Masters student Yasmin Eid addresses her future self about inequity, systemic change and meaningful work, with the hope she hasn’t let go of her vision, idealism and willingness to challenge the status quo.
Yaz,
There’s something ironic about writing this letter to you. You’re older, wiser – supposedly – yet I think you might need me more than I need you. What was that one song? “How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22?”. I think I’m writing to hold onto what I know now just in case it starts slipping away.
Silent architects
I realised very early on that architects don’t take kindly to those who challenge the systems that dictate how the built environment is preserved, developed and politicised. Which is so odd to me. I always thought of creatives as naturally rebellious, but this profession feels strangely obedient for one meant to shape the future.
If I could speak to a Yasmin who lived and worked in this field for years, I’d ask: did you ever stop to see the bigger picture? Too many architects turn a blind eye to the systems they’re part of – the laws, the politics, the decisions that shape our cities. Maybe it’s easier not to see it, easier to say, “It’s not my responsibility”. But isn’t it? Isn’t ignoring these things just another way of quietly participating in them? When architects choose to look away from inequities, they become complicit in allowing them to grow.
Sydney’s layered history offers a perfect lens through which to critique heritage laws, one of the many systems desperately in need of rethinking. But to truly understand the impact of these laws, we need to ask: when did architecture’s role in shaping this land begin? Was it with the construction of colonial buildings, or earlier, with the deliberate demolition of First Nations structures? During colonisation, architecture became an act of destruction, erasing cultural presence to impose control. The land was reshaped not just physically, but ideologically, as a tool of dominance and erasure. And yet, if architecture can be manipulated to harm, it also holds the power to resist, to heal, and to transform. Today, heritage laws decide what is preserved and what is forgotten, often prioritising colonial-era buildings while neglecting the history and stories of First Nations people that existed long before. But this doesn’t have to be the story architecture tells. It can challenge these systems, honour silenced histories, and rewrite the narratives it once enforced.
I hope an older Yasmin questions what she protects and why. I hope you’re reading this at a time when heritage laws have been revisited through a decolonial lens. And I hope you played a part in making that happen. I hope you never looked away.
Of course, heritage laws aren’t the only thing shaping our cities. Urban planning is another system that decides who gets to belong and who gets pushed aside. Sydney’s urban planning isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as it was designed: to protect wealthy suburbs, keep sprawl alive, and prioritise developer profits, all while leaving everyday people to deal with unaffordable housing, long commutes, and shrinking public spaces. The list can go on and on. The thing about urban planning is that it’s rarely neutral. Every zoning regulation, every land use decision reflects priorities, and those priorities often serve the few while sidelining the many. Sydney’s growth has been built on a series of choices, and each one tells a story about who the city is for.
Architects are not just passive participants in the system. They shape it, whether they realise it or not. Being conscientious in this field isn’t about resisting the system outright – it’s about finding the gaps where change can begin. It’s about pushing back against convenience and comfort to advocate for fairness, even when the system resists. I hope I’ve found ways to do this, not perfectly, but meaningfully. I hope I’ve used my work to challenge inequity rather than reinforce it.
Starting out …
It’s currently 3am. There’s a playlist on in the background that I’m not listening to anymore. This letter has occupied every. single. waking. thought of mine for the past two weeks. I’ve lost track of how many drafts I’ve written and rewritten. But… and I know it’s hard to believe, I’m nowhere near burnout. Can you guess why?
Young designers often start their journeys with so much passion and a fiery belief that they can change the world through their work. Maybe the older Yasmin will call this naivety. I think I can, maybe, create ripples of change – small but meaningful acts that grow into something powerful and transformative. And I like to think that I’m not naive.
This industry, though, has a way of wearing down passion. It tests your limits. Meaningful work is met with so many barriers, not just from the industry itself but also the older generation of architects. And when the work stops feeling meaningful, that’s when the burnout creeps in. It’s incredibly disappointing, especially after all the hard work we put into earning our degree – it feels like, “I did all of this for what?”
Studying architecture is hard. Full stop. You come out of university feeling like you’ve given so much of yourself, and yet the journey has barely begun. I’ve pulled all-nighters on campus. There were months when I had nothing else going on in my life except uni. There were moments I looked at my reflection in the mirror and hardly recognised the person looking back. And then there’s the endless cycle of criticism. Every design feels like it’s never quite enough, no matter how much effort you put in.
And then you enter practice, a world that rewrites everything you thought you knew. We weren’t prepared for the maze of rules, budgets and approvals – the forces that seem to dictate every decision. For many of us, the challenge isn’t just designing; it’s learning how to navigate a system that feels overwhelming and unfamiliar.
I’ve questioned whether I should leave or stay more times than I can count. Having experience in the field while completing my undergrad didn’t make that decision any easier. I still wondered if I really wanted this. But the truth is, I couldn’t see myself walking away. Maybe it’s passion, or maybe it’s a trauma bond. Either way what helped me push through and stay was my strong support network. That’s something I know for sure an older Yasmin still has. I’m fully aware of how lucky I am to have a loving and supportive family. To have friends I can share every corner of my heart with. I know future Yasmin is just as rich! I know I will forever and ever continue to nurture and treasure those relationships.
It’s Dad who always comes to mind first when I think of support. I know he’s still my therapist. He’s still always right, and I’m still not admitting that to him. Growing up, he used to wrap up our chats with, “I want you to be strong, Yasmin. You’re too soft.” I know you still remember when that changed to, “Yasmin, I know you’re strong.” It felt like I’d just been handed a shiny gold sticker. The birds were chirping, the flowers were blooming, and life was worth living. I hope you don’t rack up too many gold stickers, though. Seeking approval is an endless task with no reward.
I see this industry toughening me up. So, my advice to you would be this: try to stay soft. Stay gentle. It’s our own unique kind of strength.
Where did she go?
Why does architecture treat systemic issues like gender inequality and a lack of diversity as problems for someone else to solve? There is no denying that the challenges faced by my generation pale in comparison to those endured by the women before us. I’m aware that the path I walk today was paved at great personal costs. However, that coexists with the fact that architecture’s foundation, quite literally, wasn’t built for women. I’m unsure if the older generations of women were trying to find ways to work around that foundation, or if they were trying to reshape it? From where I stand today it feels as though that foundation remains largely intact.
I remember the first day of my first-year studio. My university proudly announced that nearly 49% of architecture students were young women. It wasn’t until my third year that I learned that the figure reflected only admissions. Many young women dropped out before graduating, and of those who did graduate, too few pursued a career in architecture. Then, some left after just a taste of practice, unable or unwilling to endure the challenges they faced. This trend isn’t confined to university. I see it at the workplace. While there are female architects around me, they remain underrepresented in leadership roles. I think I can count on one hand the female directors I personally know. I hope you’re reading this at a time when women no longer face the forfeiture of life’s richness to lead. This will take a collective effort, through both bold strides and the steady. It’s on us, not just to follow the paths we inherited, but to widen them, strengthen them, or build new ones where they’ve always been missing.
I don’t know how life looks for you right now. I don’t know what you’ve achieved or what you’re still chasing. But I know that you still carry me with you, and I hope I keep reminding you of the weight of these words.
Wherever you are in this moment, I hope the air feels light, your body feels strong, and your mind feels at peace.
With love,
Yasmin
Yasmin Eid holds a bachelor’s degree in architecture and is currently pursuing her Master of Architecture in Sydney, while working with SJB. Having grown up in Cairo, Egypt, she brings a unique perspective shaped by her experiences in two distinct cultural contexts.
