Your mom will never give you an accurate appraisal of your work. You were, and will continue to be, her angel. Every awkward drawing, weak composition, or sickly idea you keep on life support will remain a gem in her eyes. This is what moms and dads do.

All of your mom’s kindness sets you up for a nasty reality once you start trying to earn from your craft. Prospective employers tell you your portfolio is nice, but don’t call back. Colleagues say you’re talented but fail to recommend you for projects. You experience a chorus of all the “right” comments, but you still fail to land a gig.

Truth is, unchecked compliments are one of the worst things anyone can ever give a creative person. When they say your design is nice, or call you talented—without explaining why—they are essentially brushing you off and escaping further discussion. Their light praise is just a polite way of saying there’s nothing noteworthy about your work.

Worse yet, these empty comments leave you with little to act upon or improve. If no one ever gives you constructive feedback, how do you know what part of your work is failing to perform as it should? Don’t expect this discomfort in providing real feedback to change. The art director who just skimmed your portfolio has better things to do than give you honest advice you aren’t prepared to hear.

But if she were, you might learn that your typographic treatments need work. You could realize that your portfolio needs more variety. Perhaps you’d even find out that the treatments you love so much are just tired gimmicks. But she knows you don’t want to hear this criticism, and you’ll consider her an asshole for saying your work should improve. She learned this lesson when she tried to help some others like you, who reacted angrily. She won’t be so easily lulled into making herself vulnerable like that again.

In the meanwhile you’re stuck floundering because of your sensitivity, and everyone else’s lack of interest in bursting your happy little bubble. If someone did tell you your work wasn’t “there” yet, they might bestow one of the kindest acts they could upon you. The temporary upset would soon subside and you’d have a clue for what to fix, instead of lingering in stasis.

The important lesson in all creative pursuits is that nothing you make is ever good enough. You always need more practice. I, for one, am painfully aware of the weaknesses in my own output. The knowledge of these shortcomings drives me to start again every day, and try to get even a little better.

Last year, I bought a Fujifilm X10. (It’s the “little brother” of the somewhat iconic X100.) I wanted to shoot more, but wasn’t willing to lug around a bulky DSLR. This small rangefinder style camera seemed like a nice step between an iPhone camera and a professional rig.

Lately, I’ve started to properly use this camera—and it has, as a result of its form, affected how I shoot. The X10 feels “real,” like the film cameras I grew up with and used in art school. It’s also very understated, quiet, and discreet, allowing me to carry it anywhere and snap a few photos without disturbing anyone.

What I love about taking photos on the street is that it allows me to interact with all kinds of people. Some are happy just to have their photo taken; others start chatting and tell me about their lives. I’m a bit of an introvert, and am pleasantly surprised by how the camera can open up new conversations.

Additionally, taking photographs forces me to observe. I seem to pay more attention, see unique moments, and monitor for interesting people, instances, and compositions. Having not shot many photos for 20 years, I find myself trying to remember why I ever stopped.

Many of the photos I take are in Gastown—the community I’ve worked in for nearly a decade. This part of Vancouver is home to those living on the streets, wealthy newcomers, silly hipsters, and all in between. I try to keep the camera on me at all times and walk with it after work and on breaks. I also carry it with me on trips away from the city.

I’ve tossed some of the resulting photographs on tumblr. I acknowledge that the photos are amateurish. I am a novice, after all. With time, though, I hope to improve. You can take a look at the first few at karj.tumblr.com.

Deliberatism started with excitement. The idea had been percolating for months—especially during house renovations. I tried to get rid of things, only to find more. This sounds like a problem of privilege, which it may be, but those closets weren’t filled with treasures. Mostly, they contained odds and ends saved for a future date. In other words: junk I wasn’t ready to part with.

I wondered if others also felt burdened by things. The topic appeared ripe for exploration. I noted ideas for articles, and considered a new blog to house them. A year ago, we found time to bring this idea to life.

My wife says I have an “all or nothing” personality. I obsess over new topics and then create elaborate plans around them. I find extremes compelling. Why run a 10k, when you could do an ultra-marathon? Why doodle, when you could create an entire body of work? Why write a small blog, when you could create something more substantial?

Deliberatism held the promise of a movement: one in a series of voices that asked why we’re so consumed by stuff—and how to live better. Done well, these stories might change my habits, and encourage others to rethink their choices. I saw this as subversive environmentalism. Instead of treating conservation as a moral decision, we would talk about liberation through less.

Writing it as one person started to feel like a limitation, though. This led us to pause and rethink our approach: Why should it be come from only one voice? Could it be opened to others? This approach might reduce the time surrounding its production, and introduce new perspectives. The thinking seemed reasonable, and the site was retooled as a magazine.

