Redesigning a behavioral health app where patients, caregivers, and care teams were all looking at the same information — and drawing completely different conclusions from it.
Three people. One app. Three different realities.
Patients, caregivers, and providers were often looking at the same information—but drawing completely different conclusions from it. A missing assignment might look like procrastination to a caregiver, disengagement to a provider, and simply "I'll do it later" to a patient. The breakdown wasn't missing information. It was a lack of shared understanding.
The app extended care beyond therapy sessions — supporting assignments, communication, and between-session reinforcement. Over time, it stopped feeling useful enough to return to.
The problem wasn't missing information. Patients, caregivers, and care teams were all seeing the same signals — and interpreting them differently.
Two years after launch, the app had quietly lost its place in users' routines. Some returned — but very few continued. The experience wasn't broken enough to abandon entirely, but it wasn't valuable enough to sustain.
The ask was simple: refresh the UI. Within days it was clear it wasn't.
As we began auditing the experience, it became clear the issue wasn't visual polish. Different users were relying on the same information for completely different decisions.
Login activity increased consistently after the May 2024 rollout and sustained across both user roles through April 2026 — the full period of my tenure. Coordinators noted a reduction in caregiver outreach to confirm appointment details. The coordination clarity we designed for showed up in the data.
Halfway through the sprint, conversations kept circling without landing. Three of us in a sync — all raising valid issues, none of them wrong. We weren't disagreeing on design.
"We were each designing for a different user — and none of us had said it out loud."
Once the three roles were explicit, the circling stopped. We hit pause, stepped back, mapped who we were actually designing for. We looked at usage data — which roles were actually returning, where they were dropping off — and suddenly the three needs became unavoidable.
Three distinct roles shared the same system — but experienced it in fundamentally different ways, often without visibility into each other. Early on, we mapped nearly ten distinct user types — patients by age group, caregivers by household structure, divorced parents, multi-patient families. We couldn't design for all of them. Narrowing to three was itself a design decision.
"Clarity broke down where responsibility was shared — and the system didn't make ownership or progress visible."
The breakdown wasn't in any single screen — it happened in the gaps between roles, where the system relied on interpretation instead of clarity.
No agreed-upon definition of "completed" or "engaged" existed across teams. Terminology was scattered: assignments were called "Goals," "Tasks," "Exposures," "Homework," and "Practice" interchangeably. Aligning on language wasn't a precondition to the work — it became part of it.
Early mapping surfaced nearly ten distinct user types — patients by age, caregivers by household structure, multi-patient families. We could've designed flows for all of them. Instead, we narrowed to three because meaningful improvements for the majority beat shallow improvements for everyone, and focus was non-negotiable in a two-sprint window.
Designing for providers would have required broader clinical workflow decisions outside the scope of this initiative. Rather than design against assumptions, we intentionally focused on patient and caregiver experiences first. This decision kept the work grounded in real constraints instead of speculative features.
The patient homepage already did what teenagers needed — assignments and visits visible on load. We could've redesigned it to feel fresher, more modern. Instead, we refreshed only the visuals, renamed "To-Do" to "Assignments" (a word the clinical team already used), and directed engineering capacity toward caregiver coordination, where the actual problem was. The patient experience wasn't broken — clarity was.
Direct interviews weren't possible — so we built understanding through behavioral signals, clinician feedback, and an informal conversation with a caregiver who worked at InStride and was open to speaking directly.
A live caregiver review session became our closest proxy to direct usability testing:
Caregivers weren't managing a schedule. They were coordinating care across appointments, assignments, and multiple children. Before they could take action, they first needed to understand who information belonged to.
Before caregivers could coordinate care, they first needed to understand who information belonged to.
This experience was designed specifically for caregivers coordinating care across multiple children enrolled in the program.
"On this day you have three appointments, on this day you have one. And if you don't have anything on the day, you don't show the day. That to me is the most usable."
The redesign launched in May 2024. Login activity increased consistently across both user roles and sustained through April 2026 — two years post-launch, with no plateau. A modest summer dip recovered fully in the fall. Coordinators noted a reduction in caregiver outreach to confirm appointment details.
We tracked this through Mixpanel, the clearest behavioral signal we had for whether the app had become more useful in daily life. Login activity is a proxy metric, not a clinical outcome — but sustained engagement is a prerequisite for any therapeutic benefit the app was meant to support.
Login activity increased consistently following the May 2024 rollout and sustained across a two-year window — with a modest summer dip that recovered fully in the fall. The trend continued upward through April 2026, the full period of my tenure at InStride Health.
