When you rent a tool, nothing you put into it is really yours. You set up your libraries, teach the team its shortcuts, pile up years of files — and the day you stop paying, the door locks with all of it inside. The monthly invoice never bought you the tool. It bought you permission to keep visiting your own work.
That might be fine for a tool you open twice a year. A design canvas isn't that. It's where your team spends the working day — where drafts pile up, where arguments get settled in the comments, where every decision leaves a record. The place all of that lives shouldn't come with an eviction clause. Somehow, one seat at a time, we all signed one anyway.
Owning means something specific here, so let's be specific. The file is yours: it opens without asking a server for permission. The code is yours: what you design gets committed to your repo, under your review. The record is yours: every comment, version, and decision stays on your side of the wall. Nothing about your work should live behind someone else's login.
The same goes for the AI. You shouldn't have to keep re-explaining your product to your own tools — pasting context into a chat window that forgets it by tomorrow. Lindi's agent lives in the file. It already knows your components, your variables, your comment threads, and it proposes edits the way a careful colleague would: itemized, structured, easy to review. It runs on your API key, so even the meter is yours.
And none of this asks you to start over. Bring the app you already run, and Lindi lifts the design layer out of it — every screen, style, and interaction — while the code underneath stays exactly as your engineers left it. Design work can't break it, and your developers can keep building on all of it, back end included. Rework the surface, then merge it back to your own repo as changes you can review. That's the whole idea in miniature: sooner or later, a team doing serious work looks up from the canvas, sees the meter running on its own drafts, and decides its tools should—