In design school, we’re taught to map systems, define personas, build blueprints. We learn how to gather data, synthesize insights, and prototype solutions. Often, we develop these ideas in controlled, structured environments — studios, workshops, classrooms — where trust is assumed. We’re surrounded by classmates, mentors, and peers who understand our language and our context.
But once these ideas step out into the real world, especially in fields like mental health or nature-based experience, they meet a different condition: uncertainty. Out there, the idea alone is not enough. Something else is needed to carry it forward. And from my experience, that “something” is trust.
I learned this while developing a project on nature walks as soft interventions for emotional reflection. I had a clear starting point — a series of “walkshops” I would organize in different landscapes, offering small sensory tasks, space for journaling, and moments of quiet attention. I imagined trying it first with friends and classmates.
But from the very first walk, strangers began to join. People I had never met showed up because they had heard something from someone, or saw a short post online. One knew me only from Instagram. Another heard through a friend of a friend. Some didn’t even know what the walk was about — just that it was happening. They arrived, walked with us through forests and fields, sat by rivers, and shared reflections. They trusted the experience — even though the format was raw, experimental, and far from polished.
That’s when I realized: I wasn’t just designing a walk. I was designing for trust. And that trust wasn’t guaranteed. It had to be built — not with perfect branding or convincing pitches, but through something smaller and slower like presence, tone, care and surprisingly food:)
During those walks, I made no promises, I didn’t offer therapy while I am not a certified coach or guide. But I could prepare some snacks, provide clear instructions, hold emotional space, and stay present. And that turned out to be enough. That created safety. And only after safety came the effectiveness of the tools — the maps, prompts, envelopes, games.
That experience changed how I think about prototyping. Because trust is not a layer on top of the design. It’s the foundation. Without it, nothing works.
It also made me question the environments in which we test our ideas as students. In academic settings, we often validate our work within existing networks — with people who already understand us. And while that’s necessary for development, it can also give a false sense of security. The early “trust bridge” we rely on isn’t always transferable. Outside that bubble, things are different. The smallest gap in clarity or tone can cause doubt. And people won’t step into a space they don’t trust.
Now, as I begin designing a solo version of the project — a tangible toolkit for walking and reflection — this question becomes even more complex. How can I build trust into an object, into something that functions without me being physically there? Can a sentence, a symbol, or a texture carry the same feeling as a held space?
But even that won’t work unless people feel safe enough to begin. Which brings me back to trust — as not just a design condition, but as the first material we need to work with. And the most unpredictable one.
Some of my friends say that being a student or having a research label is already enough to gain entry — that it signals seriousness and gives permission to experiment. Maybe.
But what happens when that frame is gone? When I’m no longer present, no longer holding the space myself? That’s what I’m trying to understand.
Because designing for care isn’t about solutions alone. It’s about relationships. And relationships — especially in public, non-clinical, emotional contexts — begin with trust.
If I were a god, I’d redesign the world to be caring and beautiful by default. But I’m not a god, I’m a student, a designer, someone still learning. So I start where I can — with a trail, a small invitation, and the hope that someone will say yes.
And if they do, it’s because the bridge of trust, however small, was strong enough to hold.