We explored navigation models, new layouts, and age-flexible structures. It quickly became clear that approach would produce a compromise serving no one well. The existing patient homepage already surfaced the two things teenagers needed most: assignments and appointments. The problem wasn't on the patient side—it was caregiver coordination.
| Explored | Shipped |
|---|---|
| New navigation models | Existing structure retained |
| Age-flexible layouts | Teen-focused hierarchy |
| Homepage redesign | Visual refresh only |
| Broader scope | Caregiver attribution |
Focusing on teenagers meant caregiver workflows would remain partially fragmented in this release. We accepted that tradeoff so engineering effort could be concentrated where coordination was breaking down most.
Caregivers managing multiple enrolled children had no way to distinguish whose appointment or assignment was whose. Everything was generic. No patient attribution. No visual anchor.
Patient-attributed appointments: Color-coded avatars with the child's initials on every session card — answering "whose appointment is this?" without an extra tap.
Persistent identity strip: A "Caregiver For" label anchors every item to the right patient. Always visible, never lost.
Inline due dates: Surfaced directly on goal cards. Caregivers had flagged being caught off guard by upcoming deadlines.
Color — intentional, not decorative: Color served two purposes: provider type (purple = coaching, orange = therapy, green = psychiatry) and patient attribution for caregivers with multiple enrolled children. We simplified — keeping color where it added navigational value, removing it where it added noise.
Midway through the redesign, clinical stakeholders pushed back. The designs felt too clinical — closer to an EHR than a product for families supporting adolescents. We kept every attribution element (they solved the real problem). We just softened the tone — less density, more breathing room, language that felt supportive instead of diagnostic.
"We've lost a bit of it feeling like a product for children and families."
— Clinical Stakeholder
Design was moving toward clarity. Stakeholders were reacting to tone. Engineering was already building. I worked with the team to separate signal from preference — absorbing feedback on tone and visual weight, holding the line on structural decisions that improved shared understanding. The caregiver redesign shipped as planned.
"We don't always have to take all the feedback we get." — PM
I led the redesign strategy across the patient and caregiver experience — defining role-based workflows, restructuring information hierarchy, and shaping the shipped mobile experience in close collaboration with product, engineering, and another designer across supporting surfaces. We worked asynchronously but synced constantly — bouncing patterns between surfaces, resolving drift as it appeared, and iterating together so the work felt like one product when it came together.
Midway through, we sat down with both flows side-by-side. That's when we saw it: color usage had drifted in ways invisible in isolation. We mapped what should travel consistently (patient attribution, state visibility) and where they should differ (calendar vs. agenda). That became our systems foundation.
We didn't have a design system. What we built was more foundational: the practice a design system is made from — making state, responsibility, and progress explicit for everyone touching the same underlying data.
Defined what "assigned," "in progress," and "completed" should look like across the experience.
Not a precondition to the work. Part of it.
Each role needed to understand who was responsible for what — ambiguity created gaps between what was assigned, seen, and understood.
Ownership had to be visible, not assumed.
Not every inconsistency was a mistake. Calendar cards and assignment cards serve different purposes and should look different.
We documented deliberate differences so future designers would know.
Appointment card patterns built for the homepage extended directly into the calendar redesign — without additional engineering lift.
Reuse happened immediately. The next sprint was faster.
Engineering reviewed the system decisions early and built the patterns once. Reuse happened immediately because the foundation was intentional, not accidental. Systems thinking only scales when engineering is part of defining it.
The redesign changed how each role understood and acted on the same information. The goal wasn't aesthetic improvement — it was making assignment state, ownership, and progress visible and consistent across everyone who touched the same system.
The system no longer required interpretation — it enabled confident, aligned action across roles.
Creating shared language was part of the design work — not a precondition to it.
One demographic pull resolved weeks of debate. When instincts compete, data is a gift.
Knowing when your work shouldn't go out is harder than shipping — and often more valuable.
Consistency became a shared deliverable — not a final polish step.
The caregiver conversation happened mid-to-late sprint — after we'd already identified the core issues and made a lot of assumptions. At the time, that sequencing made sense. We needed to understand the problem before we knew what to validate. But knowing what I know now, looping in a caregiver earlier would have shortened the circling and grounded some of those assumptions faster.
The provider experience remains an open loop. We scoped it out deliberately — the organizational strategy decisions hadn't been made — but that boundary also limited how far shared interpretation could improve. A follow-up sprint focused on the provider experience would close the coordination story more completely.
Every decision in this case study came back to one question: does this make the shared experience clearer, or harder to navigate?
"In a system where care is shared, clarity isn't just a usability improvement — it's what enables coordination to work at all."
OTHER SELECTED WORKS
Case studies across patient experience, provider tooling, and operational systems — where design decisions carry real weight.

