Zeyu Liu is a Design Researcher and Creative Director based in Ithaca, New York. Trained in both systems thinking and human-centred design, Zeyu’s practice lives at the intersection of technology, care, and intergenerational dialogue. Growing up in southwest China and a deep respect for slowness, rhythm, and unspoken emotion, Zeyu challenges fast-paced design culture by asking one quiet question: “Why does this matter to the person living with it?”
Through aging-focused research, community co-creation, and emotionally intelligent systems, he’s helping shape a more thoughtful future—one built on trust, listening, and the courage to care.
Can you tell us a little about your first few steps in your career. Was there a moment or experience when you realised this was what you'd do as a career?
I started studying product design and manufacturing, focusing on improving efficiency, precision, and system logic. But over time, I realized that what mattered to me wasn’t how well a product was made but whether people could use it with peace of mind.
When I first entered the field of aging, I was eager to use technology to solve problems. I worked on tools to remind people to take their medication and track their health data. I believed that if the tools were smart enough, life would naturally become easier for older adults. Then, during an interview at a hospital, I met an older woman who lived alone. She didn’t use any high-tech devices or calendar reminders. Instead, she placed different medications in specific rooms. As she followed her daily routine, moving through her home, she knew exactly what to take and when. She told me, “It’s not that I forget. I don’t want to bother anyone.” That moment changed everything for me. I realized that design shouldn’t only respond to system efficiency. It should respond to people’s rhythms, emotions, habits, and desire to live quietly and independently.
When I first entered the field of aging, I was eager to use technology to solve problems. I worked on tools to remind people to take their medication and track their health data. I believed that if the tools were smart enough, life would naturally become easier for older adults. Then, during an interview at a hospital, I met an older woman who lived alone. She didn’t use any high-tech devices or calendar reminders. Instead, she placed different medications in specific rooms. As she followed her daily routine, moving through her home, she knew exactly what to take and when. She told me, “It’s not that I forget. I don’t want to bother anyone.” That moment changed everything for me. I realized that design shouldn’t only respond to system efficiency. It should respond to people’s rhythms, emotions, habits, and desire to live quietly and independently.
After that, I stopped thinking only about designing products and began asking more fundamental questions: Do we truly understand the problem? Are we seeing the real challenges? Are we creating something that people need? From that moment, I knew I wanted to follow this path: use design to make things, understand people, and care for them.
What lessons from your career have most shaped your style and approach?
In the early days, I believed good design should be helpful, full of options, and driven by novel ideas. I would prepare a complete set of solutions, present them to the client, and choose the most suitable one. I was busy producing outputs, but deep down, I often felt disconnected from the real users. That changed when I worked on a design project for an elderly care home. I sat with the residents. I listened to their stories, paid attention to the details of their daily lives, and gradually built relationships with the community. As we got to know each other, they began to share things that wouldn't show up in any survey, such as what made them feel uneasy, why they had trouble sleeping at night, and what kinds of activities gave them a sense of dignity and participation.
The trust, built slowly and sincerely, helped me see their world more clearly. It revealed where the real challenges lay and where the design needed to begin. I realized that design isn’t about creating options and picking one. It’s about listening deeply and letting the solution grow naturally from understanding. Since then, I’ve stopped focusing on “what to make” and started asking “why it matters.”
The trust, built slowly and sincerely, helped me see their world more clearly. It revealed where the real challenges lay and where the design needed to begin. I realized that design isn’t about creating options and picking one. It’s about listening deeply and letting the solution grow naturally from understanding. Since then, I’ve stopped focusing on “what to make” and started asking “why it matters.”
Tell us about the core values or philosophies that guide your creative practice.
The core is elementary: human-centered design, starting from real problems. “Human-centered” is easy to say, but hard to do. It means letting go of the designer’s ego, not designing to show your style, not trying to prove how creative you are. It means slowing down, stepping into someone’s daily life, and trying to understand their worries, pace, and hopes, even if they seem small, messy, or hard to define. And starting from real problems, in a positive way, is something I always stick to. I don’t believe in flashy designs to show off skills. I also don’t think so in exaggerating problems to create drama. What I care about is when a system, a space, or a tool enters someone’s life, does it give them support? Does it make them feel a little more at ease? A little more in control?
What needs to change, so emerging and under-represented creative professionals have more opportunity, are seen and heard?
I think what needs to change is how we evaluate the value of creative work. Currently, the innovative world favors things that are fast to show, visually striking, and easy to share. However, many works that truly move people and improve lives are slow. They’re built through time, relationships, and trust. For example, I know community designers who don’t have flashy portfolios and don’t appear in exhibitions. But they spend months sitting with older adults, learning their daily rhythms, or quietly helping resolve unspoken tensions in intergenerational communities. Is that creative work? Absolutely. It just doesn’t look “cool” or fit into fast-consumption formats.
