Masters in Design: Thesis Project
Designed Interventions For Healing
Addressing Trauma Through the Framework of Occupied Space,
Traditions, and Objects
Traditions, and Objects
I’d be lying if I said this project followed a single, rigid approach. As a designer with an eclectic background, I naturally approached it through multiple lenses. The overall process became an amalgamation of several intersecting schools of thought—each shaping the work in meaningful ways. Co-design, human-centred design, trauma-informed principles, speculative design, and democratic design all served as guiding forces behind Healing Rites. Rather than adhering to a fixed methodology, the project evolved as a fluid, responsive process—rooted in empathy, collaboration, and the realities of those it was designed for.
If a building becomes architecture, then it is art
1
The motivation behind this project
The motivation behind this project was deeply personal. As someone who struggled to come to terms with my own experience of rape—and the trauma that followed—I felt compelled to examine my condition through the lens of design thinking. Are there other women like me? What might we do, collectively, to reduce the incidence of sexual assault? Why are women so often the primary victims? And how might we navigate the long, complex aftermath of such trauma?
As a product designer, I initially resisted the urge to explore this path for my thesis. It felt too personal, too raw. But the questions wouldn’t go away. The potential of what this inquiry might reveal kept pulling at me—quietly, insistently—until it became impossible to ignore. In the end, this exploration marked a defining moment in my journey as a designer. It became more than a project; it became a reckoning, and a beginning.
As a product designer, I initially resisted the urge to explore this path for my thesis. It felt too personal, too raw. But the questions wouldn’t go away. The potential of what this inquiry might reveal kept pulling at me—quietly, insistently—until it became impossible to ignore. In the end, this exploration marked a defining moment in my journey as a designer. It became more than a project; it became a reckoning, and a beginning.
2
Understanding trauma
To support survivors, we must first understand trauma—not just as a psychological or physiological response, but as an experience shaped by context, power, memory, and the body. Trauma doesn’t exist in isolation; it is compounded by the systems and environments that surround it.
Examining the rape kit
The rape kit is one such environment—a clinical object with enormous symbolic and procedural weight. On the surface, it is a forensic tool, designed to collect evidence for legal proceedings. But its presence also speaks to a larger ecosystem: one of institutional response, medical bureaucracy, and a justice system that places the burden of proof on the survivor’s body.
Who administers the exam, and where does it take place?
If available, a SANE (Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner) conducts the exam—typically in an emergency room setting in the United States.
How long does it take?
The duration can vary, but the process generally takes between three to six hours.
Why is it recommended?
The survivor’s body may contain critical forensic evidence, which can be essential if they choose to pursue a criminal investigation. Given the nature of the crime, it’s vital that this evidence is collected as promptly as possible to preserve its integrity.
After an assault, survivors are asked not to wash or clean themselves in order to preserve physical evidence.
From the survivor’s perspective, they are placed in a stark, clinical environment—often cold, impersonal—where they are required to relive aspects of the assault. The examiner asks questions, collects evidence from their body, and documents injuries. It is, without question, a harrowing experience—necessary for justice, perhaps, but traumatic in its own right.
The very existence of the rape kit is a stark symbol of the ever-present threat faced by women. Encountering this object in my research became a turning point—it compelled me to consider how design might serve a different purpose. Rather than reinforce trauma, could there be a contrasting kit? One that supports survivors not in gathering evidence, but in beginning to process, soothe, and reclaim? A kit for healing.
From the survivor’s perspective, they are placed in a stark, clinical environment—often cold, impersonal—where they are required to relive aspects of the assault. The examiner asks questions, collects evidence from their body, and documents injuries. It is, without question, a harrowing experience—necessary for justice, perhaps, but traumatic in its own right.
The very existence of the rape kit is a stark symbol of the ever-present threat faced by women. Encountering this object in my research became a turning point—it compelled me to consider how design might serve a different purpose. Rather than reinforce trauma, could there be a contrasting kit? One that supports survivors not in gathering evidence, but in beginning to process, soothe, and reclaim? A kit for healing.
Posing the questions
- How can we meaningfully support survivors in their healing journey?
- Can objects become vessels for recovery—tools that hold space for emotional repair?
- In what ways do women experience trauma, both physiologically and culturally?
- What models of treatment and care are currently available—and who are they designed for?
- How might we embed trauma-informed thinking into the very fabric of what we create—as designers, makers, and members of society?
Talking to the specialists
Case studies of big branding campaigns (Adidas, Starbucks, Uniqlo) and the lessons a designer can take away from each with respect to corporate identity projects.
To better understand trauma—and identify where I might meaningfully contribute as a designer—I reached out to individuals and organisations working directly with communities affected by various forms of trauma. I spoke with them about their approaches, listened to their insights, and invited them to serve as ongoing advisors, helping me review and refine concepts throughout the process.
*Due to the sensitive nature of this project, I have chosen not to disclose personal details. If you would like further information about these collaborators or the specifics of my research process, please feel free to contact me directly.
*Due to the sensitive nature of this project, I have chosen not to disclose personal details. If you would like further information about these collaborators or the specifics of my research process, please feel free to contact me directly.
