Whoever's reading this — thank you for doing so. It only takes one.
An introduction to biophilic design and why the spaces we live in shape how we feel.
"Biophilia" is a big word for a concept that's really very simple. I hesitate to use big words out of fear of losing someone's interest. But this one is worth paying attention to, especially when it comes to how we design our homes.
If you're a breathing human being, you've experienced biophilia before. Probably often, and without giving it much thought. Here are a few examples:
It’s the impulse to buy yourself flowers at the grocery store. You glimpse at the price and falter for a second. Flowers aren’t on the list, and money’s feeling tight. But you reach for them anyway. You rationalize to yourself: The sight and smell of peonies in your kitchen will make you feel good, and you deserve them.
It’s the urge to burst outside of the office for a breath of fresh air during a long and uninspiring meeting in the conference room.
It’s the moment you’re on a hike and stop in your tracks just to stare at the horizon, to listen to a babbling creek, or to feel the spray of a waterfall.
That’s biophilia, a phenomenon that biologist E.O. Wilson calls our innate, evolutionary need to connect with nature. It’s in our genetic programming. It helps us survive.
Biophilic design, as it pertains to architecture and interiors, aims to bring the healing qualities of the natural world into our everyday spaces (I go more into depth about this later on, so feel free to skip the next anecdote if you’re ready to dive into that).
Biophilia in the Concrete Jungle [A Tangential, But Relevant Anecdote]
I first became aware of my own biophilia – my need for nature – when I felt most disconnected from it.
After graduating from college, I moved to Chicago to start my career in journalism. It felt like my big breakout moment, a la “Eat, Pray, Love” or “The Devil Wears Prada.” I was leaving behind my home state of Kentucky, where I’d spent the first 21 years of my life, to live in a metropolitan city, where I could grow.
But life in the Windy City didn’t offer that expansive feeling I’d romanticized while growing up, back in the Bluegrass State. Most days, it actually felt claustrophobic. I was spending most of my time in cramped, artificial containers. I’d step out of my high-rise apartment in the morning, catch a bus a block away, then settle into my cubicle in the newsroom. Eight hours later, I did the same dance in reverse, returning to my shoebox apartment.
After the honeymoon phase wore off and Chicago’s infamous winter set in, it started to become unbearable. I bought a light box on Craiglist, in desperation to fend off my first encounter with seasonal affective disorder. It didn’t help. Turning to fake sunshine encased in plastic as a surrogate for the real thing only deepened the sense of despair.
I eventually found a remedy, and it didn’t cost anything. When time allowed – and when I could convince myself to brave the subzero temperatures – I’d go for a run along Lake Michigan. I'd keep my eyes on the horizon and listen to my breath. On the way back, I’d weave through Lincoln Park and stop to stretch, always touching a tree while doing so.
I felt better every time, without fail. That ritual – gazing at the horizon, listening to the breath, touching the tree – is biophilia at work.
Bringing It Home: The Three I’s of Biophilic Design
If you’ve made it this far, the likely next question is: “how does biophilia apply to architecture and interior design?”
Great question. And again, it’s easier than it sounds.
Stephen Kellert, a Yale professor and expert, organizes biophilia in three central pillars. They also all begin with the letter “I,” which I also find helpful. Think of them as three strategies for bringing more nature, and its benefits, into your life.
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Incorporation of nature – Design elements that are literal representations of nature in our interior spaces, like potted plants, windows designed for cross-ventilation, a skylight that lets morning sun illuminate a bathroom.
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Inspiration from nature - Less direct, but just as powerful. These are design elements that remind us of nature, the “winks and nods.” A floral wallpaper, layered textures like a jute rug or nubby linen, a curved wall or rounded sofa that hints at something organic.
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Interaction with nature - My favorite, and often the most transformative. This is about introducing actual nature into the built environment — not as decoration, but as a living presence you can see, hear, smell, and touch. Outdoor living spaces, thoughtfully designed gardens, windows and balconies positioned to frame a tree line or mountain ridge.
A growing body of research continues to illuminate the profound and wide-ranging physiological and psychological benefits of incorporating nature into our built environments. Yet, for some reason, that knowledge hasn't taken a hold on mainstream conversations about how we design our homes and interior spaces.
We've known since 1984, for instance, that surgical patients in rooms with views of trees required fewer strong pain medications, had shorter hospital stays, and experienced fewer negative emotional episodes than patients looking at a brick wall (Ulrich RS, Science).
We also know that neighborhoods with more tree canopy experience lower rates of violent crime. That disparity was evident in communities I reported on Chicago, in a year that broke records for the number of homicides.
At home, the benefits of biophilic design include improved cognitive function, reduced risk of cardiovascular disease, and better sleep. In essence -- more quality years of life. We should be talking about design in terms of preventative medicine, not luxury.
A Better World Begins at Home
The domain we have the most immediate control over is also the one with the greatest impact on our mental and physical wellbeing. That's no small thing.
Felipe and I bring this philosophy to every project we take on — whether it's a full custom build, a small addition, or a thoughtful consultation. If this resonates, we'd love to hear about your space.
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Photo 1: Casa Lopez in Tunquén, Chile. Design and rendering by Felipe Santander.
Photo 2: Mirador Pinohuacho in
Villarrica, Chile. Design by Grupo Talca. Photo by Cassidy Santander.
Photo 3: Hotel Surazo in Matanzas, Chile. Design by WMR Arquitectos. Photo by Cassidy Santander.
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