Everything I know about UX I learned from my parents
Craft and problem solving goes much deeper than the solutions we build; here’s my story.
My parents didn’t use technology much — they got excited when I bought them an iPad and then bought three more as their primary computing devices — but they were and still are problem solvers at heart regardless of what they did.
They also had vastly different careers.
My father was a refrigeration mechanic for Kraft Foods and Albertsons; my mother was (and still is) a practicing artist and conservator for Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Getty Center and Hearst Castle. I’m proud of what they did.
They both fixed things with unmatched craft and precision.
I’ve been thinking about how their practical approach to solving problems and focus on craft influenced my career. I also thought that writing about it would help influence others to think about user experience differently.
I think about it even more because while we are entering the age of AI, it’s still about people that use our solutions for practical means.
Some of this thought is because of my father’s recent passing, but I’ve also been thinking about how their philosophy deeply influenced my career. I learned so much just by watching them work.
My practical approach to user experience matches their philosophy of problem solving and craft. I believe we should all be a bit more practical in getting to an outcome like they were.
Here are a few things I learned from both that I carry in my profession to this day.
Focus on the problem
As a refrigeration mechanic, my father approached each system like a detective at a crime scene.
He understood that all systems were about balance and flow — pressure, temperature differentials, and mechanical harmony. He’d start by observing, then eliminate possibilities. His hands would trace lines, seeing patterns in what appeared to others as chaos, to gain clarity in both refrigeration and electrical systems.
My mother creates and restores artwork through a similar systems-thinking lens. She arranges color and form to achieve visual balance, understanding that each element affects the whole. When painting, she observes how light interacts with surfaces and how the eye naturally moves through space.
They both taught me that mastery comes from understanding relationships. Dad’s mechanical systems followed physical laws; Mom’s artistic systems followed perceptual ones.
It’s about what the viewer experiences and nothing else.
Both require observation before action, pattern recognition, and respect for the medium’s properties. I’ve learned that whether working with refrigerant or sculpting materials, it’s all about making precise decisions, and recognizing when to get out of the way and let the system find its ideal state.
The solution should be an iterative journey
My father never saw a broken system as just a problem to fix — he viewed it as a way to understand.
He’d trace refrigerant lines with fingers much more calloused than mine, listening to the system’s complaints like a doctor with a stethoscope.
“The solution reveals itself if you pay attention,” he’d say while dismantling compressors. His diagnostic process was never rushed; each step informed the next as he patiently followed the trail of imbalance to its source.
My mother approaches her canvas with the same mindset. She mixes materials as experiments, not commitments to reach a positive outcome. The image emerges through this dialogue — a give and take between vision and execution. Her studio walls display works in various stages, visual documentation of solutions still in progress.
Understanding takes patience and learning together, which both embraced. Discovery takes time.
Both taught me that mastery isn’t about knowing answers immediately but embracing the process of discovery. Dad’s journey through mechanical systems followed physical clues; Mom’s artistic journey follows intuitive ones.
From them, I learned that whether diagnosing a failed condenser or repairing broken statues and furniture that were hundreds or thousands of years old, the best solutions come from respecting the journey — observing carefully, acting thoughtfully, and understanding that the path itself holds as much value as the destination.
Tools are just tools
My father’s toolbox was never a point of pride but a means to an end. He’d grab the cheapest crescent wrench if it did the job right, unfazed by brand names or shiny chrome.
“It’s not about having every tool,” he’d say while improvising with a bent coat hanger to clear a drain line. “It’s about understanding what you need to accomplish.”
His relationship with tools was purely functional — extensions of his hands that enabled his true expertise: understanding how systems breathe and thrive.
My mother approaches her art supplies with the same pragmatic attitude. She mixes paint on scrap cardboard instead of formal palettes and applies it with everything from sable brushes to cut-up credit cards. “The medium is just a vehicle for vision,” she says while experimenting with coffee grounds for texture in a landscape.
And together, they fought over power tools because, to them, craft meant having the right tools for the job.
Both taught me that fixation on tools often masks insufficient knowledge of fundamentals. Dad’s mastery came from understanding pressure dynamics, not owning specialized gauges; Mom’s artistry flows from her grasp of composition and structure, not expensive brushes.
From them, I learned that whether facing an industrial boiler or a blank canvas, true expertise lies in your approach to the problem — how you think, not what you hold. Tools are just the interface between vision and reality.
Craft matters a lot
My father approached refrigeration with a craftsman’s reverence for detail.
He’d meticulously clean copper lines before soldering, ensuring no contaminants would compromise the system. “Shortcuts become long routes,” he’d say while precisely calculating refrigerant charges to the ounce.
What others saw as tedious — leveling condensing units, torquing bolts to exact specifications — he treated as sacred rituals. His pride wasn’t in fixing systems but in building them to outlast him, invisible excellence that hummed quietly behind walls.
My mother brings this same dedication to her paintings and sculptures. “The foundation determines everything that follows,” she says while grinding pigments for a specific hue that commercial tubes can’t provide.
Her practice involves disciplined routines — cleaning tools properly, organizing materials meticulously — that enable creative freedom. She measures success not by completion but by whether each brushstroke meets her exacting standards.
Planning, for both of them, was a sacred exercise — key to achieving a level of craft they were proud of.
Both taught me that craft transcends the visible result. Dad’s immaculate joints would be hidden in walls forever; Mom’s foundational sculpture work disappears beneath subsequent layers. Yet both insisted these unseen elements matter most.
From them, I learned that whether balancing refrigerant pressures or repairing intricate sculptures, mastery comes from respecting the process — understanding that craft isn’t about perfectionism but about honoring the work itself and the people it serves.
Share knowledge so we can learn together
My father never guarded his refrigeration knowledge like some trade secret.
He’d invite me under industrial units, patiently explaining pressure differentials while his flashlight illuminated frost patterns. He’d create teaching moments — intentionally leaving tools behind so we’d have to problem-solve by improvising solutions.
His greatest satisfaction came not from fixing complex systems but from witnessing the moment when confusion transformed into understanding on someone’s face.
My mother approaches her conservation work as a collaborative laboratory where knowledge flows freely. She invites co-workers to observe as she stabilizes fragile sculptures, discover the history of paintings, explaining material properties and deterioration mechanics.
“Art restoration isn’t about individual brilliance,” she says while demonstrating a sculpture technique. “It’s about collective wisdom for the original intent of the artist.”
Her notebooks contain detailed process documentation — not for personal reference but to ensure techniques survive beyond her practice.
Both taught me that expertise in isolation diminishes rather than grows; we are meant to share knowledge with others so we can all learn together.
Dad’s mechanical knowledge expanded through conversations with older technicians and curious apprentices alike. Mom’s conservation skills developed through international workshops and mentoring relationships.
From them, I learned that whether troubleshooting circuits or reconstructing ancient artifacts, the most valuable systems we build aren’t mechanical or artistic — they’re the knowledge networks that connect us, allowing collective wisdom to surpass any individual’s capabilities.
True mastery includes the ability to teach and make. We should all embrace that in our careers.
Patrick Neeman is the author of uxGPT: Mastering AI Assistants for User Experience Designers and Product Managers. It’s for sale on Amazon and Gumroad at $9.99 for digital in Kindle, EPUB or PDF format and $19.99 for paperback. Go take a look.
