As a kid, my career goals changed weekly but I never once said I wanted to be an architect. Every time someone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, that idea never crossed my mind. I had all sorts of other dreams, some clear, some completely random but architecture just wasn’t part of that world for me. However, as life often has its plans, I eventually found myself choosing architecture, simply because it seemed like an unconventional path. 

Architectural design: A new language of thought

No one warned me that architecture would feel like learning a language from scratch, one spoken in sketches, models, and sleepless nights. It wasn’t just about design; it was about persistent iteration, tough critiques that sometimes stung, and the challenge of making non-existent ideas real. There were days when I seriously questioned if I was cut out for it when exhaustion weighed heavily and every mistake felt amplified. It did take time, but somewhere along the way, I realised I wasn’t just learning to design, I was learning to think differently.

Where It All Came Together

The seasons of study passed, and at last, I stood at the threshold of my most creative and demanding task – the thesis. Just choosing a topic itself felt overwhelming, like a challenge in itself. I knew I wanted to do something beyond the obvious, something that would let me go deep. Hence a research-based topic felt like the right match for how I think and work.

That’s when I thought of combining two things that have always been very close to my heart, music and architecture. Music has been my first love. It’s where I go to feel, to think, to breathe whereas architecture has been my first serious commitment, the path I chose to build a future on. Bringing the two together felt right, almost as if sharing my own story through design. I wanted to explore how the rhythms, patterns, and emotions in music can be expressed through architectural spaces and how buildings can be perceived the way music is heard. But it was during this phase in the quiet spaces between designing and thinking, I discovered something else: a love for writing. With every complex idea, I turned to words to make sense of the abstract. Writing became a quiet, steady part of my creative thinking.

The Constant Thread of Passion

After graduation, I entered professional practice and worked with firms across regions. Although I found the work engaging and rewarding, I couldn’t shake off an underlying sense that there was more I sought. That thought didn’t come out of dissatisfaction but from curiosity, a need to reflect, to understand not just what I was doing, but why I was doing it. Over time, I began observing the architectural profession with a more critical lens. I saw its strengths, and its ability to impact lives, shape environments, and reflect culture. But I also noticed its gaps, moments where voices were left out, stories overlooked, or deeper meanings rushed past in the pursuit of deliverables.

And even as my journey took a few turns, my passion for architecture remained constant. In time, I came to realise that I also wanted to pursue writing and that I could do so without leaving architecture behind. Though I no longer work as an architect, I still carry its ways of seeing, with attention to form, function, and the spaces between. Writing became a new medium to explore those sensibilities. It allowed me to translate my experiences, insights, and lingering questions into something shareable. In many ways, it became a continuation of practice just with different tools.

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A Natural Pull Towards Expression

My journey into architectural writing began in a very organic way, by helping friends in the field. I started out crafting project descriptions, curating content for competition entries, and developing text for their websites. It was deeply gratifying and gave me a much-needed boost of confidence. But as rewarding as it seemed, it did spark my ambition for more.

I wished for a more structured, high-pressure environment, one where I wasn’t just writing at my own pace, but meeting real-world deadlines, translating thoughts and ideas quickly and effectively. That desire led me to seek opportunities within established organizations. I wanted to understand what it felt like to write under pressure, to be accountable not just to my creative instincts, but to a wider audience and a professional standard.

The shift was intimidating at first. But over time, it turned into something reassuring: writing didn’t drain me, it energized me. Despite the pressure, the process felt intuitive. I found that I could think clearly under constraints and that the act of writing even when challenging came naturally to me. It sharpened my clarity, deepened my voice, and affirmed that writing wasn’t just a side skill. It was becoming a core part of who I am as a creative thinker within architecture.

Elevating Architecture Through Communication

Through architectural writing, I was introduced to new roles that are shaping the field today, managing social media, handling PR, and building communication strategies for firms. I realized these aren’t separate from design; they’re an important extension of it. Collectively, these areas make up what’s now often called architectural communications, and it’s a space I’ve grown genuinely passionate about. 

Conclusion

Looking back, I didn’t choose architecture out of a childhood dream. I picked it because it asked something of me. It challenged my assumptions, broke down my thinking, and pieced it back together, more spacious and nuanced. I never expected architecture to become my identity. But in learning its language, its discipline of thought, its attentiveness to space, silence, and story I found a voice I didn’t know I had. And sometimes, the most defining journeys begin not with certainty, but with curiosity and a willingness to listen to the language you haven’t yet learned to speak.