I was talking with a corrections officer last month—a weathered guy named Mike with twenty-plus years in the system—when he said something that stuck with me: “These walls don’t just keep people in; they keep everything else out.” We were standing in a central corridor of a medium-security facility in Pennsylvania, surrounded by concrete, steel, and fluorescent lighting that buzzed overhead like an annoying mosquito. The space felt… dead.
That’s really the only word for it. Completely disconnected from any natural rhythms or elements. I couldn’t help but wonder about the psychological impact of spending years—sometimes decades—in an environment so thoroughly divorced from the natural world.
I’ve spent the past eighteen months researching how biophilic design principles might be implemented in correctional facilities. It’s fascinating, challenging work that often bumps up against deeply entrenched institutional perspectives. “Nature?
In prisons? You’ve got to be joking,” is a response I’ve heard more times than I can count. But the evidence supporting nature’s rehabilitative potential is becoming harder to ignore.
Let me back up a bit. My interest in this niche application of biophilic design started after visiting a progressive Scandinavian facility during a research trip in 2019. The contrast with American institutions was stark—not just in the physical design but in the underlying philosophy.
Many Nordic facilities incorporate natural light, views of landscapes, and even direct access to outdoor spaces as fundamental rights rather than privileges to be earned. The recidivism rates? Dramatically lower than ours.
Now, correlation isn’t causation (as my research methods professor would constantly remind me), but it certainly warranted a closer look. When I returned to the States, I began digging into whatever research existed on nature-based interventions in correctional settings. There wasn’t much—a few isolated studies, some anecdotal reports.
But what I found was promising enough to justify deeper exploration. One study from a minimum-security facility in Washington state showed that inmates who participated in a prison gardening program had a 24% lower rate of infractions than non-participants. Another small but intriguing study out of Utah demonstrated that even just having a cell with a view of natural landscapes correlated with fewer sick call visits compared to those facing brick walls or parking lots.
The most compelling case study I found was from a juvenile detention center in Illinois that had renovated one wing to include circadian lighting, natural materials, and a central courtyard with native plantings. Staff reported meaningful improvements in behavior, particularly decreased aggressive incidents during the first three months after implementation. When I called the facility director to learn more, she told me, “These kids come from environments where nature is often the only safe space they have.
Then we lock them up in concrete boxes and expect them to develop healthy coping mechanisms.” That conversation was a turning point for me. I’ve always believed that biophilic design isn’t a luxury—it’s a biological necessity. We evolved in natural environments over millions of years.
Our physiological and psychological functioning is optimized for connection with natural elements and patterns. When we remove those connections, we’re essentially creating environments that work against our biology. For anyone, that’s problematic.
For individuals already experiencing the extreme stress of incarceration, it can be catastrophic. The challenge, of course, is that correctional facilities have very real security concerns that can’t be brushed aside for design ideals. You can’t just tear down walls and plant gardens without addressing legitimate safety issues.
My work has focused on identifying biophilic interventions that enhance rehabilitation while maintaining necessary security protocols. The good news? Many effective biophilic strategies are actually compatible with security requirements.
Take natural light, for instance. Increasing window area (with appropriate security glazing) doesn’t compromise the building envelope but dramatically improves interior conditions. Studies consistently show that adequate natural light improves sleep quality, reduces depression, and supports healthy circadian rhythms—all crucial factors for psychological stability and rehabilitation.
Visual connections to nature can be established through strategic window placement and courtyard designs that allow views of green spaces without necessarily providing physical access. Even in maximum-security settings, these visual connections deliver measurable benefits. I’ve watched hardened inmates pause mid-conversation when a bird lands on a window ledge—a momentary reconnection with something beyond concrete and steel.
Materials present another opportunity. The standard palette in correctional facilities—concrete, steel, plastic laminate—isn’t just aesthetic deprivation; it’s sensory deprivation. These materials create acoustically harsh environments that amplify stress.
Natural materials like wood (properly sealed and secured), wool acoustic panels, and even certain natural stone applications can be incorporated without compromising security while significantly improving the sensory experience of the space. I worked with a facility in Colorado that replaced standard vinyl flooring with a natural rubber product that mimicked the visual and tactile properties of wood. The material met all security and maintenance requirements but transformed the feeling of the space.