We received good contributions and talked to interesting people. The new format was workable and readers responded positively. The pace was no less maddening. Through the day, the agency ran as it always did. We also eked out time to connect with contributors and interviewees, edit content, and create our own. At night, I’d work on illustrations (which I loved creating) to accompany posts, and review/shape any content left over from the day.

This took its toll, leaving me tired. Instead of being overwhelmed with one big project, I now had two. Work hours were out of control, leaving me unable to take a moment to breath. Deliberatism had become a comical paradox: a blog about balance that ruined any such notion in my life.

We pressed pause again.

This seemed foolish. I worried about letting down those who had worked on the project. This wasn’t the first time a plan hasn’t materialized, though, and it won’t be the last. We focused on studio work, I found more time to spend with family, and continued to collect post ideas. (I do this to get ideas out of my head—otherwise I can’t focus on what’s in front of me.)

I don’t want to return to Deliberatism. It was an experiment, and we learned from it. I do, however, need to write—even if no one is reading. I find the process a constructive way to organize ideas.

Lately, I’ve asked how to get away from this screen in front of me. It’s not that I dislike work. What we do at smashLAB is enjoyable—certain parts more than others. I also wonder why our work configuration is so ordinary when there’s little that ties us to any one location.

This is why I’m writing here, instead of ideasonideas or Deliberatism. The first contained essays about design; the second tried to be something big and became unmanageable. This blog is smaller, and more personal. It’s a catchall for ideas I want to understand. It’s a journal during a time of personal change.

Our office is located two blocks from the Church of Scientology. Their minions stand on the front steps and offer stress tests to passers-by. I have a running joke. Upon walking past, I thank them and explain, “No need for a test—I have plenty of stress.”

Work could dry up, and force me to lay people off. My health could fail, leaving family in a tough position. Loved ones are getting older; meaning relationships that matter to me won’t always be there. These fears lead me to act old. I worry about eating badly, regret my lack of exercise, and work obscene hours to prevent slow-downs.

Eventually stress creeps in. When it does, it sneaks around my spine and then tightens like a vice. I can make it audible, by shifting my neck from side to side. This results in snaps and cracks that release the pressure—a reprieve lasting only moments. A day of stress is fine, but when my body nags at me like this for weeks, or months, I know that something’s not as it should be.

Our business always came with pressure, but this rarely resulted in lasting stress. There were ups and downs; the company got bigger, and then smaller. One opportunity slipped away, only to have another appear. We made good calls and bad ones. All of this is part of the gig.

This changed over the past last three years. Our agency grew a lot, clients were happy, and we were doing good work; nevertheless, I was experiencing a persistent stress that seemed inescapable. In spite of our success, I wasn’t having any fun at all. The work I loved had turned in to a job—with really shitty hours.

In January, I had an opportunity to hit pause. It wasn’t planned, but it did provide an insight into what my work-life could be like. I relaxed a little, and had time to think. I stopped pushing so hard for the things I had been, and my days became less frantic. This left me with more opportunities to just make design. The joy I used to find in my work returned. And the nagging in my back? Gone.

I think young and old are states of mind, affected heavily by how stuck you feel. I first got old in my early twenties, when I was stuck in a secure but pointless job. So, in spite of having no prospects or savings, I started smashLAB with Eric Shelkie. In spite of all the hard work it required, the opportunity proved enormously liberating. I soon regained a sense of joy and excitement I thought had long passed. In fact, I felt younger at 30 than I did at 20.

Some people are old in grade school; others are vibrant even as their lives come to an end. I think whether we feel one way or the other involves how stuck we are to a single direction. We expect our lives to follow a path, to be cumulative, or to at least afford the same opportunities previously available to us.

Life isn’t like that, though. It’s perpetually changing. We drive ourselves crazy by trying to hold on to old ideas of what our lives should be like. This gets in the way of the experiences we’re having right now. Meanwhile, even the best situations can turn into prisons if you let them. It’s up to you to change your circumstances when you feel this way. Sometimes all this takes is letting go of a few old ideas.

I author a blog called ideasonideas and readers sometimes ask me for advice. The questions range from how to improve a portfolio to how to land new clients. I responded to as many of these requests as could, but in time found myself asking why. I felt my suggestions were helpful, but few acted on them.

Recently, I’ve been on the other end of that equation. A prominent start-up guy has given me feedback on a project. Additionally, an editor and production team are helping me write a new book. In both instances, the advice received wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.

My knee-jerk response was to say, “No—you don’t get it…” and then explain what I had in mind. This soon gave way to realizing that they did “get it.” (And that they were generous enough to speak their minds.) So, I stopped talking and just did what they said I should. These people know more than me in their respective areas. It would be stupid to not follow their recommendations.

What’s strange about advice is that many ask for it, but don’t really want it. Instead, we’re looking for words of encouragement and a pat on the back. These are fake niceties that send us off in the wrong direction. Useful advice can sting. The question is whether you allow that momentary discomfort to shut you down or move you forward.