I - EMERGE

March 2020. The world was ending in slow motion. MIT Media Lab—usually buzzing with future-builders—felt like a submarine running out of oxygen. Then the call came: "We've hacked sound itself. We can make headphones see. But nobody will use it if it feels like surveillance." Twenty researchers had birthed a miracle—ultrasonic sonar that could map the space between your hand and face using headphones as cheap as $5—but they needed someone to introduce this tech to the world: a world mired in fear and confusion with COVID, lock-downs, and personal safety threats around every corner .. or seemingly on every surface. This story was one of emergence: of new tech as a means of responding to a new global threat.

The challenge was cosmic in its contradictions. Design an interface for unconscious behavior. Make cutting-edge tech feel ancient and intuitive. Help humanity stop touching their faces without making them feel like diseased exiles. Oh, and do it while the world aches and hurts, teams scatter across continents, and trust wanes by the second. The budget? Enough for pizza and prayers. The timeline? Yesterday. The stakes? Only human survival, no big deal.

But here's what broke my brain: I wasn't just designing for users—I was designing an engagement model of a future concept for users' human brains in survival mode. The unconscious mind that makes you touch your face 23 times per hour without knowing, now even less-consciously considering implications of life/social/health that COVID brought to the forefront. How does one have a conversation with someone's unconscious through a digital tool?! How does one make the invisible visible through a digital experience without inducing panic in the midst of a panic-induced social ecosystem?! The team of 20+ brilliant minds all had opinions. All were terrified. And yet, all were desperate to help. I had to become translator between dimensions—in making alien technology speak human, in making fear feel like love, and in bringing a budding future-state to a bleak present-state.

II - RESPOND

Week two nearly shattered everything. User research revealed two tribes: a) warehouse workers battling everything they were reading/hearing to go forth and grind through 6-hour focus blocks with phones strapped like talismans, and b) home workers bouncing between rooms like pinballs, fully plugged into their sonic cocoons, while hoping for a proverbial 'green-light' to re-enter the outside world when things were safe. Both touching their faces constantly, playing unconscious Russian roulette. But when we showed them early prototypes—clinical interfaces with medical aesthetics—they recoiled. One user summed the digital experience as "being diagnosed with existing." Another felt, "going to a sterile hospital should NOT be brought home and attached to my phone".

The breakthrough came in accordance with work some of the borrowed architects on the project tendered. While exhausted and struggling with user feedback, I took another honest look at some of the directional static sketching I was tasked with bringing forth into a living interface. What if we didn't alert but revealed? What if the interface wasn't a guard but a mirror? The principles crystallized: Proactive plus Reactive (exist in multiple timelines), Humanity as Lead (no cold tech), Nudges over Pushes (whisper, don't scream). But principles are philosophy—we needed poetry.

Then came the pixelated human form—crude, simple, facing right toward tomorrow. Testing it felt like perfecting a potion. Users didn't see pixels; they saw humans .. They saw themselves. The gradient colors—we looked at 40+ variations—finally landing on transitions that breathed and calmed like viewing a peaceful dawn. One warehouse worker admitted, "It's like my phone learned to care about me." But the real test came when we switched from haptic to visual alerts. The team fought me—how could silent warnings work? Until users proved that unconscious behaviors needed unconscious interventions. The counter almost got cut—"too game-like" they said. I fought for 1 week straight on that one, though, as it was a key component of the Reactive philosophy we needed to establish. "Games can be immeasurably fun and impact behavior/mindset when externalities seem bleak," I argued. "Let them level up their self-preservation," I thought.

III - HOPE

The numbers came like validation from the universe: 30% reduction in face touches. But the story behind those numbers? Pure drama. Three days before Apple's submission deadline, I had to learn how to launch a consumer-facing repository to the masses. I had done this before for enterprise designs/features work, but never at this scale. On top of this, I had to rebuild the interface to apply and serve as fully responsive to mobile devices .. all of them. Panic. With all of the brilliant engineering minds, the designer was tasked with finding solutions. I rebuilt the entire interface architecture in 48 hours. Little sleep. Much coffee. Abundant code. Unbridled conviction.

