Things rarely end up how you think they will. This project is a great example of that.

I started this project thinking I was solving a budgeting problem. "Help people track medical expenses." That would have led me to build expense categories, monthly summaries, and spending trends.

But the user interviews revealed the truth: people weren't asking "Can I afford this?" They were asking "What am I even being charged for?" The problem was comprehension, not cost management. Shifting from "expense tracker" to "bill translator + error detector" changed everything—the features, the value prop, the entire design direction.

I also learned that good UX isn't about making things look clean—it's about reducing cognitive load at the moment of highest stress. When Jennifer gets an $1200 bill for a supposedly free checkup, she's not admiring the interface. She's panicking. The design's job is to replace panic with clarity: "Here's what happened, here's what's wrong, here's what to do."

And critically: AI needs design as much as any feature. I spent weeks thinking about OCR algorithms and error detection logic, but the real challenge was communicating uncertainty. How do I show a 92% confidence score without alarming users? How do I explain what the AI detected without making them feel dumb for not catching it themselves? AI without thoughtful UX is just a faster way to confuse people.

But this project was also deeply personal.

I'm Type 1 diabetic. I've been managing insulin ratios, carb counts, and blood sugar levels for years. I see my endocrinologist every three months. I know my A1C numbers, my basal rates, my correction factors. I'm disciplined about my health. I track everything.

But I couldn't read my own hospital bill.

After a routine endo appointment, my bill arrived. $340. I expected a $30 copay. The bill listed procedures I didn't remember receiving. Codes like "CPT 82962" and "99214" that meant nothing to me. Charges that seemed wrong but I couldn't verify. I called billing—they read me the same codes. I called insurance—they told me to call the hospital. Two hours later, I still didn't know if I was being overcharged.

That moment crystallized everything. This isn't about smarter users or better financial planning. This is about a system deliberately designed to prevent comprehension. Even someone who lives in the healthcare system daily—who manages a chronic condition, who understands medical terminology, who has an MBA—can't navigate medical billing.

As a designer, I could have built this project from empathy alone. But as a patient, I understood the anxiety in a way I couldn't have otherwise. That dual perspective—designer and patient—shaped every decision. The urgency isn't theoretical. The frustration is lived. The stakes are real.

I initially worried my diabetes would make the work seem less objective. Would it bias my research? Would it make me too close to the problem?

But I was wrong. Lived experience isn't a bias—it's a competitive advantage. I'm not designing for abstract users in a focus group. I'm designing for myself, and for the millions of people who've stared at medical bills they couldn't understand, who've called insurance and gotten nowhere, who've paid bills because they didn't know what else to do.

And critically: accessibility isn't a feature when you're designing for healthcare. When you're managing a chronic condition, when you're sick, when you're in pain—that's when you need the interface to be clearest. That's when you can least afford cognitive load. That's when design matters most.

Healthcare design isn't optional. It's a responsibility.

This is why I think Health UX is a place that I could thrive in, a place that I could help in. I want to work on projects that not only lead with empathy, but convert for both the providers and the user.