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In a move that has sent ripples through the global tech industry, Canva, the beloved Australian design platform that grew from a university project into a $42 billion powerhouse, has announced a sweeping corporate overhaul that will touch the lives of more than a fifth of its workforce. The news, delivered by cofounder and CEO Melanie Perkins in a raw and unusually personal open letter, confirmed that 1,271 people—22 percent of the company’s staff—will be affected through role changes, relocations, and outright layoffs. Perkins did not sugarcoat the moment. She called it “without a doubt the hardest moment in our thirteen-year history,” acknowledging that the decisions were made after months of deep reflection about how artificial intelligence is fundamentally reshaping creative work. For the employees who built Canva into a household name, the announcement lands with the weight of a sudden, unexpected storm. There is a particular sting when a company known for its colorful, optimistic brand and its famous “set crazy big goals” mantra has to turn inward and make painful cuts. Yet Perkins framed the restructuring as an act of survival and reinvention, insisting that the same boldness that carried Canva through its first chapter is exactly what is needed to face a second, more uncertain one. The company, she said, must get back to its roots: small, empowered teams, fast decision-making, and a relentless focus on the community of more than 265 million monthly active users who depend on Canva every day. But beneath the strategic language lies a deeply human story of careers interrupted, teams dissolved, and livelihoods disrupted.
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To understand why Canva is making such a drastic move, one has to look at the extraordinary shift that has taken place in the software world over the past two years. For a decade, Canva enjoyed uninterrupted growth, riding the wave of democratized design and becoming a darling of both everyday users and enterprise clients. But this year, for the first time in its history, that growth began to slow. The reason is neither mysterious nor unique to Canva: generative AI has exploded onto the scene, changing not only what people can create, but how they create it and what they expect from the tools they use. Suddenly, tasks that once required a drag-and-drop interface and graphic design skills can be accomplished with a simple text prompt. The landscape that Canva helped invent is now being reshaped by technologies that move at light speed, and even a company as culturally beloved as Canva cannot afford to be complacent. Perkins explained that the new technologies are transforming nearly every aspect of the creative process, and Canva must reorganize itself around that reality or risk becoming irrelevant. The slowdown, she suggested, was a wake-up call—a moment to ask hard questions about whether the company’s current structure, with its many layers of management and increasing specialization, was still fit for purpose. That question led to a painful but unavoidable conclusion: Canva had grown rigid, bureaucratic, and slow, and if it wanted to lead the next era of design, it had to fundamentally change how it works. The result is a plan to simplify the organization, collapse layers of management, and give teams more ownership over their work. It is, in Perkins’s words, an attempt to “refound” Canva, not as a legacy institution, but as a leaner, more agile company ready to embrace AI rather than be threatened by it.
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The details of the overhaul reveal a clear philosophy: fewer cooks in the kitchen, more decision-making power for those closest to the work, and a renewed emphasis on in-person collaboration. Perkins outlined a number of structural changes designed to free up time for building rather than navigating a maze of internal processes. The company intends to reduce subspecialization, meaning that instead of having narrowly defined roles that overlap and slow each other down, employees will be expected to take on broader responsibilities and exercise more ownership over outcomes. Canva will also collapse layers of hierarchy, shortening the distance between frontline product teams and the leadership that sets their direction. Perhaps most significantly, the company is increasing in-person collaboration and co-locating related teams, a move that signals a departure from the fully remote or hybrid-first approach that many tech companies adopted during the pandemic. For Canva, the belief is that magic happens when people are physically together, sharing ideas, iterating quickly, and building the kind of spontaneous chemistry that video calls simply cannot replicate. This is a bold bet, especially in a world where many workers have come to value flexibility above almost everything else. But Perkins is clearly betting that the energy and speed that come from co-location will outweigh the personal conveniences of remote work. In her letter, she described the goal as one of empowerment: small teams with the freedom to make decisions, take ownership, and focus on what matters most for the community. It’s a vision that echoes Canva’s earliest days, when a small group of scrappy engineers and designers were able to move faster and think more clearly than the giants they were trying to unseat. The challenge now is whether Canva can recapture that entrepreneurial spirit at a much larger scale, with thousands of employees and a global footprint. The cuts, painful as they are, are intended to make that possible—to strip away the organizational excess that has accumulated over thirteen years of breakneck growth.
