When my father died a few years ago, it changed me. We had a complicated relationship, but as adults, we did our best to mend the past and build something better. After he passed, I held onto the good memories, but I also regretted the things we never got the chance to do while he was alive.

That’s how grief works — it strips life down, the noise falls away, and what’s left is a sharper sense of what truly matters—a new way of seeing the people around you that you never had before.

Lately, I’ve been looking at design through that same lens. And while much of what I write may sound jaded and cynical — even doom-and-gloom — beneath it all, I’m an optimist, always searching for meaning in the chaos.

In a way, AI has created a similar experience to that of grief. It’s unsettled many of us because the design world we once knew has withered, and it isn’t coming back.

Yet this loss doesn’t mean design is gone. If anything, it requires us to find meaning in the turmoil and ask what design truly is, and what it still has the potential to become.

Here’s the difference — AI can generate outputs. It can mimic styles, assemble patterns, and even simulate decisions. But it can’t create meaning. Meaning is rooted in memory, context, and emotion. Machines don’t live, so they can’t feel the depths of being.

That’s why our role as designers is more important than ever. The future of design isn’t about competing with AI — it’s about doing the one thing AI cannot. Our work will be to take the flood of machine-made material and shape it into something that resonates with human experience. To inject life where the machine only provides form.

So while the design industry we knew is gone, like any loss, what remains isn’t just absence — it’s the clarity of what truly mattered.

Pre-AI design often obsessed over surface interpretations. We argued skeuomorphism versus flat, minimalism versus maximalism. But in the end, those were arguments about veneer, not purpose.

Even UX design itself fell into this trap of superficiality. A field that was supposed to champion human-centered design sometimes reduced itself to surface buzzwords like user delight, seamlessness, and frictionless flow, while the systems of meaning beneath remained unexamined. In that sense, AI isn’t just disrupting the visible layer of design — it’s revealing how much of what we called design was little more than theater.

Now that AI can generate those same facades instantly, the truth is clearer — surface was never the point. What mattered was the meaning beneath it. Skeuomorphism worked because it made unfamiliar technology feel approachable. Flat design resonated because it spoke to a cultural hunger for clarity and efficiency. Frictionless flow isn’t just about ease of use, it’s about building trust with the unknown. These weren’t just stylistic or usability choices — they were reflections of the human experience.

And yet, despite this deeper role, many will still argue design is on the verge of obsolescence. Some, like suggests that when it comes to AI-first design, “where the boxes are, or what color, or labels, etc., almost doesn’t matter.” Even I’ve written about this topic not long ago, arguing that AI will render traditional design obsolete by bypassing the very processes design was once needed for.

On the surface, these arguments seem rational — until you remember that humans are anything but. Take music, for example. From a utilitarian perspective — or even a purely biological one — we don’t need music—at least not to survive. Yet music gives us connection, meaning, and experience. The same is true for design that reaches beyond utility. It may seem impractical, like the ornate details of a historic church, but it generates meaning that transcends a pragmatic approach to design.

One could argue that machines can now generate music or images of beautiful architecture. But have you ever stood in front of a band you love, swept up in the emotional charge as the sound shakes through your body? Or stood at the foot of a historic building, in awe of its presence? Those are experiences no machine can replicate — and that’s the kind of resonance we as designers should be striving for.

By this definition, it’s easy to confuse design with art. However, design has always been, at its core, a form of communication. And communication isn’t confined to the transactional or utilitarian — it can also be symbolic, emotional, even spiritual. Much like art, yes, but not quite the same.

A beautifully designed object, interface, or space doesn’t just function—it says something, it connects, it resonates. That’s what separates design from raw aesthetic expression—it speaks to people in ways that guide understanding, foster connection, and shape experience.

Moving forward, our focus has to be understanding the needs and meanings design expresses, not chasing whatever form happens to be popular or usable. Machines can spin out endless variations based on this criteria, but only humans can connect those forms to culture, memory, and lived experience.

So yes, design as we once knew it may be gone. But in its absence, we’ve been handed something invaluable—perspective. The reminder that meaning — not surface — is what endures. And that’s the part of design we carry forward.