Z Report: Six Years In, One Logofolio, and the RS6 That Screams My Name

Why this blog? Because I needed space. Space that’s mine. And sometimes, you claim space by simply saying “this is mine.” That’s what this blog is: a declaration.

About 10 years ago, I made a decision. I wanted to master something. Not flirt with it, not dabble—master it. Graphic design and animation were what I picked. Ten thousand hours? I’ll give it. Twenty thousand? Fine. I’m in.

Animation is about understanding movement. Logo design? It’s the still frame of that movement. A frozen moment with meaning. And what I wanted was to move that stillness.

Now it’s been six years. I barely took a break—maybe 50 days in total. I drew. I studied. I paid for courses, mentors, books. Did it lead to glory?

No.

Am I a great illustrator? No. A polished animator? Not even close.

But I learned things about myself. And that, honestly, is why I’m writing these. This blog will be my logbook. Every Sunday, I’ll document what I did, what I learned, and what hit me in the gut. Not for likes. Not for clients. For me.

And yeah—no one might read it. But that’s the point.

The Equation: Good Work = Recognition

Here’s what I unraveled this week: I had a subconscious belief that “good work should equal validation.”

That’s a trap. One of those invisible mental codes. You don’t even know you believe it until it starts dragging you.

I always thought of myself as a creative. Weird ideas, strange connections, unexpected combos—that was my thing. It still is. But something changed when I started sharing work publicly. Suddenly the joy was replaced by a question:

“Will they like it?”

And if no one reacted, I’d spiral. Like the value of the work was tied to someone’s double-tap or comment.

This week I published a logofolio. Twenty logos—some old, some recent. Looking at it, I realized: there’s no single style. No signature. But there is energy. Intention. Curiosity.

Why that mix? Because that’s what excites me: the moment of creation, the “what if,” the first sketch that sucks, the second one that might work, the third one that says “close enough.” That journey? That’s the joy.

But then you post it. And the world says: “meh.” Or worse—says nothing.

And you think: maybe I’m not good.

No.

I’ve started to see that the problem wasn’t the feedback—it was that I was outsourcing my value to whoever was watching. And that’s no way to live or create.

Fifteen Proposals and a Screaming RS6

This month I sent out 15 proposals on Upwork. Four got viewed. Zero replies. My “Connects” are gone. My Behance folio? Three likes.

Still, I don’t feel bad. That’s the shift.

Old me would’ve crumbled. Now? I check the boxes:

• Did I show up? Yes

• Did I put the work out there? Yes.

• Did I write what felt honest? Always.

Then that’s it.

The rest is not my job.

And while I was untangling all of this, a new voice popped up. One I’ve heard before. The one that says:

“You’re a middle-class guy. You’ll be fine. You’ll vacation once a year. Maybe get a used car. Watch the bills. Stay safe.”

And this time, I said: fuck off.

I picked a symbol. A stupid one. A beautiful one: The Audi RS6.

Ridiculous? Yes. Affordable? Nope. Does my inner critic laugh at me? Every day.

But it’s not about the car. It’s about what it breaks inside me: the invisible ceiling of what I’m “allowed” to dream about.

I’m 36. In four years, when I turn 40, I’ll be ten years into this creative grind. And I swear on everything: I’m showing up to that milestone in an RS6.

Not to flex. Not for clout. Because that car will scream louder than I can:

“This guy earned me.”

My daughter will be in the back seat. My partner riding shotgun. And me? I’ll be quiet. Because the roar of that engine will be saying everything.

No Victory. Just Movement.

This isn’t a success story. Not yet.This is the record of someone who decided he won’t let the world decide if he’s worth it.

And if you’re reading this—and you’re someone like me—hear this:

Don’t let others define your worth. Don’t let feedback define your joy. Don’t let that quiet little voice tell you your dreams are “too much.”

Show up. Make the thing. Share it. The rest? That’s math the universe will figure out.

See you next week.