One inmate told me, “It sounds different when you walk on it—not that hollow echo that makes you feel like you’re in a cave all day.” Water features—often considered impossible in correctional settings—can actually be designed to meet security standards. A project I consulted on incorporated a small, secured water wall in a counseling area. The sound of moving water provided both acoustic masking for confidential conversations and a naturally calming element that staff reported helped de-escalate tense situations.
The maintenance team initially resisted (water features can indeed be maintenance headaches), but the design used a sealed system with minimal components that proved surprisingly robust. Circadian lighting is perhaps the lowest-hanging fruit. Replacing standard fluorescent fixtures with LED systems that mimic natural light cycles requires no significant architectural modifications but provides profound physiological benefits.
A pilot program in a women’s facility showed improved sleep quality and reduced instances of seasonal depression after implementing circadian lighting systems in common areas and cells. The integration of nature imagery—another “easy win”—is backed by substantial research showing that even representational nature can trigger positive physiological responses. A healthcare study demonstrated that patients shown nature imagery experienced pain reduction comparable to certain doses of analgesics.
In correctional settings, nature imagery in counseling spaces and common areas creates psychological breathing room—small moments of escape that can help manage the intense stress of confinement. Plant life presents more complex challenges but potentially greater benefits. Interior plantings must be carefully selected to eliminate toxic species or those with components that could be weaponized.
But several facilities have successfully implemented secured planting areas with species specifically chosen for safety. The maintenance is typically shared between staff and inmates, creating meaningful work opportunities that also deliver therapeutic benefits. I visited a women’s facility in California that developed a horticultural therapy program within their substance abuse treatment unit.
The program director told me, “Watching something grow because of your care—it changes people. Many of these women have never experienced being successful at nurturing anything, including themselves.” Of course, cost is always raised as an objection. Corrections budgets are perpetually constrained, and anything perceived as an amenity faces intense scrutiny.
What’s fascinating, though, is that many biophilic interventions actually demonstrate positive return on investment when analyzed properly. For example, improved circadian lighting systems typically cost more upfront than standard fixtures but consume less energy over time. More importantly, facilities that have implemented them report reduced instances of sleep disturbances and seasonal affective symptoms—factors that directly impact medical costs and behavioral management resources.
Similarly, natural materials often have longer lifespans and lower maintenance requirements than their conventional counterparts. A women’s facility in Oregon that installed wool acoustic panels reported they were still in excellent condition after eight years, whereas the standard acoustic panels they replaced typically needed replacement every 3-4 years due to damage. The most compelling financial argument, however, relates to recidivism.
If—and this remains the big “if” that more research needs to address—biophilic environments contribute to reduced recidivism, even marginally, the economic case becomes overwhelming. The annual cost of incarcerating one individual ranges from $25,000 to over $60,000 depending on the state. A 5% reduction in recidivism rates would represent billions in savings nationally.
I’m not suggesting that biophilic design alone will solve the complex issues of our correctional system. But I am convinced that our current approach—housing individuals in environments that work against human biological needs—actively undermines rehabilitation goals. The good news is that the conversation is changing.
I’ve had more inquiries from correctional facility planners in the last year than in the previous five combined. Several states are incorporating biophilic design considerations into new facility standards. Even existing facilities are exploring retrofit options that bring natural elements into rehabilitation spaces.
What excites me most are the projects that involve incarcerated individuals in the design process. A facility in Washington created a design committee that included staff, administrators, and inmates serving long sentences. The collaborative approach not only produced thoughtful, practical solutions but also gave participants a sense of agency and investment in their environment—itself a powerful rehabilitative tool.
Look, I’m a realist. Correctional facilities will never (and perhaps should never) feel like high-end resorts. Security requirements, budget constraints, and public perception all create very real boundaries for design.
But within those boundaries, there’s significant untapped potential to create environments that support rehabilitation rather than hinder it. The question isn’t whether we can afford to incorporate biophilic elements into correctional design. Given what we know about human psychological and physiological needs, and the extreme cost of our current recidivism rates, the question is whether we can afford not to.
