I’ve always believed that connection to nature shouldn’t be a privilege reserved for the able-bodied. This hit home when my cousin Ella, who uses a wheelchair, visited my newly renovated apartment with its much-bragged-about plant wall and natural elements. Her quiet observation – “It’s lovely, but I can’t reach any of it” – was a wake-up call that I’ve carried with me through every project since.
The truth is, we’ve made tremendous strides in biophilic design over the past decade, but accessibility often remains an afterthought rather than a foundational consideration. I’m not pointing fingers – I’ve been guilty of this oversight myself, getting so caught up in creating these magnificent natural connections that I’ve sometimes forgotten to ask the critical question: can everyone actually experience them? Last spring, I consulted on a community center renovation in Philadelphia where the team had designed this gorgeous sensory garden.
The plans featured raised beds with aromatic herbs, textured plants, and a small water feature. Beautiful concept, genuinely thoughtful intention – but every bed was the same height, and the paths between them were covered in decorative gravel. When I asked how someone using a mobility device would navigate the space or interact with the plantings, there was this awkward silence followed by, “We didn’t really think about that.” And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
It’s not malicious exclusion – it’s just not thinking about it. I’ve come to believe that accessible biophilic design isn’t just better design ethically – it’s actually better design, period. When we solve for accessibility challenges, we often create experiences that are richer and more multisensory for everyone.
Take, for example, a project I worked on for a retirement community in Minnesota. We needed to create year-round nature connections that would be accessible to residents with varying mobility and sensory abilities. Rather than defaulting to just visual connections (the easiest biophilic element to implement), we developed what we called “touch gardens” – planters at multiple heights with plants specifically selected for tactile interest.
The unexpected outcome? Staff reported that residents with declining vision who could still navigate independently were using the texture of different plants as wayfinding markers. “I know I’m near the dining room when I feel the lamb’s ear,” one resident told me.
We hadn’t anticipated this navigation benefit, but by designing for multiple ways to experience the natural elements, we created a system that served needs we hadn’t even identified. I’m not going to pretend this work is simple. Integrating natural elements while maintaining accessibility standards presents real challenges.
Living systems introduce variables – plants grow and change, they drop leaves, they sometimes need irregular maintenance. Water features, while wonderfully multisensory, can create slip hazards. Natural materials like wood may weather unpredictably.
But these challenges aren’t reasons to abandon accessibility or biophilia – they’re invitations to more creative problem-solving. One approach I’ve found incredibly valuable is simply involving people with disabilities in the design process from day one. Seems obvious, right?
But you wouldn’t believe how rarely this happens. During a school renovation project in Denver, we formed a student advisory committee that included two teenagers who used mobility devices and one with visual impairment. Their input fundamentally transformed our approach to the school’s central courtyard.
For instance, we had initially designed a series of small, intimate garden nooks divided by tall grasses – something I’d implemented successfully in other schools. But Jasmine, a student who used a motorized wheelchair, pointed out that the narrow entrances to these spaces would make her feel excluded from spontaneous social gatherings. Meanwhile, Tomas, who had limited vision, explained that the lack of clear navigation paths would make the space anxiety-producing rather than restorative.
We restructured the entire concept, creating wider pathways with tactile markers at intersections and gathering spaces large enough for multiple wheelchair users to congregate alongside their standing peers. The final design was better for everyone – more intuitive, more socially inclusive, and still richly connected to nature. There’s a common misconception that accessible design means sterile, institutional spaces – all grab bars and non-slip flooring.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Some of the most beautiful biophilic spaces I’ve worked on have been fully accessible. Consider height diversity in plantings.
When designing for wheelchair users or people of short stature, we need elements that can be appreciated from a seated position. This doesn’t mean eliminating taller elements – it means creating layers of experience, with some nature connections at lower heights. Cascading plants from elevated planters, vertical gardens that begin at ground level, or even simply ensuring that some seating is positioned to frame views of taller natural elements can achieve this layering.
Texture diversity serves multiple needs too. For people with visual impairments, tactile variety provides richness that might otherwise be missed. But these textural elements enhance everyone’s experience.