Launching this felt like what I have to imagine bringing life into the world feels. (Definitely not holistically, to the mothers out there! We respect EVERYTHING you go through!) Users started sent feedback that made us cry. One revelled: "I feel protected in choosing my own future." Another: "My phone became my guardian angel." The 90% accuracy rate of the sonar detection technology meant trust. The visual design—that simple pixelated human—became an icon for user choice, user presence, and user freedom. Some even went as far as to call it their "digital conscience." Fast Company noticed. Apple celebrated. The NSF stood in solidarity, with a 6-figure, proverbial fist of support. But the moment I knew we'd transcended? When the interface itself, became an extension of the user and their life itself, "This is daddy's friend who keeps him safe."

The interface evolved beyond our dreams. Users suggested hand-washing integrations, social features, group accountability modes. But the core remained pure—humanity augmented, not replaced. We proved that design could speak directly to the unconscious, that technology could touch without touching, that in our darkest moment, pixels could be prayer. I learned that sometimes, design is NOT about building something new on one's own and that taking what other expertly develop and offer then maximizing it is equally power. We didn't just reduce face touches; we increased faith in the future. The pixelated figure facing right wasn't just design—it was promise. Even in pandemic, even in fear, we face forward. We face tomorrow. We save face.

I - EMERGE

March 2020. The world was ending in slow motion. MIT Media Lab—usually buzzing with future-builders—felt like a submarine running out of oxygen. Then the call came: "We've hacked sound itself. We can make headphones see. But nobody will use it if it feels like surveillance." Twenty researchers had birthed a miracle—ultrasonic sonar that could map the space between your hand and face using headphones as cheap as $5—but they needed someone to introduce this tech to the world: a world mired in fear and confusion with COVID, lock-downs, and personal safety threats around every corner .. or seemingly on every surface. This story was one of emergence: of new tech as a means of responding to a new global threat.

The challenge was cosmic in its contradictions. Design an interface for unconscious behavior. Make cutting-edge tech feel ancient and intuitive. Help humanity stop touching their faces without making them feel like diseased exiles. Oh, and do it while the world aches and hurts, teams scatter across continents, and trust wanes by the second. The budget? Enough for pizza and prayers. The timeline? Yesterday. The stakes? Only human survival, no big deal.

But here's what broke my brain: I wasn't just designing for users—I was designing an engagement model of a future concept for users' human brains in survival mode. The unconscious mind that makes you touch your face 23 times per hour without knowing, now even less-consciously considering implications of life/social/health that COVID brought to the forefront. How does one have a conversation with someone's unconscious through a digital tool?! How does one make the invisible visible through a digital experience without inducing panic in the midst of a panic-induced social ecosystem?! The team of 20+ brilliant minds all had opinions. All were terrified. And yet, all were desperate to help. I had to become translator between dimensions—in making alien technology speak human, in making fear feel like love, and in bringing a budding future-state to a bleak present-state.

II - RESPOND

Week two nearly shattered everything. User research revealed two tribes: a) warehouse workers battling everything they were reading/hearing to go forth and grind through 6-hour focus blocks with phones strapped like talismans, and b) home workers bouncing between rooms like pinballs, fully plugged into their sonic cocoons, while hoping for a proverbial 'green-light' to re-enter the outside world when things were safe. Both touching their faces constantly, playing unconscious Russian roulette. But when we showed them early prototypes—clinical interfaces with medical aesthetics—they recoiled. One user summed the digital experience as "being diagnosed with existing." Another felt, "going to a sterile hospital should NOT be brought home and attached to my phone".

The breakthrough came in accordance with work some of the borrowed architects on the project tendered. While exhausted and struggling with user feedback, I took another honest look at some of the directional static sketching I was tasked with bringing forth into a living interface. What if we didn't alert but revealed? What if the interface wasn't a guard but a mirror? The principles crystallized: Proactive plus Reactive (exist in multiple timelines), Humanity as Lead (no cold tech), Nudges over Pushes (whisper, don't scream). But principles are philosophy—we needed poetry.

Then came the pixelated human form—crude, simple, facing right toward tomorrow. Testing it felt like perfecting a potion. Users didn't see pixels; they saw humans .. They saw themselves. The gradient colors—we looked at 40+ variations—finally landing on transitions that breathed and calmed like viewing a peaceful dawn. One warehouse worker admitted, "It's like my phone learned to care about me." But the real test came when we switched from haptic to visual alerts. The team fought me—how could silent warnings work? Until users proved that unconscious behaviors needed unconscious interventions. The counter almost got cut—"too game-like" they said. I fought for 1 week straight on that one, though, as it was a key component of the Reactive philosophy we needed to establish. "Games can be immeasurably fun and impact behavior/mindset when externalities seem bleak," I argued. "Let them level up their self-preservation," I thought.

