[ Hurdles, Empathy, Catharsis and Other Lessons Veterans Taught Me About Design Research ]
[Harrison Dillard, world record holder, US Army Veteran, jumping a hurdle]. By William C. Greene, 1947. Library of Congress Prints & Photographs Division. https://www.loc.gov/item/2023636269/
It’s late 2023, and I’m racking up Delta points. Economy class is my second home every two weeks, traveling across time zones to conduct interviews with U.S. military veterans experiencing homelessness or at risk of it. Alongside them, I speak with their case managers and community leaders of a federally funded program working to support veterans in securing stable housing, job readiness, and livable wages.
Over six months, my colleagues and I conducted nearly 200 interviews. In the world of design research, that’s a lot of miles, a lot of stories, a lot of experiences. We are mapping the program’s ecosystem to uncover its challenges and opportunities to improve veteran experience.
Interviews are one of the greatest privileges of design research (in my opinion). There’s the usual research stuff—identifying the patterns, the findings, the actionable insights—but then there’s the other part. The part where you find yourself unexpectedly changed by the people you’re interviewing. I didn’t expect how profoundly these conversations would stick with me.
Going into these interviews, I knew I’d learn beyond just the client’s needs. But I didn’t expect how vividly these conversations would stay with me long after they ended.
What I learned from these interviews wasn’t just about systems or programs. It was about the people, their lives, and the lessons they teach without even trying. These five lessons reshaped not just how I conduct interviews, but how I see design, people, and myself.
I learned:
Talk About Hurdles Without Losing Pride and Dignity
Listening For Cultural Parallels Can Lead to Deeper Insight
Recognize When an Interview is More Than Just Data
Stories Are a Gift—Carry the Special Ones With You
Sometimes, Research is Cathartic
[ Talk About Hurdles Without Losing Pride and Dignity ]
The U.S. military is one of the most diverse in the world, it brings together people from different backgrounds with a shared pride in overcoming challenges. In service, a mission-oriented mindset is essential—focus on the goal and get it done.
But in interviews, this mindset can be a hurdle.
Imagine, you're ten minutes into a 60-minute interview. You’ve built rapport, but when you begin to ask about challenges, the interviewee insists, "I get done what I need to get done." No complaints, no obstacles. As an interviewer, you wonder, no service is perfect—there must be something. You may even begin to consider cutting the interview short. This was my experience, probing for insights. Veteran populations, especially those in vulnerable times in their life are not always willing to be open with strangers about their personal experience. Understandably so.
Months into the research, one simple reframe changed this experience. It’s midday, during an interview in a small, windowless room, a colorful spread of snacks and tea set by our host for our interviewee separates us, we are two thirds into the interview and my veteran interviewee has remained engaged, yet surface-level despite my best efforts.
This interview was particularly important as we were trying to understand the unique challenges of women veterans enrolled in this program, a demographic that was difficult to recruit. A lot was riding on this conversation, and I could feel there was more beneath the surface.
Then a reframe came to me.
I asked, "Are you familiar with track and field?"
"Oh yeah, sure." she said.
I responded, "My dad and I used to watch the Penn Relays (a large track and field event in philadelphia) every spring. I ran track in high school—though I wasn’t very good—but I was always impressed by the hurdle runners. They glide over obstacles like it’s nothing. I imagine that in your life, things that others might see as hurdles, you’ve been trained to clear with ease because of your military experience. I’m curious—what hurdles do you glide over to reach your goals in this program?"
That one reframe unlocked the conversation. We got more in the last 20 minutes than in the previous 40. I began using this metaphor more frequently because it resonated deeply with interviewees.
This approach was a game-changer, with a few veterans even complimenting me with a “You’re good” and a finger-wag of approval before diving into their responses. The reframe allowed interviewees to take pride in overcoming obstacles while still discussing their challenges with dignity—especially crucial when addressing difficult topics like homelessness or being at risk of it. Now, I keep this reframe in my back pocket as both a tool and a reminder that a well-placed, relatable reframe can be a powerful asset in research.
[ Listening For Cultural Parallels Can Lead to Deeper Insight ]
As a researcher conducting qualitative interviews, I’m often not part of the user or customer group I’m studying. Most of the time, I speak with individuals whose experiences are very different from mine.