In a healthcare center in Chicago, we created a series of touch-friendly plant displays with identification in both visual text and braille. Staff reported that virtually all visitors – regardless of visual ability – were touching the plants, and many commented on how this physical connection felt more meaningful than just looking. Scent is another powerful and often underutilized biophilic tool that can create accessibility advantages.
For people with limited vision, aromatic plants provide orientation cues and seasonal awareness. In a memory care facility in Portland, we used different fragrant plants in each residential corridor – lavender in one wing, rosemary in another, mint in a third. This not only helped residents find their way back to their rooms but also stimulated memory and conversation among people with cognitive impairments.
Sound elements can similarly enhance accessibility while strengthening nature connections. The gentle sound of moving water provides orientation cues for people with visual impairments while simultaneously masking distracting background noise – helpful for individuals with hearing aids or sensory processing difficulties. During one project, we installed a small bubbling water feature near the entrance of a sensory-friendly classroom.
The teacher later told me it had become a critical self-regulation tool for her students with autism, who would visit it when feeling overwhelmed. Now, I’m not suggesting this is easy to get right. My first attempts at accessible biophilic design were humbling, to put it kindly.
I remember proudly showing off a sensory garden to a consultant who used a wheelchair, only to watch her struggle to access half the elements I’d included. “You know,” she said with remarkable patience, “accessibility isn’t just about getting into the space. It’s about being able to use it.” That lesson has stuck with me.
Getting through the door is the absolute minimum – true accessibility means being able to actively engage with and benefit from the environment. I’ve also learned that accessible biophilic design requires maintenance planning from the beginning. Nature is inherently dynamic – that’s part of its appeal.
But this dynamism can create accessibility challenges if not managed thoughtfully. Plants grow and can encroach on pathways. Deciduous species drop leaves that might create slip hazards.
Water features can become breeding grounds for mosquitoes if not properly maintained. The solution isn’t to avoid these elements – it’s to plan for their management from the beginning. This might mean selecting slower-growing species for areas near pathways, installing adequate drainage systems, or creating maintenance schedules that prioritize accessibility.
It might also mean building in flexibility, with planters that can be moved if pathways need to be reconfigured, or systems that can be easily adjusted as needs change. Budget realities can’t be ignored either. I’m often asked if accessible biophilic design is inherently more expensive.
The honest answer is: it can be, if it’s treated as an add-on rather than a foundational consideration. Retrofitting accessibility features is almost always costlier than designing for accessibility from the start. The same is true for biophilic elements.
The sweet spot is integrating both from the earliest conceptual stages. For example, in a recent affordable housing project with severe budget constraints, we knew we couldn’t afford elaborate biophilic features. Instead, we focused on the building’s orientation to maximize natural light (free once you’ve planned for it), specified windows positioned to frame existing trees on the property (no additional cost), and created a simple sensory garden using donated plants from a local nursery.
The maintenance is handled by residents through a volunteer program that has unexpectedly become a beloved community-building activity. The most powerful revelation in my work has been recognizing that when we design for the full spectrum of human abilities, we often create spaces that are more compelling for everyone. This isn’t about special accommodations – it’s about inclusive experiences that recognize the diversity of ways people interact with their environments.
I was reminded of this recently while observing a group of schoolchildren in a public park that featured accessible biophilic elements. The children without disabilities were just as drawn to the tactile plant wall, the aromatic herbs, and the interactive water feature as their classmates with mobility and sensory differences. They all engaged more deeply with the natural elements because those elements were designed to be experienced in multiple ways.
That’s the promise of accessible biophilic design – not just compliance with standards or accommodations for specific needs, but richer, more meaningful connections to nature for all of us. After all, we all experience the world through our senses, we all benefit from contact with natural elements, and we all deserve environments that support our wellbeing. I don’t think I’ll ever forget Ella’s gentle criticism of my plant wall.
It was a gift, really – a reminder that my work isn’t just about creating beautiful nature connections, but ensuring those connections are available to everyone. The most stunning biophilic design in the world means nothing if people can’t access and experience it. And conversely, when we design thoughtfully for accessibility, we often create more profound nature connections for all.
