Last week, breakdown season officially opened at my faculty. With midterms and deadlines around the corner and the unavoidable Dutch Design Week-prep chaos, it isn’t surprising to see students in tears or on the brink of admitting defeat. I’m not sure whether this is a university wide phenomenon and if students of all fields are finding small corners on campus to hide in from their impending deliverables. Or perhaps this special rite of passage is reserved for us studying something somewhat artsy, because we are so personally wrapped up in our creative processes, that we are unable to distinguish our self-worth from our work. To be frank, the faculty doesn’t help us separate these worlds at all. Although we are often enough reminded by professors to not take critique personally, we are even more often tasked to write about are personal visions and our identities as designers. No one ever asked me what my personal vision was on physics when I was doing my bachelor, but now I’m constantly made to question who I am and what my role as a designer can be in this world. If that’s not a sure way to accelerate anyone into existential crisis, I don’t know what is.

In any case, in the midst of all of this, I felt surprisingly fine. Which means that instead of searching for ears to deliver rants to or shoulders to cry on, I was the one lending ears and shoulders to those in need. Even though, only a few weeks ago I found myself casually contemplating offing myself because I felt overwhelmed and underequipped to deal with life, the role that is now thrusted upon me, is that of the voice of reason, which I accepted both eagerly and obnoxiously.

I started last week with the most important deadline of the semester scheduled on Thursday, I felt calm, relaxed. Even though I had yet to put any words onto paper, I was sure that the words would eventually find their way there when the time was ripe. And knowing myself, the time wasn’t going to be ripe just yet. I need some pressure to focus. So, as if trying to make a show of my aloofness, I put my feet up on my desk, went over some papers, worked on some drawings and even read a book. Occasionally, putting my work down to reassure to the people around me.

‘It’s okay, you’re doing great!’

‘Don't worry, you’ll figure it out! You got this.’

I let pressure built until Wednesday morning, and even then I wasn’t stressed, I just felt a comfortable amount of urgency to motivate me. And I wrote, and what I wrote I was happy with. Sometimes even nodding at my screen while I was typing and whispering to myself.

‘This is some good shit.’

In two days, finishing an easy hour before the deadline, I typed out a 3000 word proposal document about what my final master project will be and reassured about its quality I handed it in. I really don’t know where this confidence came from. Perhaps it started as a small amount, and was amplified by the contrast between me and those around me that doubted their every decision.

After a week, small cracks in my attitude started to form, allowing doubt to seep in. No huge amounts, a good amount, just a little bit that grounded me. Because I didn’t bear the role of the voice of reason gracefully. Although, I was there for anyone needing encouragement, truth be told, it did make me feel somewhat morally superior. Anymore of that contrasting confidence would have made me unbearable to be around. Time to hand over the baton. For now I’ll enjoy knowing what I’m doing, what I want to do, and that it matters. An elusive feeling among my peers, that others not studying something somewhat artsy, perhaps take for granted. And in a few weeks I might be the one that’s desperate for a bit of that scarce amount of confidence that floats around the halls of my faculty, and someone else, someone secure of themselves will hand me a tissue and tell me everything will be okay.