When your vision is ahead of the curve, take it as a sign to do you sooner rather than later.
Converse high-tops have been my go-to sneaker since childhood. They still are—though these days I rotate in the low-tops too. As a multidisciplinary artist and designer devoted to handmade, couture-level craftsmanship, I once imagined how exciting it would be to collaborate with Converse’s parent company. I had a slew of ideas for reimagining the silhouette for a more discerning, modern footwear connoisseur.
This was before I launched my own brand.
And that’s usually how it happens.
You get rejected. More than once.
You know the idea is good.
So eventually, you make it yourself—for yourself.
I reimagined the Chuck and called it De-Chucks. I removed the parade of metal eyelets and replaced them with asymmetrical eyelet positioning and an inner-eyelet jacket so you could lace it up in multiple ways. I reduced the side logo to a simple stamped circle—no text, no branding bravado. I debossed the toe line into the leather instead of layering it on in contrast color. Quiet. Intentional. Unexpected.
Everywhere I went, people stopped me. Asked about them. Looked closer.
I truly wish that collaboration had happened. I tried. It didn’t. So I made them for me—and then I moved on.
Not long after, Converse began exploring collaborations with fashion designers of note. I remember thinking, Here I am again—seeing it early. This would become a recurring theme in my life. I’m often ten to fifteen years ahead of the curve.
If you’re a young designer and you can see what’s coming before others do, expect resistance. Don’t take it personally. Sometimes that resistance is simply God telling you that you’ll have to build your thing yourself—and that you may have to walk alone for a while.
Years later, while working as a lead creative in corporate America, I was asked to review a failing campaign tied to a generous offer no one was selecting. The C-suite was baffled.
I walked in, took one look, and immediately saw the problem—and the solution.
I was given until the end of the day to create new visuals to test over the weekend. I didn’t overthink it. I grabbed a camera, one of the younger designers on my team, the product, and went into the studio. We captured the truth of the offer—its clarity, its value, its power.
That Monday, the office was buzzing. I didn’t know why... until someone from analytics leaned over and whispered, Your creative just made the company two million dollars in one weekend.
I was pleased. Honestly, I assumed that kind of thing happened all the time there. It hadn’t.
I went to the executive who had asked me to solve the problem. He said, almost as an afterthought, that the company wanted to thank me by taking me to dinner.
Thai food.
Beverly Hills.
Two million dollars in a weekend.
I shrugged and kept it moving.
A few days later, a meeting was suddenly called. The CEO wanted to know how the project had worked so well. I was told about the meeting two minutes before it started. My new boss pulled me aside and said, If he asks who did the creative, say it was your team. Don’t say it was you.
Then he ushered me into the fishbowl meeting room.
When the CEO asked, my boss shot daggers across the table.
I told the truth.
I explained that I did it myself, in about two hours. I outlined the problem I saw and the tools I used. I could practically see the CEO’s mind racing through a backlog of failing initiatives that might benefit from a similar approach.
That moment opened Pandora’s box.
What followed was three months of sustained hazing, designed to exhaust me, humiliate me, and make me appear incapable. I was labeled “too confident.” I was overloaded with work no one person could reasonably complete. Meetings were stacked back-to-back so I couldn’t meet deadlines they had engineered.
It didn’t work. But the fact that I could manage the stress and keep my composure doesn't make it okay to put innocent people through these types of rituals, and definitely not at the hand of an entitled, envy riddled being.
I’ve never done anything worth feeling humiliated over—certainly not for using my creative gifts to generate two million dollars in a weekend.
Eventually, I removed myself. Four years of trusted creativity poured into a single cup—and then spilled.
A few years after I left, the company’s creative stagnated. Nothing felt fresh in a world where creative leaps were happening everywhere. I thanked God for removing me, but I also understood something deeper.
My spirit needed to catalog these experiences.
To recognize the patterns.
To see how often high-capacity creatives, especially those deemed “outsiders”—are punished for the very thing they’re hired to do.
I saw the pattern again during an interior design project for a new eatery, this time with someone close to me. The chef was deeply inspired by skate culture, and I designed the space with a modern, urban sensibility—raw, kinetic, and forward-looking. I understood the language immediately. I was living inside that culture.
As part of the space, I created hand-drawn short, intentional phrases for a main wall:
More Bike Lanes.
Enjoy More, Use Less.
Humboldt Park, Not Heights.
They weren’t slogans. They were signals.
When a few patrons asked what was meant by things like “Enjoy More, Use Less,” chef got nervous. Rather than standing by the vision, he covered the phrases with large skateboard panels. Not out of malice, out of discomfort.
Later, one of the employees looked at me, shook his head, and said (in front of chef), “He covered your vision with ghetto Band-Aids.”
I laughed, because it was absurd, and because it was accurate. The irony was that none of this came from a lack of care. It came from being early, even with someone who loved me, and even on work I did for free. Now it’s a running joke between us. Chef knows I’m often early.
Years later, Chicago built an expansive bike lane network. Recycling became standard. Humboldt Park stayed Humboldt Park, its Puerto Rican community intact.
The work wasn’t provocative.
It was just ahead of its time.
Another time, I rebranded a friend’s company and shot a bold advertising campaign that immediately gained traction. Halfway through the process, she decided she could do it herself. She stepped in, reverted to what felt familiar, and dismantled the elevated work within weeks.
The brand didn’t change.
That one made me sad, not angry. There was so much unrealized potential. I still wished her well. Our time mattered.
But the lesson stayed.
By the time you reach this point, you’ve already seen them...
the De-Chucks—handcrafted, leather-soled, and reimagined into luxury boots. Not made as a statement. They were made because I could see them before they existed.
I didn’t need permission.
I trusted in my hands.
This is what vision does when you protect it long enough.
It grows.
It deepens.
It waits for no one.
I was early.
And I was right on time for myself.
As a young creative, your job is to speak truth through your work and heart posture. Don't get lost or caught up in titles, or the chaos. Stay disciplined. Stay focused and aligned with the North Star. Never let anyone dim your light. Keep moving forward, steady and peaceful.
Rest in the knowing that your faithful commitment to your life path will help guide those who come after you.
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