I was knee-deep in mud when I first truly understood how nature heals trauma. It was three weeks after Hurricane Florence had devastated coastal North Carolina, and I’d joined a volunteer group helping families salvage what they could from their flooded homes. The physical destruction was staggering – foundations buckled, family photos turned to pulp, generations of memories reduced to waterlogged debris.
But what struck me most wasn’t the physical damage. It was the haunted look in survivors’ eyes – that thousand-yard stare of people whose sense of safety had been fundamentally shattered. I remember one woman, Marianne, who hadn’t spoken much since we’d arrived at her property.
As we cleared soaked drywall from her kitchen, she suddenly stopped and pointed through the missing wall to her backyard. “My grandmother planted that magnolia,” she said quietly. “And it’s still standing.” That tree became her anchor.
Each morning when our crew arrived, we’d find her sitting beneath it, often with a thermos of coffee, sometimes just staring up through its branches. By our final day, she’d moved a salvaged garden bench permanently beneath it. “This is where I’m starting over,” she told me.
That experience fundamentally changed how I approach post-disaster design. I’d always incorporated biophilic elements into my work, but I’d primarily seen them as wellness enhancers for everyday environments. Witnessing how nature connections became psychological lifelines in catastrophe’s aftermath shifted my perspective entirely.
The research backs this up, though it’s rarely centered in disaster recovery conversations. Studies following the 2011 Christchurch earthquake found that residents who maintained regular access to green spaces reported significantly lower post-traumatic stress symptoms than those in barren temporary housing. Similar patterns emerged after Hurricane Sandy, where communities with preserved natural areas showed measurably faster psychological recovery.
It makes biological sense. Disaster fundamentally disrupts our sense of safety and control – the very things that nature connections have been shown to help restore. Even brief interactions with natural elements reduce cortisol levels, lower blood pressure, and activate parasympathetic nervous system responses – literally moving us from “fight or flight” to “rest and digest” states.
Yet our typical disaster recovery approaches often unintentionally sever these healing connections precisely when people need them most. I saw this firsthand after a tornado devastated a small Midwestern community where I was consulting. The emergency response was admirably efficient at providing physical necessities – temporary housing units arrived within days, power was quickly restored, food distribution networks established.
But these units were placed on an asphalt parking lot with zero natural elements. No trees, no gardens, not even containers of flowers. Just trailers, concrete, and chain-link fencing.
Six weeks later, mental health providers reported alarming rates of anxiety, depression, and insomnia among residents. When I suggested integrating even simple natural elements into the recovery zone, I was told, “We’re focused on real needs right now, not pretty landscaping.” This fundamental misunderstanding – that nature connection is somehow frivolous compared to “real needs” – continues to undermine recovery efforts worldwide. Yet the evidence shows these connections aren’t just nice-to-haves; they’re essential elements of psychological healing.
I’m not suggesting that biophilic design should supersede immediate safety and shelter concerns. That would be absurd. But I do believe we can simultaneously address immediate physical needs while preserving and creating vital connections to the natural world.
After a major flood devastated parts of Louisiana in 2016, I worked with a community organization to develop what we called “pocket resiliency gardens” – small-scale natural spaces integrated directly into temporary housing zones. These weren’t elaborate installations. Some were simply raised beds with native plants placed between housing units.
Others were small gathering areas with shade trees and natural seating. The most basic were just window boxes filled with resilient local plants distributed to families in temporary accommodations. The impact was remarkable.
Residents reported that these small natural touchpoints provided critical psychological continuity amid disruption. One elderly gentleman told me that tending the rosemary in his window box was “the only thing that feels normal anymore.” A mother mentioned that watching butterflies visit the native flowers outside their temporary unit was the first time she’d seen her daughter smile since the flood. The most successful initiative was what we called “salvage gardens” – using plants rescued from damaged home gardens and replanting them in community spaces.
These plants carried profound emotional significance, representing both what was lost and what could continue. Taking cuttings from flood-damaged family gardens and propagating them for new beginnings became a powerful healing ritual for many families. Of course, implementation challenges exist.
