Before my stint in New York City, I believed in the traditional, straight-line path. A degree in architecture meant designing buildings, best-in-class projects, and other career paths were illegitimate.

Boy was I wrong.

It was in my junior year in college when things started to dawn on me: I was far from stellar. Toward the end of the 5-year degree, I confirmed that I would not thrive as a generalist.

Even though I was managing like everyone else, my plates were average, my drafting skills were those of a first grader, and my design concepts were not entirely exciting. I recall seeing projects of my classmates all decked with the best line weights, layers of Kurecolor and every perspective had a play of light and shadow. I was envious and pressured, and had no plan B. Young and naive as I was, I thought success was reserved for the most talented creatives. And when I couldn’t catch up, I questioned if it was for me.

Nevertheless, I was halfway through my degree, and it was too late to shift out. I had to see it through. I belonged to a generation where getting delayed in college was frowned upon. Lingering in my head was the question of how I was going to make a career out of my chosen path. If I wasn’t the best, then how would I stand out? How would I make money and live independently? Yes, I had some obvious skills: I was a good communicator, my effort was never half-baked, I was a problem solver, and I was a people-person. (I was the one who spoke to professors on behalf of the class to ask for extensions and it worked 99% of the time!) But were they enough to be classified as a good architect in the traditional sense? How do I apply those skills in school and eventually, in the work force?

I knew I could not compete with my peers who were gearing up to be the best creatives of our generation. They were naturally exceptional at traditional architectural outputs. I was average on the talent spectrum, so I had to think hard about what would position me uniquely in a saturated industry. As I immersed myself in work after graduation, it became more evident that my path was no longer what I planned and I had to shift my mindset about my future.

Similar to how doctors specialize in their unique areas of practice, I had to find my own area, my own niche. I didn’t want to compete with generalists so I had to put myself in a different category. Then came the hunt: what should I specialize in? What was scarce locally that had a growing demand? What problem existed that nobody was solving? What were industry gaps that needed to be filled? I looked into a few areas that I believed had potential. Most of them were underserved. They were all interesting for me because they married all my favorite things about design. Sustainability, Adaptive Reuse, Acoustics, and Urban Planning were among my choices. I made a list of pros and cons and obsessed over my non-negotiables. After months of researching, talking to mentors and family, I settled on architectural lighting design as a specialization. What caught my attention was that light, as a design tool, was crucial in any built environment, yet was so often considered an afterthought. It was almost unheard of in the local context. Many designers paid attention to great space planning, intricate facade details, elaborate materiality, and furnishings, but failed to consider how light could make or break architecture.

At the same time, my limited knowledge of lighting design validated my choice even more. My process was far from intentional and I was relying so much on local supplier recommendations. My designs revolved around a grid of symmetrical lights on a ceiling plan each and every time. None of this added value to the projects I worked on and I felt I was not serving my clients to the best of my ability.

I gave my parents a head’s up about my plans to study abroad and the support I received was incredible. Though the decision to calibrate my life felt like a natural occurrence, the actual execution was not easy. I had to make big girl decisions and rethink some life goals. After those were settled, I packed my bags and didn’t look back.

In New York, I finally found the area of practice I wanted to be in. Compared to the Philippines, lighting design was well accepted, but even then, it was a highly specialized field with very few active practitioners and teachers. Within the first year of my program, I was already feeling the entrepreneurial spirit. I was excited about my prospects. I planned to establish my own firm in the Philippines as an architect specializing in lighting design with a goal of serving an emerging, growing, ultra-niche market. After my first summer internship, the realities of pioneering a practice started to kick in. Many thoughts ran through my mind while I considered opportunities to extend my stay in New York. What if I don’t land a client within the first 6 months? How many contingency plans do I need? Would it be better to stay a few more years before heading back? It was all so daunting!

The first couple of years in Manila were brutal. My former atelier partner and I relied on our networks to land our first few jobs. We were juggling business development, operational matters, administrative work, refining our services, while navigating nuances of Filipino business practices. Since architectural lighting was fairly new, the serviceable market was limited. My mission was to educate the clients on the specialty because their buy-in was important. This was especially true for portfolio projects. I had to up my game right away. Every proposal was meticulously reviewed. Every pitch felt like a lecture on Lighting Design 101. There were moments when I felt like a sales person and not a designer. It was then when I realized I should have paid more attention to what little business subjects I had. Eventually, some clients came to understand the value of having a lighting designer on board a project. However, the majority of leads still viewed the specialty as an added expense.

As a young professional, I had to calibrate and adapt consistently in order to land projects, retain clients, and achieve overall success. It meant paying more attention to details, educating the market, hand-holding clients, and leading coordination meetings. Sometimes this meant saying no to some opportunities; too many projects meant I couldn’t personally be there for clients and this was against my personal brand and how I set up my design business.

Specialization worked for me. Finding my niche allowed me to focus on an aspect of architecture that opened other growth opportunities. I focused on my uniqueness that added value to projects. Along the way, I was able to spread my mission to fellow architects, interior designers, landscape architects, urban planners, contractors, engineers, developers, artists, and clients, as they too, saw the massive impact of lighting in the way we live and experience our world. Looking back, the skills that weren’t necessarily used to describe traditional architects—communication, relationship-building, and persistence—became some of the most valuable tools in building my specialization.

While I understand that this journey isn’t for everyone, those who are looking to pivot, shift, or completely change careers must ask these critical questions:

What skills do I possess that I can build on?

What comes naturally to me? 

Is there an emerging market waiting to be served that I can address? 

What expertise is still lacking locally or globally that could help fill the gap?

The traditional path exists, but we don’t all have to get on it. I am glad I didn’t.