III - HOPE

The numbers came like validation from the universe: 30% reduction in face touches. But the story behind those numbers? Pure drama. Three days before Apple's submission deadline, I had to learn how to launch a consumer-facing repository to the masses. I had done this before for enterprise designs/features work, but never at this scale. On top of this, I had to rebuild the interface to apply and serve as fully responsive to mobile devices .. all of them. Panic. With all of the brilliant engineering minds, the designer was tasked with finding solutions. I rebuilt the entire interface architecture in 48 hours. Little sleep. Much coffee. Abundant code. Unbridled conviction.

Launching this felt like what I have to imagine bringing life into the world feels. (Definitely not holistically, to the mothers out there! We respect EVERYTHING you go through!) Users started sent feedback that made us cry. One revelled: "I feel protected in choosing my own future." Another: "My phone became my guardian angel." The 90% accuracy rate of the sonar detection technology meant trust. The visual design—that simple pixelated human—became an icon for user choice, user presence, and user freedom. Some even went as far as to call it their "digital conscience." Fast Company noticed. Apple celebrated. The NSF stood in solidarity, with a 6-figure, proverbial fist of support. But the moment I knew we'd transcended? When the interface itself, became an extension of the user and their life itself, "This is daddy's friend who keeps him safe."

The interface evolved beyond our dreams. Users suggested hand-washing integrations, social features, group accountability modes. But the core remained pure—humanity augmented, not replaced. We proved that design could speak directly to the unconscious, that technology could touch without touching, that in our darkest moment, pixels could be prayer. I learned that sometimes, design is NOT about building something new on one's own and that taking what other expertly develop and offer then maximizing it is equally power. We didn't just reduce face touches; we increased faith in the future. The pixelated figure facing right wasn't just design—it was promise. Even in pandemic, even in fear, we face forward. We face tomorrow. We save face.

I - PROMPT

MIT. Fall. Eight teams of designers, engineers, and business leaders gathered in a reserved room of MIT's lively D-Lab. Each individual team would then be handed the same seemingly simple challenge: "Create a kitchen item." But the subtext was revolutionary—transform design/academic theory into commercial reality within just three months. Research it, design it, build it, brand it, sell it. The team with the highest profit wins. This was a journey into design rigor as practical application, and the work would be two-fold: 1. application of digital design principles to tangible product, and 2. managing the preferences/personalities of other, world-class colleagues wanting to contribute to the winning team.

I looked around at my teammates—brilliant minds with expertise in different domains, but no experience bringing a consumer-phasing, analog product to market. None of us had manufactured anything at scale before. We had no established supply chains, no production facilities, no distribution channels. What we did have was three months, limited resources, and the weight of MIT's reputation (and our individual team pride) on our shoulders.

We were not just designing something beautiful; we were navigating the treacherous gap between concept and commerce. Could we cross that void that swallows so many brilliant ideas? Could we translate design thinking—so often trapped in the digital realm—into atoms and dollars? I felt the vertigo of possibility, the terror of tangibility.

As one of two designers on the team (and having world-class business training), I knew my role would be to anchor us in human/business needs while pushing us toward unexplored territories. But first, we needed principles to navigate by—not just constraints but portals into different dimensions of the design space.

II - COMPOSITE

Our research began not in studios but in strangers' kitchens. We interviewed twelve "dwellers"—people who cook or prepare food at least twice daily. We intercepted shoppers "in the wild," capturing unfiltered reactions to products they encountered. What emerged weren't just preferences but philosophies: Beauty wasn't superficial but communicative—objects needed to speak the language of class and occasion. Quality wasn't just durability but relationship—users wanted items they could maintain and grow with. Function wasn't just utility but choreography—how objects participated in the rituals of serving and sharing.

The breakthrough came during our fourth prototype and concept-selection session. We'd been exploring three product categories: Bowl-like vessels, Trays + boards, and Modular vessels. Trays scored highest on our feasibility-desirability-viability matrix, but something was missing—a tension, a conversation, a reason to exist beyond utility. We needed an object to evoke a sense, a deeper connection, an extension of the duality a kitchen brings to a person's life through both functional resolution and creative ascension.