- LianaTrauma-informed service designer
- BethPh.D., LSW
- RebeccaClinical Social Work/Therapist, MSW, LCSW
- MichelleMA, ATR-BC, LPC, CGP
- MoisesPh.D. , Lic. Clinical Psychologist
- MichellePhD
- SaraPh.D. Licensed Clinical Psychologist
- JanePh.D.
Casting a Wide Net: Merging Design Theory with Psychology and Mythology
In order to design for healing in a way that felt both meaningful and multidimensional, I drew from a diverse body of knowledge—spanning feminist literature, design theory, mythology, and psychology. This interdisciplinary approach became essential to understanding trauma not just as a clinical condition, but as a cultural, symbolic, and somatic experience.
Two texts in particular shaped my thinking: The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, and Man and His Symbolsby Carl Jung. Both offered profound insights into how trauma imprints itself on the body and psyche—and how symbolic imagery, archetypes, and ritual objects in our dreams, stories, and collective culture can either retraumatise or help us heal. These works illuminated the deep psychological and physiological resonance of symbols, affirming the power of design to engage not just the rational mind, but the subconscious, the spiritual, and the emotional.
Two texts in particular shaped my thinking: The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, and Man and His Symbolsby Carl Jung. Both offered profound insights into how trauma imprints itself on the body and psyche—and how symbolic imagery, archetypes, and ritual objects in our dreams, stories, and collective culture can either retraumatise or help us heal. These works illuminated the deep psychological and physiological resonance of symbols, affirming the power of design to engage not just the rational mind, but the subconscious, the spiritual, and the emotional.
3
Getting in Touch with Survivors
i put these posters in restrooms, bars, college buildings and other places where I could reach out to more women
To connect with survivors, I began by placing posters in restrooms, bars, college buildings—spaces where I felt I could quietly and respectfully reach women who might resonate with the project.
Before the pandemic, six survivors reached out to me through these posters, and I met with each of them individually. Our conversations were informal, led entirely by the survivor, and shaped by their comfort and pace. These initial dialogues were deeply formative.
After the onset of COVID-19, we continued working together remotely. I also began reaching out to more women through social media platforms. Gradually, the circle grew—until around 35 women were willing to co-design their own healing journeys with me.
In hindsight, I came to realise that even well-intentioned outreach—such as these flyers—could be triggering for some survivors. This recognition has since made me think more critically and compassionately about methods of elicitation, and the subtle ways design can intrude, provoke, or re-open wounds. It's a responsibility I now carry forward with much greater care.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, this is when Healing Rites truly began to take shape. As the world turned inward during the pandemic, so too did the project—adapting to solitude, intimacy, and the uniquely private nature of healing.
Before the pandemic, six survivors reached out to me through these posters, and I met with each of them individually. Our conversations were informal, led entirely by the survivor, and shaped by their comfort and pace. These initial dialogues were deeply formative.
After the onset of COVID-19, we continued working together remotely. I also began reaching out to more women through social media platforms. Gradually, the circle grew—until around 35 women were willing to co-design their own healing journeys with me.
In hindsight, I came to realise that even well-intentioned outreach—such as these flyers—could be triggering for some survivors. This recognition has since made me think more critically and compassionately about methods of elicitation, and the subtle ways design can intrude, provoke, or re-open wounds. It's a responsibility I now carry forward with much greater care.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, this is when Healing Rites truly began to take shape. As the world turned inward during the pandemic, so too did the project—adapting to solitude, intimacy, and the uniquely private nature of healing.
Through a careful analysis of the evolving circumstances, new constraints were identified and embraced—most notably, the challenge of facilitating co-design within the confines of a home.
The pandemic, while isolating, also opened up a unique opportunity: to explore the often-overlooked histories, rituals, and emotional landscapes that unfold within domestic spaces. It prompted deeper reflection on how women, in particular, are shaped—and at times constrained—by the private sphere.
What began as a limitation revealed itself to be a turning point. In isolation, I discovered a quiet but profound truth: women across the world, separated by geography but united by experience, shared far more in common than I had previously understood.
The pandemic, while isolating, also opened up a unique opportunity: to explore the often-overlooked histories, rituals, and emotional landscapes that unfold within domestic spaces. It prompted deeper reflection on how women, in particular, are shaped—and at times constrained—by the private sphere.
What began as a limitation revealed itself to be a turning point. In isolation, I discovered a quiet but profound truth: women across the world, separated by geography but united by experience, shared far more in common than I had previously understood.
And so, Healing Rites emerged—from research, from conversation, from co-creation, and from the quiet, shared need to heal. Click here to read more about those.
As a product designer, I envisioned a physical manifestation of these interventions—a series of letters sent out periodically, each one quietly accumulating in a personal folio, like a private archive of healing.
During the project, I delivered Healing Rites via email and phone. This approach offered flexibility and immediacy—but it also diluted the intimacy of the experience. The digital medium, while efficient and cost-free, sometimes overshadowed the message itself. It lacked the tactile, ritualistic quality that a physical object might evoke.
This led me to wonder: in an age where everything is being digitised, how might we design a physical product—a kit—for something as sensitive and sacred as trauma recovery?
That, perhaps, will be the next chapter of this work.
