Elia Mangngi

I’ve learned that design, like life, isn’t just about what you make. It’s about what you let go of. At six years old, I let go of soccer games to sit on the sidelines, sketching caricatures of my classmates. For candy or pocket money, mostly. By the time I was eleven, I was already questioning the smallest acts of connection, like waving at people in passing. Why one hand and not two? Why wave at all? It was a strange little rebellion, but it taught me something early: you don’t have to do things the way everyone else does.

That small defiance became a theme in my life. Each step forward brought a choice about what to hold onto and what to leave behind. My childhood in Indonesia, my dream of fashion design, even the creative agency that became my second home. Each decision felt like its own kind of loss, but they were also doors. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that every door you close leaves room for the next adventure.

Growing up in Indonesia, creativity wasn’t just a hobby; it was my escape. I wasn’t the kid racing across the soccer field. I was the one sitting on the sidelines, drawing the world as I saw it. By sixth grade, I’d turned it into a business, trading caricatures for candy or pocket money. And in high school, I found my first creative community, organizing art fairs and talent shows with the student association.

But even then, I felt the pull of something bigger. When my family lived briefly in Singapore and Adelaide, I glimpsed the wider world and wanted more of it. Winning a scholarship to study fashion design at AMFi in Amsterdam felt like destiny. It was an opportunity to transform my love of storytelling into wearable art.

At first, it was everything I’d dreamed of. But it didn’t take long for the cracks to show. Design in Asia thrives on maximalism and tends to be decorative, with more color, more detail, and more of everything. In Amsterdam, everything was about restraint. “Less is more” wasn’t just a principle; it was practically a religion. Adapting to this minimalist philosophy was like learning a new language while living in a culture that wasn’t my own.

And then there were the professors. “Fashion isn’t for you,” they told me. Over and over. For four years. By the time I left, I couldn’t tell if they were pushing me toward my potential or out the door entirely. But leaving wasn’t the failure I feared. It was the turning point I didn’t know I needed.

The day after I quit fashion school, I got a message from Marian Duff, director of MAFB, a fashion competition in Amsterdam. A model I’d worked with had recommended me, and Marian wanted to know if I’d participate. I said yes, unsure if I was ready. And then I won.

That win didn’t just restore my confidence. It set me on a new path. I enrolled in Creative Business, a program that reframed design as something more than aesthetics. It was about solving problems, creating connections, and meeting people where they were. For the first time, I saw design as a bridge between creativity and purpose.

During my internship at B Amsterdam, I met Rose, a manager who had an incredible ability to see what people were capable of before they saw it themselves. One month into my internship, the in-house graphic designer quit, and Rose encouraged me to step in. “Girl, your designs are beautiful. Why don’t you apply?” she said.

Her confidence gave me the push I needed to start freelancing. While finishing my internship, I took on design projects for B Amsterdam, juggling school and work. It was there I met Karissa and Alex, two creatives who would later become my mentors.

When my internship ended, Karissa and Alex invited me to join them in building a new agency, KBPM. I started as the “office kid,” a nickname that stuck in the best possible way. From day one, I was given the space to grow. Karissa guided me into the world of UX and branding, while Alex taught me how to work with developers. It was a skill that took months of trial and error, along with countless revisions, but it opened my eyes to how design and development could work together.

The agency felt like a playground for ideas. We worked on SaaS platforms, branding projects, and digital transformations, always chasing the next big thing. Those years shaped me, not just as a designer but as someone who understood the power of collaboration.

But no creative playground lasts forever. When our biggest clients pulled out, the agency couldn’t survive. By December, we closed our doors, and I was back to freelancing, wondering if I’d ever find that sense of belonging again.

Freelancing brought its own kind of freedom. I threw myself into projects that aligned with my values, like branding for LGBTQ+ NGOs and designing for ballroom communities across Europe. These weren’t just jobs; they were a way to give back, to create spaces where people felt seen and celebrated.

But freelancing also came with uncertainty. Balancing meaningful work with financial stability felt like walking a tightrope. I began to wonder if there was a place where I could do work that mattered while also finding the kind of creative community I craved.

When I joined Miyagami, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: belonging. My first major project, redefining the Studio by Miyagami brand, wasn’t just about building a website. It was about asking the big questions: Who are we? What makes us different? What do we want to say?

We didn’t just create something beautiful. We created something intentional. From custom photography to motion design, every detail came together with purpose. It felt like building a language, a way for the brand to speak clearly and authentically to its audience.

The experience reminded me why I fell in love with design in the first place. It’s not about creating something that looks good. It’s about creating something that feels right.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that design is as much about what you let go of as what you create. The sketches you erase, the ideas you abandon, the doors you close. They all make space for something new.