Around 2 AM in a hidden MIT workshop, a piece of wood fell next to a sheet of galvanized steel (as if the hand of God himself had nudged. The juxtaposition was electric—not just visually but philosophically. Natural against industrial. Warm against cold. Organic against machined. Hand-crafted against mass-produced. This wasn't mere aesthetics but cultural commentary made tangible—the collision of contradictory elements creating something greater than their sum. Of the four of us toiling with answers and a solidified direction, this moment represented immediate harmony in what we needed to, in response to the material harmony itself.

The team split on the implications of this direction. Half worried about manufacturing complexity, while half of us worried if users/consumers would be able to decode and be moved by this inherent tension. An uneasiness would exist in working to unite materials that wanted to remain separate. "We'll honestly just have to pick one." some argued. "Wood or metal. Not both." others pushed. But I knew that feeling of harmony we felt would not be able to be forgotten, and any compromise would diminish the genius potential here: "The tension is the product. Without it, we're just making another tray."

Our engineering challenge became a metaphysical one: how do you unite materials that represent opposing worldviews? The solution emerged through process—we created wooden braces to methodically press and bend our steel sheets. The very tension we sought in our product became embedded in our production method. The means of creation mirrored the meaning of the creation. We would leverage this concept as wood as 'brace' to extend the use of wood in the actual product as handles. Again, harmony represented as process and as output.

Two weeks before deadline, disaster struck. Our initial production run revealed inconsistent wood production in contrast to the uniform metal pieces—each handle needing to be treated and some multiple re-made. In mass manufacturing, this would be failure. But one team member, our engineer, saw opportunity: "What if inconsistency within thresholds is our signature? What if each piece is intentionally unique?" At this, we agreed to shift our perspective on constraint into one of embracing the custom/individualized nature of each tray; a limitation shifted to become a key feature.

III - TRIUMPH

The market responded with unexpected enthusiasm. We sold over 75 units, generating more than $ 30,000 in revenue—winning the competition among eight teams. But the metrics tell only part of the story.

What we created wasn't just a product but a conversation piece—an object that made people reflect on the relationship between materials, between craftsmanship and industry, between utility and meaning, between process and output. Users didn't just purchase a tray; they acquired a philosophy made tangible, a daily reminder of the beauty that emerges from tension rather than resolution.

The METIS tray transcended its functional purpose to become a cultural artifact—a commentary on how we navigate a world of contradictions. It embodied the truth that design isn't about removing tension but about channeling it into meaning. About creating not just objects but territories of emotion that invite people to enter and engage. (Funny enough, kitchens often being seen as territories made this challenge the perfect vessel for exploring this concept through an object made for a kitchen.)

This project reveals the ultimate truth about physical product design: successful objects don't just serve functions—they transform contexts. Our tray didn't merely hold food; it changed how food was perceived. It didn't just organize utensils; it elevated everyday moments into experiences worth remembering.

What began as a competition became a thesis on materiality's power to convey meaning. By understanding that people don't buy products but emotions made tangible, we created more than a winning kitchen item—we created a methodology for translating human desires into physical form, proving that the distance between concept and commerce isn't a void to be feared but a space to be designed.

I - PROMPT

MIT. Fall. Eight teams of designers, engineers, and business leaders gathered in a reserved room of MIT's lively D-Lab. Each individual team would then be handed the same seemingly simple challenge: "Create a kitchen item." But the subtext was revolutionary—transform design/academic theory into commercial reality within just three months. Research it, design it, build it, brand it, sell it. The team with the highest profit wins. This was a journey into design rigor as practical application, and the work would be two-fold: 1. application of digital design principles to tangible product, and 2. managing the preferences/personalities of other, world-class colleagues wanting to contribute to the winning team.

I looked around at my teammates—brilliant minds with expertise in different domains, but no experience bringing a consumer-phasing, analog product to market. None of us had manufactured anything at scale before. We had no established supply chains, no production facilities, no distribution channels. What we did have was three months, limited resources, and the weight of MIT's reputation (and our individual team pride) on our shoulders.

We were not just designing something beautiful; we were navigating the treacherous gap between concept and commerce. Could we cross that void that swallows so many brilliant ideas? Could we translate design thinking—so often trapped in the digital realm—into atoms and dollars? I felt the vertigo of possibility, the terror of tangibility.