We’ve become accustomed to thinking that what can be showcased represents the full story of creativity. However, many meaningful designs emerge from genuine human relationships, in spaces devoid of a spotlight. If platforms and institutions could change their standards, considering not just outcomes, but also the process, such as listening, showing up, and remaining committed over time, more voices from the margins could finally be heard.
We’ve become accustomed to thinking that what can be showcased represents the full story of creativity. However, many meaningful designs emerge from genuine human relationships, in spaces devoid of a spotlight. If platforms and institutions could change their standards, considering not just outcomes, but also the process, such as listening, showing up, and remaining committed over time, more voices from the margins could finally be heard.
How important is it that creative professionals find their unique voice?
I think it’s essential, but this “voice” has never been about style. It’s about how you see the world and where you choose to stand. To me, a design voice isn’t defined by how many solutions you’ve created or how novel your technology is. Instead, it’s about whose stories you’re willing to listen to, who you choose to speak for, and how you decide to engage. My voice has been shaped slowly through years of working closely with older adults and paying attention to their realities. In my view, their lives aren’t lacking in products; they often lack systems that truly understand the complexity of their emotions and everyday challenges. They don’t need another overloaded interface; they need spaces where they feel heard, trusted, and safe. That’s why, from the very beginning, my AI-assisted decision-making project was never about “making choices for them.” It was about creating a system where older adults, their families, and their doctors could speak honestly, share doubts, voice concerns, and express what they truly want in a more equal and emotionally open space.
Looking ahead, what do you think are the key factors that will influence change for creative professionals?
I think the future of the creative industry will be shaped at the intersection of technological ethics and intergenerational dialogue. Technology is becoming increasingly powerful yet more detached from human experience. It increasingly feels like a tool defined by a small group for efficiency rather than a language designed to serve everyone. So I often ask: Whose language is the interface speaking? Who can’t access or navigate these tools?
At the same time, the generational gap is widening quickly. It’s not just that younger and older people understand technology differently. They live at different paces, hold different values, and communicate differently. If we continue designing with one uniform system or dominant aesthetic for everyone, we risk flattening these differences rather than honoring them.
In the future, creative professionals won’t just be creators. They’ll be translators. They’ll need to turn complexity into something people can feel. They’ll need to turn tension into connection. They’ll build systems and spaces where people of different ages, backgrounds, and perspectives can coexist.
How much does your city influence your work?
I currently live in Ithaca, New York. Life here moves slowly, and I am surrounded by mountains and water, with four distinct seasons. It’s not a flashy, creative hub, but its quiet complexity makes it ideal for aging-related research and co-creation. I served on the board of a local senior living facility, offering advice based on my design background. That experience gave me my first look inside the system, such as financial constraints, staff turnover, and how older adults strive to maintain familiar rhythms with limited resources. This close-up, unpolished view of reality completely changed how I understand design practice. It made me believe more than ever that truly meaningful creativity doesn’t come from whiteboards, but from real life, lived together.
How much does your culture influence your work?
I grew up in Guiyang, a mountain city in southwest China, where my parents often said, “Don’t rush and watch your heart.” That phrase has grown increasingly powerful as I became a designer. I was trained in Western systems thinking and human-centered interaction design, but I also maintain a deep sensitivity to rhythm, family ties, and unspoken emotions from Eastern culture. For example, the intergenerational spaces I design are often guided by a philosophy of “shared but not intrusive” and “closeness within respectful distance,” a caregiving logic rooted in the East. My cultural background has also broadened my perspective on “design.” It’s not just about the shape of things; it’s about how relationships are cared for.
Tell us some of your favourite, creative professionals and inspiring places in your city!
One of my favorite places in Ithaca is the Farmers Market because it’s highly designed and reflects a quiet negotiation of everyday life. Vendors, families, tourists, older adults, kids, and street performers coexist, each in their way, without the space imposing anything on anyone. That kind of organic coexistence inspires me. When I designed an intergenerational wellness center, I wanted to create a similar atmosphere that doesn’t force interaction but allows connection and doesn’t prioritize function alone; it makes people feel safe and warm. I’ve also learned much from caregivers, community workers, and local architects. They’re not the kind of creatives who chase attention; they can observe, listen, and respond to real needs. They may not speak the language of design, but they address the most genuine design problems.
What should emerging creative professionals keep in mind as they begin their design career?
I would say this: practice slowing down. Don’t rush to find a style. Don’t rush to take a stance. First, learn to listen to what’s said, to what’s left unsaid, to the pauses, hesitations, and quiet refusals. Then ask yourself: How can I support their voices without replacing them? Real design ability isn’t about how much you can create—it’s about whether you can stay with people for a while, without judging, and keep caring. I hope the next generation of creatives won’t just build products or projects but create more spaces where people feel heard, understood, and cared for.
—