels profound sadness at that cynical reflex. Look at the power for self-directed learning and creation now available! I just wish that exploratory mode could be the default, not a luxury squeezed into the margins. Adaptation is the game, and adaptation fundamentally requires time – the very resource that feels most under siege.

And so, wrestling with all this leads me back to this very post. Written with AI. The irony? Using AI to process my feelings about using AI. Meta, I guess? Which dumps me right back at the core mindfuck: These words you're reading – how much is actually me? Where's the line between my thoughts and the machine's? The magic remains undeniable. But maybe instead of drowning in the doubt, I should just allow myself to tinker even more. To play with this new terrain rather than the anxiety it provokes. Perhaps that's been the point all along.