As one of two designers on the team (and having world-class business training), I knew my role would be to anchor us in human/business needs while pushing us toward unexplored territories. But first, we needed principles to navigate by—not just constraints but portals into different dimensions of the design space.

II - COMPOSITE

Our research began not in studios but in strangers' kitchens. We interviewed twelve "dwellers"—people who cook or prepare food at least twice daily. We intercepted shoppers "in the wild," capturing unfiltered reactions to products they encountered. What emerged weren't just preferences but philosophies: Beauty wasn't superficial but communicative—objects needed to speak the language of class and occasion. Quality wasn't just durability but relationship—users wanted items they could maintain and grow with. Function wasn't just utility but choreography—how objects participated in the rituals of serving and sharing.

The breakthrough came during our fourth prototype and concept-selection session. We'd been exploring three product categories: Bowl-like vessels, Trays + boards, and Modular vessels. Trays scored highest on our feasibility-desirability-viability matrix, but something was missing—a tension, a conversation, a reason to exist beyond utility. We needed an object to evoke a sense, a deeper connection, an extension of the duality a kitchen brings to a person's life through both functional resolution and creative ascension.

Around 2 AM in a hidden MIT workshop, a piece of wood fell next to a sheet of galvanized steel (as if the hand of God himself had nudged. The juxtaposition was electric—not just visually but philosophically. Natural against industrial. Warm against cold. Organic against machined. Hand-crafted against mass-produced. This wasn't mere aesthetics but cultural commentary made tangible—the collision of contradictory elements creating something greater than their sum. Of the four of us toiling with answers and a solidified direction, this moment represented immediate harmony in what we needed to, in response to the material harmony itself.

The team split on the implications of this direction. Half worried about manufacturing complexity, while half of us worried if users/consumers would be able to decode and be moved by this inherent tension. An uneasiness would exist in working to unite materials that wanted to remain separate. "We'll honestly just have to pick one." some argued. "Wood or metal. Not both." others pushed. But I knew that feeling of harmony we felt would not be able to be forgotten, and any compromise would diminish the genius potential here: "The tension is the product. Without it, we're just making another tray."

Our engineering challenge became a metaphysical one: how do you unite materials that represent opposing worldviews? The solution emerged through process—we created wooden braces to methodically press and bend our steel sheets. The very tension we sought in our product became embedded in our production method. The means of creation mirrored the meaning of the creation. We would leverage this concept as wood as 'brace' to extend the use of wood in the actual product as handles. Again, harmony represented as process and as output.

Two weeks before deadline, disaster struck. Our initial production run revealed inconsistent wood production in contrast to the uniform metal pieces—each handle needing to be treated and some multiple re-made. In mass manufacturing, this would be failure. But one team member, our engineer, saw opportunity: "What if inconsistency within thresholds is our signature? What if each piece is intentionally unique?" At this, we agreed to shift our perspective on constraint into one of embracing the custom/individualized nature of each tray; a limitation shifted to become a key feature.

III - TRIUMPH

The market responded with unexpected enthusiasm. We sold over 75 units, generating more than $ 30,000 in revenue—winning the competition among eight teams. But the metrics tell only part of the story.

What we created wasn't just a product but a conversation piece—an object that made people reflect on the relationship between materials, between craftsmanship and industry, between utility and meaning, between process and output. Users didn't just purchase a tray; they acquired a philosophy made tangible, a daily reminder of the beauty that emerges from tension rather than resolution.

The METIS tray transcended its functional purpose to become a cultural artifact—a commentary on how we navigate a world of contradictions. It embodied the truth that design isn't about removing tension but about channeling it into meaning. About creating not just objects but territories of emotion that invite people to enter and engage. (Funny enough, kitchens often being seen as territories made this challenge the perfect vessel for exploring this concept through an object made for a kitchen.)

This project reveals the ultimate truth about physical product design: successful objects don't just serve functions—they transform contexts. Our tray didn't merely hold food; it changed how food was perceived. It didn't just organize utensils; it elevated everyday moments into experiences worth remembering.

What began as a competition became a thesis on materiality's power to convey meaning. By understanding that people don't buy products but emotions made tangible, we created more than a winning kitchen item—we created a methodology for translating human desires into physical form, proving that the distance between concept and commerce isn't a void to be feared but a space to be designed.