Turning Portfolio Views into Paid Projects: The Money Side of Creative Web Design
When I first began designing websites, it was the early 2010s, and I was more obsessed with gradients and cool hover effects than invoicing anyone. Back then, passion came easy—paying clients did not.
I remember showing my cousin a personal project I’d spent two months perfecting—an intricately designed site for a fictional bakery. “Have you thought about doing this properly, for money?” she asked. I scoffed. I thought getting paid would ruin the magic.
But the romanticism wore off eventually. It always does. There came a time when designing late into the night without earning more than praise started to feel more like self-betrayal than artistic devotion. I’d post my latest designs online, gather a few likes, maybe even a comment from someone I didn’t know—and that was it. A virtual pat on the back.
Turning views, likes, shares—and the occasional DM saying “love your work!”—into real, paying projects felt like solving a riddle without a question. That transition, that strange and muddy zone between doing what you love and making a living from it, is what I want to talk about.
Because it’s not about trickery. It’s not about sales funnels or growth hacks. It’s about something simpler and harder: connection, intention, and understanding your value in the eyes of another human being.
People Don’t Buy Portfolios. They Buy Problems Solved
The most freeing (and slightly soul-crushing) realisation I had was this: people don’t hire creatives because they fall in love with our style. They hire us because they’ve got a problem—and they think we might be the key to solving it. They care about their store not loading on mobile, their blog looking outdated, their users getting lost in a confusing mess of menus. They’ll glance at our work, yes. But what they really ask, silently, eyes squinting at the screen is: “Can this person help me where I’m stuck?”
Most portfolios don’t answer that question. They list projects like trophies on a shelf. Beautiful work, polished mockups, clever animations. But there’s nothing to say, “Here’s what I made, and here’s how it helped someone like you.”
Once I started writing a bit about the “why” of my work—speaking directly to potential clients, not just fellow designers—something shifted. I turned each piece into a short story: what the client wanted, why they were struggling, what we tried together, what happened next.
Those were the pages that got bookmarked. Those were the pages that caused messages to land in my inbox that started like this: “I saw what you did for Sarah’s shop. I think I’ve got a similar issue…”
When Enough People See Your Work Isn’t the Point
I once thought getting more traffic to my portfolio was the answer. SEO. Hashtags. Linking it in every social bio. At one point I even created a little hidden Easter egg on my homepage hoping it would go viral. It didn’t.
Eventually, I realised something odd. I didn’t need thousands of people to see my work. I needed the right three people to see it.
We’re told to chase visibility. But when you’re a solo creative or a small studio, you don’t need to become famous online. You need to become unforgettable to five people who are actively looking for someone like you—right now.
I stopped focusing on scale. I started focusing on context. Where are these “right people” already looking? Where do they ask for help? What situations put them in the mindset of “I need someone good… and soon”?
It turned out most of my projects didn’t come from cold portfolio visits. They came from a tiny blog post I guest-wrote, or a friend texting her colleague “you’d love this guy’s style”, or a Slack group I’d quietly contributed to for months.
When someone lands on your portfolio without that recommendation or context, it’s just a pretty gallery. When they arrive already listening, already framing you as a solution, suddenly everything looks different—even if it’s the same work.
Don’t Say ‘Hire Me.’ Say ‘Here’s What Happens If You Do.’
There’s a strange fear around being honest about money when you’re a creative. Maybe it feels like selling out. Maybe it feels crude. Maybe we’re afraid that if we draw too much attention to the fact we want to be paid, we’ll come off desperate.
But here’s what I realised: if people don’t know how to move from admiration to engagement, we leave them in awkward limbo. They like our work, but they don’t know what hiring us would look like. Or cost. Or aim to achieve.
So I tried an experiment. I added a page called “working together”. Instead of big declarations or persuasive messaging, I just told the truth. I explained how I usually work. What steps we’d take. What things typically cost (with a wide range). What I need to deliver my best work. And … who I might not be right for.
I gave them enough to imagine the process. I turned the leap into a gentle step.
Shockingly, it worked. More people reached out. More importantly, the people who did were better fits. They respected my time. They understood the process. They came in ready to build something together—not audition me against six cheaper options.
We forget how confusing it is standing on the other side. When we focus on making things simple, generous, and human, we invite people in.
Tell Fewer Stories, but Tell Them Better
At some point, I got advice that changed how I presented my work online. A mentor said, “People can only remember one or two things about you. What do you want those to be?”
I was trying to be everything, to everyone. E-commerce sites. Personal blogs. Art portfolios. Corporate landing pages. I had dozens of projects on display, each shouting a little for attention. None stood out.
So I cut it down. I picked three projects. That’s it. But I went deep. I wrote clearly about what the client needed. I showed before and after screenshots. I included quotes from emails where they talked about the impact. I even described the funny things that went wrong and how we fixed them.
Humans remember stories. We do not remember lists. A great portfolio isn’t a museum—it’s a conversation starter.
One client told me later, “I could see myself in that bakery example. Not because I sell bread—but because I felt that same overwhelm.”
The Money You Ask is About What They Trust
Let’s talk money. Specifically: how much? How do you price your work when it’s creative and custom and part-subjective?
I’ll tell you what’s worked for me: talk about outcomes.
Don’t sell a new website. Sell what the new website enables.
It could be: more bookings for a small inn. More trust in a new consultancy. Fewer customer emails for a busy shop. More newsletter sign-ups for a coach dreaming of their first product launch.
When you show people a line connecting the money they pay to tangible, positive changes in their world, you shift the conversation from “Is this expensive?” to “Is this worth it?”
That simple change—anchoring price to value—doesn’t just help you earn more. It filters out the wrong clients. Those looking for “cheap and fast” vanish. The ones who truly need help and have skin in the game are drawn closer.
You become a creative partner, not a pretty tool.
What’s Obvious to You is Magic to Someone Else
Finally, here’s the truth that took me the longest to believe: things I found boring, basic, or “just common sense” were often the very things clients found most valuable.
To me, choosing the right font or tweaking the layout until it felt balanced was just instinct. I barely thought about it. But to those I worked with, that touch was what made them trust me.
The curse of knowledge is real. We forget how much we know. We overlook how much we bring to the table because to us, it’s second nature.
The trick is never hiding your creativity under a layer of complexity. Show your human side. Let people in on your thinking. Teach a little in your portfolio if you can. Brag less. Weave more.
You don’t need a blueprint. You need to speak in a voice that makes others say, “I don’t know exactly what I need. But I want you helping me get there.”
Final Thoughts
If there’s a secret to turning attention into income as a creative, it’s this: Stop proving your talent. Start sharing your thinking.
When you share stories, explain outcomes, and speak like a person—not a pitch—you build trust. And trust, quietly and consistently, becomes the bridge between admiration and action.
That fictional bakery site I once built for fun? Years later, it helped me land a real bakery client. She found it, fell in love, and then had just one question.
“I want something like this. Can we talk?”
Turns out, the work we do always leaves behind clues. The key is making sure the right people can follow them.