Empathy is one of the most important tools to employ in qualitative interviews. It helps me ask deeper questions I might not have otherwise considered. Many designers and researchers are shown Brené Brown’s RSA short on empathy, where one person climbs into a pit with another, offering support from within as a representation of empathy—rather than from above with kind words as a show of sympathy. In design, we talk about practicing empathy, but at the risk of being pedantic, I believe that researchers and designers rarely achieve true empathy. However, we can do everything possible to approach it and get close. I often interview people whose experiences I will never truly live.
To get as close as possible to an empathetic position, I listen for commonalities or parallels with the person I’m interviewing. This doesn’t mean equating their experiences to my own. Instead, I listen closely, asking myself, Have I ever felt something similar? This mental mirroring helps me probe deeper into how their feelings impacted their actions and sometimes uncover emotions they might not have otherwise mentioned. I look for cultural and experiential commonalities—do we share similar socio-economic backgrounds, academic experiences, or family dynamics? I listen for these cues to indicate when I might be able to explore a shared moment.
Denzel Washington put it well when a reporter asked why his movie needed a Black director: “It’s not color, it’s culture [...] I know, you know, we all know what it is when a hot comb hits your hair on a Sunday morning.” The reporter and his castmates, who were all black, all visually nodded and laughed as he mimicked the sound of a hot comb hitting the back of the neck. It’s about recognizing when I, as a researcher, share a cultural moment with my interviewee—one that I can leverage to dig deeper into their experience and uncover nuances of their interaction with a service. It’s important to remember that culture is more than just race or ethnicity; it includes geography, academic backgrounds, socio-economic status, family structures, workplace dynamics etc. — all of which shape people’s experiences and foster deeper connections in research.
One of the most surprising moments came when I interviewed a Native American veteran who grew up on a reservation. We discussed the culture shock of entering the military, resources for Native American veterans, and the inter-tribal dynamics that hinder upward mobility. At the end, he asked, “Did you grow up on a reservation or around one?”
I replied, “No, I’m from Wilmington, in Delaware,” a bit unsure of where he was going with his question.
He said, “Some of your questions made me wonder how you knew to ask them unless you grew up on a reservation.”
I responded, “Some of what you described wasn’t the same, but it felt similar to my own experience as a black man in the U.S or going to church where most members were west African or Caribbean. I think that connection, surprisingly, helped me better understand where you were coming from and guide my follow-up questions.”
In short, it’s about finding a commonality to empathize with—and then following that curiosity to learn more about the interviewee.
[ Recognize When an Interview is More Than Just Data ]
Designers, researchers, and others in similar roles have all experienced that moment in an interview when the conversation unexpectedly turns into an unsanctioned therapy session. As an interviewer—and not a licensed therapist—I handle these moments with extreme care, as every researcher does. In these instances, I lean into compassion while gently redirecting the conversation.
Most of the time, the transition from a compassionate response back to the interview is seamless, especially with a small sample group. But I found this shift to be much more gradual when interviewing veterans. Often, I would think, I think this is important for them to get out. On the surface, these moments might look like a veteran going on about a topic that extends beyond the scope of the interview, while a voice in my head reminds me to be aware of time. Yet, in those moments, I chose to let them speak—resisting the urge to interrupt, listening patiently, and waiting for the right moment to show empathy before gently steering the conversation back. It was clear some veterans felt the need to share. And while their stories weren’t always directly aligned with our initial research focus, they often illuminated deep insights—like how the loss of a loved one can contribute to homelessness among veterans. Once we acknowledged this reality, we could return to our discussion guide with a deeper understanding.
But why spend so much time not getting answers to project questions? Because it felt like the right thing to do.
My colleagues and I sat in a half-full parking lot with a folding table, a recorder, and a few chairs—the only place we could ensure privacy on-site. Our interviewee, a man in his early 70s, was starting his life over after losing his wife of 30 years. That loss led to deep depression, which ultimately led to homelessness—despite having had a full career and retiring. I asked him about his experience in the program and how it was meeting the needs of older veterans re-entering the workforce. But many of my questions lead back to his wife. So we spoke about her—how they met, what made her unique, and how he lost her.
