Foundation: Trusting the Design Below Ground
A foundation is the lowest load-bearing part of a building.
It sits below ground level—out of sight, often in darkness.
It is not decorative.
It is not immediately visible.
But it holds everything.
Foundation work is an action. An establishing. Often, when you’re in it, you have all the pieces but no clear picture of how they fit together. You’re digging, placing, reinforcing… trusting that something solid is being formed even when the direction feels uncertain.
That’s what it can feel like to live in the early layers of your life.
Dark.
Buried.
Moving forward without clarity.
I know that space well.
I always loved to write. I had a lot to say—still do. I loved to create things too. One of my favorite toys in second grade was Tomy Fashion Plates—a kit with plates you layered beneath a sheet of paper so you could design your own outfits. Mix and match. Try again. Create something that didn’t exist before.
By the time I graduated high school, the only major that seemed to hold both of my loves—writing and creativity—was fashion journalism. I didn’t learn how to sew, but I did learn design. I learned strategy. I learned how ideas move from imagination into form.
All the while, I was also living life. Discovering who God is. And trying to understand where I fit.
Going to a predominantly white college, building self-esteem became more than personal, it became purposeful. I wasn’t just trying to find it within myself; I wanted Black girls to have it too. It bothered me that as a Black girl I was sexualized more. That I learned people-pleasing as a survival skill in white spaces. That I was asked to explain my hair, my family dynamics, my belonging. That I had to defend why I deserved to be in high-level classes when others never had to.
I was moving forward in the dark.
No clear map.
No language yet for what I was becoming.
Just foundation work.
Establishing something…without knowing exactly what.
Then, at ground level, the stairs began to appear.
Through years of beautiful careers, meaningful experiences, and challenging opportunities—using the design process again and again—I finally saw it.
I am a life designer.
If your life were a house, how would you design it?
I love empowering people to be their true, authentic selves. To build relationships that support them and allow them to flourish. I love encouraging people to be well on the inside and to let the outside reflect that inner health. To create a home and even a wardrobe that honors who they are and what is healthy within them.
I am an instructional designer.
I use human-centered learning to strengthen connectedness and self-awareness.
I create trainings, courses, and workbooks.
And yes—I wrote a fiction romance novel.
All of it fits now.
But for a long time, there was no name for what I was doing. No “human-centered design.” No “instructional designer.” I’m not even sure “life designer” is widely used.
But I was designing long before there was language for it.
Foundation work is like that.
It’s not easy.
It’s not visible.
It often feels like you’re buried rather than built.
But trust this: just because you can’t see the structure yet doesn’t mean it isn’t forming. Just because you don’t have the words yet doesn’t mean you aren’t becoming something real.
God is the architect.
He is a creative craftsman.
And He doesn’t make mistakes.
Even when you feel broken.
Even when you’re still becoming.
Trust the design, especially when you’re below ground.
Reflection
Where in your life might you be doing foundation work—establishing something before you have language for what it will become?