Disaster zones are chaotic, resources are stretched thin, and immediate life-safety concerns rightfully take precedence. Adding “plant consideration” to already overwhelming emergency response protocols can seem ridiculous on the surface. But we’re missing crucial healing opportunities by treating nature connection as a luxury to be addressed only after “real needs” are met.
The psychological recovery timeline begins immediately after physical safety is established, not months later when formal rebuilding starts. I’ve found several approaches that work even within the constraints of immediate disaster response: First, where possible, situate temporary housing near existing natural areas rather than on barren sites. Even views of vegetation from windows can significantly reduce stress and improve cognitive function.
Second, incorporate plant rescue into initial response efforts. When safe, teams can collect cuttings, divisions, and seeds from damaged home gardens for later replanting. This not only preserves genetically adapted local plants but creates powerful continuity for residents.
Third, prioritize quick-establishing natural elements. Fast-growing native grasses, container gardens with edible plants, and portable “nature kits” can create immediate natural connections while longer-term solutions develop. Fourth – and perhaps most importantly – recognize that damaged natural elements themselves need recovery plans.
I’ve seen communities devastated not just by damage to homes but by the loss of beloved community trees, gardens, and natural landmarks. Including these in recovery planning acknowledges their psychological importance. I remember working in a coastal community where a massive oak tree had stood in the town square for generations.
Hurricane winds had severely damaged but not killed it. Against pressure to remove it for safety, residents fought to save it. An arborist volunteered to carefully prune damaged sections, and the community held a “tree healing ceremony” where children tied supportive messages to its remaining branches.
That wounded tree became a powerful symbol of the community’s own recovery journey. “If it can survive and keep growing, so can we,” one resident told me. Three years later, when new growth had filled in much of the canopy, they held a community celebration beneath it.
These experiences have convinced me that biophilic approaches aren’t just beneficial in disaster recovery – they’re essential components of psychological healing that deserve prioritization alongside physical rebuilding. The most profound example I’ve witnessed was in a Japanese coastal town devastated by the 2011 tsunami. There, recovery planners integrated nature connection at every level – from orientation of temporary housing toward mountain views to the preservation of damaged cherry trees that were carefully tended back to health.
Most moving was a memorial garden created using debris from the tsunami itself – broken concrete became retaining walls, salvaged house timbers formed garden beds where community members grew vegetables and flowers. What struck me most was how these natural elements provided both connection to the past and hope for the future. A resident told me: “The garden reminds us of what happened, but also shows us that new life always returns.” I’ve carried that wisdom into every post-disaster project since.
Nature demonstrates resilience in ways nothing else can. After catastrophic disruption, people need to believe in the possibility of renewal. Witnessing plants reemerge from flooded soil, trees leaf out after storms, and flowers bloom in unlikely places provides visible evidence of nature’s persistence – and by extension, our own.
The application doesn’t require elaborate installations or massive budgets. Even small interventions matter enormously. After an apartment fire displaced dozens of families in my own city, I worked with a local plant shop to provide small potted plants to each affected household in their temporary accommodations.
One woman later told me she’d talk to her little spider plant each morning, “telling it we were both going to make it through this rough patch.” That $8 plant became her daily reminder of growth and continuity. As climate change increases both the frequency and severity of natural disasters, integrating biophilic approaches into standard recovery protocols becomes increasingly urgent. These connections aren’t luxuries – they’re essential psychological medicine that costs relatively little to provide compared to their healing impact.
The good news is that awareness is growing. Several major disaster relief organizations now include biophilic elements in their recovery frameworks. FEMA’s most recent guidance on temporary housing includes recommendations for preserving natural views and creating access to vegetated areas where possible.
For those working in disaster zones or supporting recovery efforts, even small actions matter: advocating for preservation of existing trees during cleanup, providing native plant seeds to affected communities, ensuring temporary housing has at least minimal connection to natural light and views, or simply acknowledging that nature loss itself is a legitimate form of trauma that deserves recognition. Nature heals in ways nothing else can. After disaster tears apart the fabric of normal life, these connections help reweave our sense of belonging to something larger and more enduring than the catastrophe itself.
As Marianne told me beneath her grandmother’s magnolia: “Storms come and go, but trees know how to keep standing. I’m learning from this old girl every day.”