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For the employees who are losing their jobs, Canva’s financial support package is designed to soften the landing, though no amount of money can fully ease the emotional toll of being told that your role no longer exists. The company is offering those affected six months of salary, which is more generous than what many tech companies provide, along with twelve months of continued healthcare coverage. There will also be career counseling and well-being assistance to help people navigate the transition and find their next opportunity. In an era of mass layoffs where workers are sometimes given only a few weeks of severance and a curt email, Canva’s approach stands out as more humane. Perkins’s letter sought to acknowledge the human cost of the decisions without retreating from them. She spoke directly to the employees affected, recognizing their contributions to Canva’s journey and expressing gratitude for the work they had done. Still, the stark reality remains: a company that once seemed untouchable in its upward trajectory is now asking its people to sacrifice for the sake of a future that no one can fully predict. The news is especially difficult because Canva has long cultivated an image as a fun, purpose-driven workplace, complete with colorful offices, collaborative culture, and a mission to empower the world to design. To hear their CEO speak of the hardest moment in company history is a jarring reminder that no organization, no matter how successful, is immune to the forces of disruption. The support package, while helpful, also highlights a deeper underlying tension: Canva’s founders are extremely wealthy, with Perkins and her husband Cliff Obrecht holding a combined net worth of $15 billion, and cofounder Cameron Adams worth an estimated $3.8 billion. Some will inevitably ask why, with such immense personal wealth, the company could not find a way to preserve jobs or restructure less painfully. The answer, from Perkins’s perspective, is that the cuts are not about saving money; they are about building the right structure for the future. But that distinction may offer little comfort to the families and individuals who now face an uncertain job market.
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The broader context of Canva’s decision is as much about the founders’ personal evolution as it is about corporate strategy. Perkins, who started Canva with her then-boyfriend Obrecht and Adams in 2012, has always been a visionary leader with an almost missionary zeal about making design accessible to everyone. Over the years, she has grown into one of the most prominent tech executives in the world, celebrated for her poise, her optimism, and her ability to inspire a loyal following among users. But the company she built has now entered a phase that no founder ever relishes: the period of transformation that requires breaking things down to build them back up. In her letter, Perkins referenced how quickly the world is changing and how new technologies are reshaping everything. She acknowledged that success in Canva’s first chapter guarantees nothing in the next. That kind of candor is rare among CEOs, who often go out of their way to frame layoffs as routine adjustments or efficiencies rather than existential reckonings. Perkins, by contrast, framed the moment in almost spiritual terms—a refounding, a return to roots, a reinvention built on the same boldness that fueled Canva’s rise. The company’s numbers remain staggering by any measure: more than 265 million monthly active users, a valuation of $42 billion as of August 2025, and a product used by schools, small businesses, and multinational corporations alike. Yet the market is unforgiving, and investors who once showered Canva with growth premiums are now focused on profitability and durability in an age of AI-driven disruption. The job cuts can be seen as a response to that pressure—a way to position Canva not as a legacy software company but as a nimble, AI-integrated platform that can survive and thrive in a radically changed environment. Whether it will work remains to be seen, but the decision signals that Perkins and her cofounders are willing to make hard choices, even at the risk of damaging the company’s beloved brand.
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In the end, the story of Canva’s restructuring is a story about the relationship between people, technology, and the organizations that connect them. It is a reminder that even the most successful companies are not permanent fixtures; they are living organisms that must adapt or wither. For the 1,271 employees being displaced, this moment is likely to be defined not by the reassuring words of a CEO but by the practical realities of severance packages, job searches, and the quiet fear of an uncertain future. And yet, there is also a broader lesson in Perkins’s message. She spoke not of fear but of the need to get back to basics, to simplify, to empower those who remain, and to put the community first. It is a philosophy that has guided Canva from the beginning, and one that its leaders hope will carry them through the next decade. As AI continues to redraw the boundaries of human creativity, companies everywhere will face the same dilemma: how to embrace new capabilities without losing the human spark that makes creativity meaningful. Canva’s bet is that a smaller, more agile, more empowered workforce will be better positioned to solve that riddle than a sprawling bureaucracy ever could be. Whether that bet pays off will be tested in the months and years ahead, as the redesigned company tries to win back the momentum that made it a darling of the tech world. For now, though, there is only the difficult, quiet work of saying goodbye to colleagues, adjusting to new roles, and hoping that the refounded Canva will be worth the sacrifice. If Perkins’s conviction is any indication, the company will emerge from this moment leaner, sharper, and more determined than ever to keep its founding promise alive. But the road ahead remains steep, and the world will be watching closely to see whether one of Australia’s greatest tech successes can reinvent itself one more time.
