ARCHNA SINGH

How did your upbringing, family, or culture shape you as a creative?

In my family, girls weren’t just denied the legacy — we were denied the surname itself. Daughters were expected to marry out, take on new names, and disappear into someone else’s story. I chose differently. My father once told me, “In life, either get convinced or convince.” I’m glad I convinced him. I became the first daughter in my family to keep the family name. My sisters followed. A tiny rebellion, yes, but it taught me something bigger – every time the world hands you limits, you can turn them into leverage.

And maybe it matters that I say this as an Asian woman, Indian-origin, mega-brown, building her career in the Middle East— a place where tradition still weighs heavy. Every choice to keep my voice has been a cultural collision. And every time, I chose not to stay quiet. That lesson never left me. It’s why I refuse to write polite lines that make people comfortable. It’s why my grandmother’s child marriage became not a family shame to bury, but the backbone of an award-winning campaign. It’s why I built The Weekly Mess after being told I should “just stay home with the baby.” Every challenge became raw material. Every “no” became a draft. Culture gave me silence. Family gave me rules. But I gave myself permission. And that permission — to question, to disrupt, to keep my name and my voice — is the most important creative tool I own.

How has your identity influenced the creative risks you choose to take?

On day one, my identity was despair. My family expected a boy. Damn — I popped. My parents loved me — a plot twist the system didn’t see coming. That mismatch became my first brief. You see, I wasn’t born into rebellion — rebellion was born into me. When the world hands you silence as your script, you either memorise the lines or you improvise your own. I chose the latter. That’s why my creativity doesn’t come from mood boards. It comes from what I’ve lived and what I’ve watched women around me survive. Sexism dressed as feedback, gender bias hidden in tradition, bodies reduced to objects, mothers reduced to liabilities, and pay gaps disguised as performance reviews.

So no, I don’t step back. Even when psychology — and diffusion theory — says early ripples are often ignored. I still do it. Because silence has zero ROI. Speaking up — even if only one person hears it today — is the least I can do. And if I’m shut down in boardrooms, I’ll build another stage. I take these risks because I know they’ll have a crazy return on investment one day. That investment starts today. And if the choice is between agreeable and difficult, I’ll take difficult, because it delivers far better ROI.

What personal or professional challenge has shaped you most as a creative?

Motherhood. I thought it would sabotage my career. Instead, it became the making of it. Here’s the paradox. Globally, women are far more likely to leave advertising after having children. The guilt trip is real. And I knew it was coming for me. But every time the system tried to shrink me, I looked for one outlet to expand. I internalised, I reflected, I asked myself, where is this bias coming from, and what can I do to change it? And then I did what I know best. I wrote. The outward rage turned inward, and in that reflection I found rhythm. Creativity is madness, but a little method helps. Motherhood forced me to find that method. It made me resourceful, productive, and ironically — victorious.

The result? My debut book — finished and soon to be out in the world — is the direct gift of those professional challenges. What I feared would end me actually gave me my voice. The lesson? Turn the static into signal. Anger is only wasted if you don’t transform it. I didn’t expect a system without a uterus to understand a woman’s journey — so I stopped expecting.

Motherhood has a wicked sense of humour. It hands you back your story when you least expect it. So yes, the challenge was motherhood bias. But the outcome? A sharper pen, a steadier rhythm, and the proof that nothing — not even the hardest knocks — can take your voice if you choose to keep it.

If you could change one systemic barrier in the creative industry, what would it be?

Politeness. And not the “say thank you to the intern” kind — the kind that edits the truth until it’s unrecognisable. We sugar-coat the rot. We write decks about diversity while entire floors look like a boys’ hostel. We hashtag inclusion while quietly booking client dinners at men-only clubs. We promote “culture fit” while pushing out anyone who doesn’t laugh at the boss’s joke. Then we clap for ourselves like it’s progress. Comfort is the most addictive drug in this business. And polite half-truths are how we mainline it. They don’t change anything — they just keep everyone comfortable enough to let the bias breathe. And the only thing worse than a problem is pretending it isn’t there.

Look at the numbers. Women make up almost half of advertising’s workforce, but fewer than 12% of creative directors. That isn’t a talent gap. That’s a system gap — one that rewards volume over value, presenteeism over performance, bravado over balance. If I could tear down one barrier, I’d kill the performance of progress. Stop the optics show. Scrap the shiny panels where the same three women rotate like seasonal flavours. Instead, measure who’s actually holding budgets, shaping briefs, and setting culture. Because until we do that, the industry will keep confusing optics with change. And polishing rust doesn’t make it new — it just makes the decay gleam.

How do you create psychological safety for other underrepresented creatives on your team?

By telling the truth out loud. Not the HR version of truth. The real one. The kind that says, yes, this industry still rewards swagger over substance. Yes, bias still hides in feedback. Yes, you’ll be called difficult for asking the same questions men get promoted for. The fastest way to create safety is to name what everyone already knows but is too scared to say. Silence gaslights. Truth validates.

And then I do something even simpler. I listen. No interrupting, no “but what they meant was…” Just listening — until the silence is theirs to fill. I don’t run kumbaya sessions. I run with a different rule – If you mess up, own it. If you feel small, say it. If you need space, take it. You don’t need armour here. Because underrepresented creatives don’t need pity. They need proof. Proof they won’t be punished for speaking. Proof their ideas won’t be stolen in translation. Proof that their truth is valid even if it shakes the room. That’s psychological safety. Not beanbags, not slogans, but a room where you can be loud, wrong, brilliant, messy, and still belong.

Who is inspiring you right now and why?

My daughter. Motherhood was never on my vision board. I didn’t grow up doodling baby names in diaries. I thought having a child would mean pressing pause on ambition — a career break disguised as bonding. In my head, motherhood was ambition interrupted. And then came this little girl — forgiving, accepting, and somehow wiser than me — her mom. The woman who can stare down a boardroom still finds herself caught between ambition and motherhood. And here’s the truth – when I hug her, I realise she holds me up more than I’ll ever hold her.

She’s taught me what no award, no pitch, no jury ever did. That your worth isn’t tied to the wins. I’ve walked in after losing eight pitches in a row, and she hugged me like I’d conquered the world. I’ve walked in after winning my country’s first ever Best of Show, and she hugged me the exact same way. That’s perspective. That’s truth. And that’s my most priceless trophy — of life, for life.

“She’s taught me what no award, no pitch, no jury ever did. That your worth isn’t tied to the wins.”