The inside of many MRI machines is adorned with intricate patterns. I discovered this detail late one morning in 2020 — I lay inside one, waiting for the scan that would confirm what we already feared.

Meanwhile at home, my wife Lauren was navigating her own form of distraction... a pandemic with three kids, a four-month-old who wouldn't sleep, and a partner being diagnosed with cancer.

Here I was, worlds apart from them, trapped in a tube, unable to help, trying to understand what was going on around me. I scanned the patterns as the magnet pulsed with its strange, mechanical rhythm. Gripping the emergency signal in my hand, surrounded by the relentless grinding of gears, earplugs jammed deep inside my ears, shapes began to appear.

Seahorses, dolphins, birds, creatures - all moving through an abstract illustration of continuous lines.

Experience designers label these elements "positive distractions" in their blueprints and behavioral studies. But having been the one lying there, searching for anything to hold onto in moments when I felt completely untethered, I know how absurd that label is.

They're not distractions.

When you're confined to the size of a medical tube, you don't need the mind to wander. In that moment, your mind and soul are looking for so much more. You're searching for proof that your world extends beyond the forced stillness.

I found more in the half-crescent shapes that echoed Luna's name - my daughter, four months old, named after the moon. In those curves and shadows, I felt her presence.

Positive? Absolutely.
A distraction? Far from it.

I'm still searching for the right word to replace "positive distractions" in my design vocabulary. Maybe one day it will emerge from the maze of patterns, just like those shapes did. For now, I just know they're something far more essential - they're the threads that make us feel like we belong to what matters most... even in our smallest spaces.

A closing note: The image accompanying this article is an AI-generated interpretation of those patterns I saw in 2020. And the best part? I am cancer free today. yay science!

When working on the launch of the Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas Hotel in 2010, their tagline was "just the right amount of wrong." We spent many days and nights trying to turn that slogan into something guests could feel. We got it right some days, sometimes we struggled.

Vegas loses its appeal after many trips from ORD to LAS. Yet, I recall one night after trying to center myself in the chaos, I walked along the strip to clear my head. That's when I saw them - somewhere between the fake Eiffel Tower and whatever-the-hell they're calling that new casino. Not the showgirls or club promoters, but the Elmos. Three AM warriors in matted fur, meeting the most basic human need: making people feel like they belong somewhere, even if that place is the radiating heat of concrete in the dead of night.

Nobody in Vegas wants the sanitized version of anything. The strip Elmos know this. They're not here to preserve children's television magic. They're here because, like everyone else still standing, they know the truth. People aren't looking for perfection, they're looking for their people. What you're paying for isn't a photo with a character. It's proof that everything turned sideways in all the right ways. You have proof that you found your tribe under the dizzying artificial lights, arms around a questionably hygienic costume, grinning like you finally got what Vegas is about.

We spent many hours trying to artfully represent Cosmopolitan's own version belonging in that hotel. But these sidewalk hustlers in torn fur suits cracked the code. They never speak, but if they did, I bet they'd tell you what the real Elmo always knew: "Elmo loves you just the way you are." Even at 3am. Especially at 3am. Maybe that's what "just the right amount of wrong" meant all along.

Image Credit: The image at the top of this post is not mine. I found it doing a quick google search since I never took a picture with The Strip Elmos. Thanks Anne Bartlett-Bragg for uploading it to Flickr

Fear is the ultimate helicopter parent to your creative mind.

"Better not try that new approach, stick to what's safe."

"Someone else already did it better."

"You're not ready for this kind of project."

"What if everyone hates it?"

Fear is not constructive feedback, both for you and for those who feel the wrath of its feedback loop. It's the polar opposite of creative love.

When love for creativity opens doors, fear locks them behind a deadbolt and throws away the key. Creative love nurtures talent, while fear ensures creative submission. They're not just different approaches, they're opposing forces.

Fear hovers above all.
Love of creativity encourages all to play.

Every brand is a hospitality brand, and all design is experience design. You might not be making people’s beds, but you’re crafting experiences that create a true sense of belonging. When people feel at home, your design ensures they never want to leave.