In another instance, my colleague led an interview with a former Navy officer. We sat in an open circle in a computer lab we had temporarily taken over as a private interview space. It was early in our research, so we were still trying to learn the veteran journey, as we had not yet reached qualitative saturation at this point. As my colleague led the questioning, it became very apparent that this would not be a straightforward interview. Sometimes it was almost like our interviewee heard entirely different questions. He spoke about his pride in his service, the shame that followed after experiencing homelessness, and intimate details about his life. He shared his experiences serving other individuals, both veterans and civilians, who were also experiencing homelessness—how he brought food to others in camps and wanted to protect them from harm, all while experiencing homelessness himself. He took his time, speaking very slowly, with many pauses to compose his emotions. After the interview, my colleague and I took simultaneous deep breaths, both recognizing that the list of planned questions in our hands could have been someone’s grandmother’s spaghetti recipe, as we certainly did not—and in some ways could not—use them during this interview.
“I think he needed that,” my colleague turned to me and said, and I agreed. This interview became crucial in finding themes about how shame and service impact the veteran journey in this program, and it ultimately laid the foundation for intervention recommendations almost a year later.
Sometimes, recognizing when an interviewee needs to share—even if it isn’t directly relevant to your goals—is essential. Sometimes, it leads to insights. But more importantly, it builds trust. In that moment, showing compassion was just as important as getting the answers I was looking for. Because sometimes, the interview is just as meaningful to the interviewee as it is to the interviewer—and recognizing when that’s the case is so important.
[ Stories Are a Gift—Carry the Special Ones With You ]
I think everyone, no matter their profession, meets someone whose story stays with them—someone whose every word carries a lesson or piece of advice that lingers long after the conversation ends, almost as if every word comes with adhesive. As a designer and researcher conducting qualitative interviews, part of my job is to hear people’s stories. And when working on social impact projects like this one, I’ve heard many incredible stories. But one story resonated with me deeply, and to this day, I can’t fully explain why.
My colleague and I were waiting for a veteran our host organization wasn’t sure would be able to make it. “You’ll love him,” they said. “He’s amazing, so I really hope you get the chance to meet him today. He’s the best.” It was early afternoon, and my colleague and I were in no rush. “He’s on his way, just running late,” our host said excitedly. “There’s no rush. We’re happy to wait,” we reassured her. About 30 minutes later, an excited stranger popped in the door wearing a reflective jacket.
We sat down, introduced ourselves, and began the interview, which started like most others. But as he began to share stories about his family, I could tell this would be a special conversation.
Like many veterans we had spoken to over the past several months, he had faced difficult circumstances that led to homelessness and, ultimately, to the very program that brought him to this interview. What struck me—and what has stayed with me—was the profound love he had for his family. This isn’t unusual; we all love our families, and any parent would do anything for their children. But the way he spoke about his daughters, with such devotion, moved me.
He shared how he and his former partner—the mother of his three daughters—had broken up. His girls stayed with their mother, though he hadn’t wanted to leave them with her. He told us how he slept in his truck, giving 100% of his paycheck to his daughters. “As long as my girls are okay, I’ll be fine,” he said. He described how he would turn on his truck for 30 minutes to get an hour of heat, but when temperatures dropped too low, he sometimes had no choice but to go to a shelter. Once he enrolled in the program, they helped him secure stable housing. Eventually, he gained full custody of his daughters.
His daughters, between the ages of seven and thirteen, had recently begun insisting they were old enough to walk to school on their own. “I tell them they’re too small—someone could snatch them away.” “They tell me they’re too big, that they can run fast, that no one can catch them,” he said, shaking his head with a playful smile. As he spoke, I found myself sharing his nervousness, despite not being a parent myself.
So he made them a deal.
“We’re going to put it to the test,” he told them. “If I can catch all three of you and get you in the truck, then I keep walking you to school.”
His daughters eagerly agreed. They drove to an empty parking lot.
At over six feet tall and a former military man, he figured he had the upper hand. But as he described the scene, his face lit up. He chased them, struggling to catch his three girls as they laughed and ran in a perfectly coordinated effort to ensure their victory. They dodged, weaved, and outpaced him. Eventually, he caught all three.
“Man,” he said. “They gave me a fight. Don’t tell them that… but I got them in the truck.”
