At 28, Steffan Cummins had achieved what seemed impossible – landing his dream job as Creative Director at the prestigious Wolff Olins design agency. But after working toward this single goal for a decade, he discovered that reaching the top of the creative ladder came with an unexpected cost: the loss of his creative spark. One year after quitting to start his own studio, Lost Property, Cummins is sharing his story about stepping away from prestige to rediscover what originally drew him to design.

Cummins' journey began at 18 when he first set his sights on Wolff Olins. The agency's bold, unconventional work and global reputation had inspired him as a teenager, particularly their high-profile rebrands for companies like BBC and Decathlon. "I said to my dad during that time, 'One day, I'll be a Creative Director at Wolff Olins'. Ten years later, I'd done it," Cummins recalls. His path appeared perfect on paper: a degree from Cardiff, London internships, progression from junior to senior designer at Moving Brands, and finally the coveted role at Wolff Olins.

However, success didn't bring the satisfaction he expected. "I couldn't quite reconcile how the role of Creative Director involved so many meetings about creativity, and so little time to actually be creative," he explains. "If you don't have space to think, time to wander and explore – how are you meant to do your best work?" The higher he climbed in his career, the further he moved away from the hands-on creative work that originally inspired him. Instead of designing and creating, his days became filled with endless meetings and administrative tasks.

Cummins' love for making things started early, influenced by his parents' different but complementary skills. "My dad was an engineer and my mum a nurse – from him, I inherited precision and attention to detail; from her, warmth and compassion. In many ways, that's how I see design: building things that connect emotionally with people, with rigor and with care." His first creative obsession was mobile phones during the peak Nokia era. "I'd pick up the free Carphone Warehouse catalog every month, analyze every handset and sketch my own designs. No limits. Just cool shapes and colors. That curiosity evolved into websites and logos."

The turning point in his career aspirations came in 2007 when the London 2012 Olympic branding was unveiled. "Something clicked. My interest became a dream," he says. By the time the Games arrived, his goal was firmly set on reaching the creative director level at the agency behind that iconic work. Yet when he finally achieved this milestone, doubt began to creep in. "Quietly, I started wondering: is this really it? I caught myself giving 'direction' without thinking it through, just to keep things moving. That didn't sit right. I wasn't proud of that version of myself."

Exploring other senior roles at different agencies didn't seem like the answer either. "It was like changing the logo on the door, not the job itself. And honestly, I couldn't think of a better place than Wolff Olins. So I had to ask: will this fix anything, or delay the truth a little longer?" The realization that the problem wasn't the specific company but the nature of senior creative roles themselves led to a moment of clarity. "One Sunday, I had a classic 'screw it – if not now, when?' moment. I decided I'd quit on Monday. No plan. No next gig. Just a belief that I'd figure it out."

The transition from leading teams to running his own one-person studio was jarring. "It was a shock to the system. I was rusty. Slower than I used to be. And doing the kind of grunt work I hadn't touched in years. My ego wasn't thrilled. But this strange mix of seasoned perspective and beginner's energy was powerful. There's something quite special about naivety and expertise co-existing." The daily emotional rollercoaster of entrepreneurship became a familiar pattern. "Most weeks go something like: Monday: 'What the hell am I doing?' Tuesday: 'I'm a terrible designer.' Thursday: 'This is sick. I'm onto something.' I've learned that cycle isn't something to fix – it's just the cost of caring."

One unexpected challenge has been the isolation that comes with working alone. "I loved building team culture. I think I'm a good leader. I enjoy listening, understanding what makes someone tick, and helping them feel unstoppable. I miss it. Now, I spend most of my workday alone – well, with Mia, my sausage dog. Without that energy, you're stuck with your own inner saboteur for too long." Despite the loneliness, Cummins feels the trade-off has been worthwhile for his creative fulfillment.

"This past year, I've felt that energy return. I'm excited again. I feel ideas forming all the time – on walks, in the shower, mid-conversation. My mind is wandering in the best possible way. And now that I've found that rhythm again, I'll do anything to protect it," he says. For other creatives who might be feeling disconnected from their work despite apparent success, Cummins advises paying attention to early warning signs. "Be open to the quiet signs that something isn't quite right. That itch, that low-level dissatisfaction – it's worth listening to. Forget the title, the prestige, the salary. Ask: How do I want to spend my days? What kind of work do I want to make? What kind of life do I want to build?"

Cummins believes the creative industry needs to expand its definition of career success. "We place so much value on titles and linear growth. Yet not everyone thrives in the same setup. There are so many valid paths through this industry. We should celebrate the different shapes creative careers can take." His perspective on success was further shaped by a personal tragedy – losing his father to cancer. "It flipped everything. Suddenly, the things I'd been chasing felt hollow. Now, success is freedom. It's control over my time. It's knowing I'm growing – creatively, personally – and helping others do the same."

Looking toward the future of Lost Property, Cummins remains intentionally open-ended about his plans. "It's unfolding. This first year has been about going deep, making, meeting people, and building a body of work that reflects the kind of studio I want to build. One day, I'd love to have a team. But I want to do it with intention. I want to be in it. Getting my hands dirty. Making cool stuff together." His story serves as proof that stepping off the traditional career ladder doesn't necessarily mean falling – sometimes it means taking a leap toward something more fulfilling.