There’s a man waiting for the bus with a rose in his hand. Nothing epic, really, but you can tell by his face that the rose comes from —or is headed toward— someone important. I look at him, and as I do, I think maybe we don’t need dragons or knights to celebrate Sant Jordi*. Sometimes, all it takes is a story that’s been circling in your head for days.
So here goes.
My story has no princes, no damsels. No swords, no battles. It has decisions. Silences. Contradictions and regrets. And something that, to me, feels like part of our most recent folklore: this way we have, sometimes, of pretending we don’t see a thing, while deep down, something in us is quietly cracking.
They say that a few years ago —not many— there was a designer who decided to start his own studio. He was tired of working for others, of designing without freedom, of having to fit into someone else’s creative direction. He started small. Like most things that end up mattering: a couple of jobs for close friends, a small room, tons of enthusiasm, and that mix of fear and faith you only feel at the very beginning.
With time, the studio found its place. People started talking about them. They were doing bold, honest projects —the kind that make you stop and look. He surrounded himself with good people and built a space full of respect, care, energy, talent.
Then one day, someone from another sector came along. They had big ideas, ambition, talk of growth. So they teamed up. They wanted to scale up —be more efficient, go bigger. And that’s how it started: a little more pace. A little more of everything. And slowly, a little less of the rest.
Until one day, years later, he announced he was stepping down. Said he needed to reconnect with his essence. Find meaning again. He wrote a heartfelt message. Said he was tired. That somewhere along the way, something got lost. And everyone applauded. Brave, they said. So inspiring —someone with that much privilege choosing to step aside.
More structure. More clients. More volume. And inevitably, less time. Less margin. Fewer questions. They started undercutting prices in public tenders, offering ridiculously low fees to collaborators, pressuring them if they said no. Pushy emails. Manipulative WhatsApps. Silences that twisted arms. Fear, rebranded as company culture.
The sector was taking hits. But the studio was thriving. And the designer’s name? Still there. Intact. Revered. Winning awards. There was someone else doing the dirty work, sure. But everything still happened under his umbrella. Which meant, it was still his responsibility.
Until one day, years later, he announced he was stepping down. Said he needed to reconnect with his essence. Find meaning again. He wrote a heartfelt message. Said he was tired. That somewhere along the way, something got lost. And everyone applauded. Brave, they said. So inspiring —someone with that much privilege choosing to step aside.
But no one said that emptiness wasn’t new. That it had been there for years. That he’d gotten used to it. Thrown rugs over it. That the discomfort didn’t come from quitting —it came from not having said enough when he still could. That he could’ve done things differently. Could’ve been brave sooner. Could’ve refused to be complicit in the decline of a sector he now claims to care about.
Now he’s got a full bank account, investments, more than one property —while others can barely afford rent. His name is clean. His spirit, hollow. But he carries a weight. A silence. A kind of hum that follows him around. A lingering memory of what he allowed. What he justified. And what he never spoke up against.
This is a tale. Or maybe not. Maybe it is one of those stories that actually happen, but no one ever quite tells to the end.
Warm regards from the H6 bus,
Ingrid
*On April 23rd, in Catalonia, people celebrate Sant Jordi by exchanging books and roses — a tradition that blends love and literature, and turns the streets into open-air book and flower markets.