And with that, he let out a big, proud laugh.
Something about the way he told this story—his humor, his love, his reluctant acceptance—stuck with me. I could feel the quiet fear behind his words. I could imagine the worry of loosening his grip, of trusting that his daughters could navigate the world without him always by their side. But what I was left with was this: a father taking his fear and turning it into a memory—a moment of joy and laughter his daughters would carry with them for years. And all of this against the backdrop of homelessness and the struggle to find housing. Something about his approach stays with me, and I just have a deep appreciation for knowing his story. I often think about it and smile.
[ Sometimes, Research is Cathartic ]
The most personal lesson I learned from interviewing veterans experiencing homelessness had little to do with research and everything to do with grief.
In August 2022, my mother passed away unexpectedly. For a year, my mind vibrated between guilt, depression, and bargaining constantly trying to make sense of what happened and what I was supposed to do next. It was, and still is, the most difficult reality I have ever faced.
A year later, I started a new job where I was told I’d be working with veterans who were experiencing or at risk of homelessness. I was excited because I love projects with meaningful purpose. But beneath that excitement, my grief remained anchored. Each day, as I got oriented to the project, the same thought surfaced: Mom was an Army veteran, she could have used this program. After resigning from a job in the mid-2000s, she struggled to find work and ultimately lost financial stability. While we were never homeless by staying with family, my aunt or my grandmother. I would learn, this program classified a large part of my upbring as being "at risk of homelessness", even though it never felt like it.
I would brush aside the creeping “what should have been” thoughts”. Soon, we were on the road, flying across the country to conduct in-person qualitative interviews with veterans, their case managers, and the organizations that supported them. But a small part of me was scared. How am I going to handle this? I wondered, recognizing how raw my grief still was and how closely this subject paralleled my personal experience.
I met so many veterans—many with stories I could only imagine, and very different from my mothers experience. The difficulties of transitioning out of the military. Substance abuse. The struggles people assume based on movies or secondhand accounts. But the interviews revealed a depth I hadn’t expected—a dignity that demanded to be recognized.
And then, I met the veterans whose stories mirrored my mother’s. Those were the ones I feared the most. Yet, to my surprise, those were the ones that brought me comfort.
There was one woman in particular. Highly educated. No-nonsense but kind. Always put together. Spoke with an eloquence that some might call ‘bougie’. Held herself to a standard of excellence at all times. She had multiple degrees but had to resign from her job. She had one child. She searched for work year after year, rejected at every turn—told she was overqualified when she lowered her standards. I remember her saying she tried to hide her struggles from her daughter, putting on a brave face. And I remember thinking: She knows. She sees. Kids always know. Kids always see. Because I knew. I had seen. I recognized that brave face.
This was the kind of interview I had been afraid of. That night, as soon as I got back to my hotel room and the door slammed shut behind me, I cried.
There were more interviews like this.
One woman, this time over a virtual call. Her hair was braided back into two plaits, a silk scarf tied and styled around her head. The moment her face appeared on the screen, I instantly said to myself, That’s exactly how Mom looked when she was about to start a new sewing project. The woman told me she was starting her own business, that she loved helping others. My mom had been doing the same. Before she passed, she had wanted to start a small sewing business. During the pandemic, she made masks and clothes selling them to friends. I still have some of the masks she left unfinished.
But there was an upside. For every interview that reminded me of my mother, they became easier, not because of the cliché that "time heals all wounds," but because, in all these interviews, the toughest moments were spoken about in the past tense. These veterans had received help. They were no longer in that vulnerable place. And when I caught myself thinking, I should have known about this program. I should have found this job earlier. Why didn’t I find this program in time? Eventually I was able to remind myself: Look at how many people have gotten their lives back because of this program. Their stories are different now. Their kids will have a different story.
That realization would knock slabs of grief away.
By the time I had completed nearly 200 interviews, I felt lighter and happier than I had in the past two years.
It note always healthy to bring your work home, and for researchers in social impact, that’s usually true. But in this case, bringing my work home was cathartic. Sometimes—not always, maybe not even most times—but sometimes, allowing your work to show you a new perspective can heal something you didn’t know was still broken.
This was one of those times for me.
This project has since concluded but I am grateful for these lessons that I have learned.
