Four years embedded in a healthcare technology account as Lead Designer: growing a team that reached 13 designers, owning the quality system every one of them worked through, and leading the redesign of the client's provider-facing platform as it migrated off a legacy system onto Angular.
For four years I led the design practice on a healthcare technology account — and never stopped carrying my own project work. The leadership half kept a growing team aligned and staffed; the hands-on half kept me close enough to the product to lead credibly.
A team that size is a consistency problem waiting to happen. Thirteen designers, working across concurrent projects, will produce thirteen interpretations of "done" unless the definition is written down and enforced.
So the process was formalized into six stages, each with its own tasks — and a set of mandatory checkpoints no deliverable could skip. I owned this process for every designer on the account: not to slow work down, but so that quality stopped depending on who happened to pick up the ticket.
Start from the problem and the words, not the pixels — the technical writer is looped in before the first sketch.
Before any pixel is polished: can this be built, and does it hold up to peers and the design system team?
When a project called for research, its tasks were linked directly from the research plan into the project — so evidence lived in the same track as delivery, not beside it.
High-fidelity work, shared as a recorded walkthrough so reviewers in other time zones could respond without a meeting.
Four separate approvals — content, heuristics, design leadership, and the design system team — before anything is called final.
Accessibility is not a late-stage checkbox — it is a formal review with its own sign-off, alongside manager approval.
The client's provider-facing product was moving off an aging technology stack onto Angular. A replatform of that size is usually treated as an engineering exercise — lift the screens, ship the same product on new rails. We treated it as the one chance to fix the thing users actually struggled with: the navigation itself.
That made it a full redesign rather than a port, and it raised the stakes: changing how people move through a platform they use every day is the fastest way to lose them. Everything downstream — the methodology, the design system decision, the testing — followed from that risk.
The redesign ran on the Double Diamond — two rounds of opening up before narrowing down. The first diamond established what was actually wrong with the current experience; the second explored navigation models before committing to one.
Stakeholder interviews, discovery sessions, and an audit of how the legacy platform was actually being used.
Workflows and the navigation model — plus the design system adoption criteria that would govern the build.
Sketches, wireframes, and prototypes taken into testing with internal users, then iterated on the results.
Final design, dev handoff with the engineering team, and accessibility documentation.
We worked directly inside the client's own design system, and treated the level of adoption as an explicit decision rather than a default. Because this was a total redesign on a new stack, there was no legacy debt worth preserving — which made the most demanding option also the cheapest one to build.
The system informs decisions, but the interface keeps its own components. Fast, and it accumulates drift.
Core components come from the system; legacy patterns stay where replacing them is too costly. The usual compromise on a migration.
Every component, token, and pattern from the client's system. A rebuild from zero meant nothing had to be preserved — so the platform came out consistent with the rest of the ecosystem by default.
The legacy platform had grown by accretion: every new capability arrived as another entry point, and finding anything meant knowing where it had been bolted on. The rebuilt platform replaced that with a single consistent shell and a task-based structure.
The same screen, before and after. The legacy state is shown as an anonymized wireframe; all record names, IDs and values are placeholder data.
The redesign moved deliberately from low fidelity to high — each step cheap enough to throw away until the navigation model had earned its confidence.
Where the current navigation broke down, and why.
How the real tasks should flow, before any layout.
Structure first — cheap to change, easy to argue with.
Internal users on the new navigation; findings fed straight back in.
Full design system adoption, handed to engineering.
The two core screens of the rebuilt experience — new navigation, new front end, and every component drawn from the client's design system.
Search and filters lifted above the table, grouped rows, explicit per-row actions, and pagination — one clear entry point into every contract.
The dense legacy form reorganized into grouped cards: details, effort and fees, and assignments and terms on one side; status, classification and notes on the other — with alerts, attachments, notes and history promoted to the top.
Redesigning navigation is the highest-risk change you can make to a platform people already know. A better structure that nobody can adapt to is still a failure, so the new model went in front of internal users before it went anywhere near a release.
Sessions with internal users who knew the existing platform, focused on whether the new navigation model was learnable — not on whether it looked better.
Findings went straight back into the design. What tested poorly was changed and retested rather than explained away.
A better structure that nobody can adapt to is still a failure. That is why the navigation model had to be tested, not argued.
The final design went into implementation alongside the engineering team on the new Angular stack, with design support through the build rather than a handoff and a wave goodbye.
Delivered with the final design: the accessibility documentation the build needed, so compliance was specified rather than retrofitted after release.
Leading thirteen designers taught me that quality does not scale through talent alone. What scaled was the system around the work — the gates, the reviews, the shared definition of done. My job was less about being the best designer in the room and more about making sure the room could produce good work without me in it.
The highlighted line is a placeholder in your voice — replace it with the lesson that feels most true to you.