Making Nature Accessible for Everyone: What I’ve Learned About Inclusive Garden Design

After my wife’s stroke eight years ago, I learned firsthand how design choices that seem minor can create major barriers for people with mobility or sensory challenges. We had to rethink everything about our house – not just grab bars and ramps, but how she could continue to connect with the garden spaces that had always been so important to her mental health.

That experience opened my eyes to something I’d never really considered before: how many of the nature-based improvements I was making to our home were only accessible to people who could stand, reach, and see normally. It got me thinking about all the therapeutic garden articles I’d been reading – wonderful concepts, but most seemed to assume everyone experienced them the same way.

When I started helping other folks in our community with similar modifications, I kept running into this same issue. We’d create these beautiful garden spaces, bring more natural light into homes, add plants and water features – but often without thinking about whether everyone in the household could actually interact with them.

Take raised bed gardens, which are recommended everywhere for aging-in-place modifications. Most sources suggest a standard height of 24 to 30 inches, which works great if you’re standing. But for someone in a wheelchair, that can be too high to comfortably reach across. I learned this the hard way when I built our first raised bed at the “recommended” height and watched my wife struggle to tend the plants on the far side.

The solution wasn’t complicated once I understood the problem. I built a second raised bed at 18 inches high with a narrow profile – only two feet wide instead of four – so she could reach everything from her wheelchair. But it took that trial and error to realize that “accessible” isn’t one-size-fits-all.

This experience led me to pay more attention to accessibility when I was helping design the therapeutic garden at our church. We formed a small committee that included two congregation members who used mobility aids and one gentleman who was losing his vision to diabetes. Their input completely changed our approach.

Originally, we’d planned a traditional herb garden with plants at ground level and narrow paths between beds. Pretty standard setup, nothing fancy. But Martha, who uses a walker, pointed out that she wouldn’t be able to bend down to touch or smell the herbs. And Bill, whose vision was declining, explained that he’d need different textures or scents to help him navigate the space independently.

We ended up designing what we called our “sensory stations” – planters at various heights with plants specifically chosen for their different textures, scents, and sounds in the breeze. Not professional terminology, but it described what we were trying to achieve. Each area had a different character that could be experienced through multiple senses.

One unexpected benefit: the variety of heights and textures made the space more interesting for everyone. Kids loved the fuzzy lamb’s ear plants as much as adults with visual impairments did. The aromatic herbs that helped Bill navigate became popular with everyone who passed through.

I’ve come to realize that when you design for different abilities, you often create richer experiences for everyone. It’s not about special accommodations – it’s about recognizing that people interact with their environment in different ways.

Sound has become another element I pay attention to now. We added a small fountain to our church garden partly for the aesthetic, but also because I’d read that moving water can help people with hearing impairments orient themselves in a space – the consistent, gentle sound provides an audio landmark.

What I didn’t expect was how much that sound helped during our fellowship gatherings. The soft bubbling masks traffic noise from the street and creates a more peaceful atmosphere for everyone. Several congregation members have mentioned that they find it calming when they’re stressed or upset.

Scent serves a similar multi-purpose function. We planted lavender, rosemary, and mint in distinct areas of the garden. For Bill, these provide navigation cues – he can tell where he is by the dominant fragrance. But everyone enjoys the seasonal changes in scent, and several people have mentioned that the herbs trigger positive memories.

I’m not pretending I got everything right immediately. My first attempts at accessible gardening had plenty of problems. I installed a beautiful wooden pathway through our backyard garden that became slippery when wet – dangerous for anyone with balance issues. Had to add non-slip strips and better drainage to make it safe.

I also learned that maintenance planning is crucial when you’re designing for accessibility. Plants grow and change, which is part of their appeal, but this can create problems if not managed thoughtfully. Those aromatic herbs that help with navigation? They need regular pruning to maintain their effectiveness and prevent them from encroaching on pathways.

The fountain that everyone loves? It requires weekly cleaning to prevent algae buildup and regular checks to ensure the water level stays consistent for the sound cues. Natural elements need ongoing attention to remain accessible.

Budget is always a consideration, especially for retirees or community organizations working with limited funds. The good news is that accessible design doesn’t have to be expensive if you plan for it from the beginning. Retrofitting accessibility is costly – building it in from the start usually isn’t.

For our church garden, we used donated materials where possible and relied heavily on volunteer labor. The different planter heights were achieved using concrete blocks and lumber – nothing fancy, but functional. We got plant donations from congregation members who were dividing perennials and from a local nursery that supported community projects.

The key was having a clear plan that incorporated accessibility from the beginning, rather than trying to add it later. We knew we needed multiple heights, varied textures, aromatic plants, and smooth pathways. Working within those parameters, we found affordable solutions.

What strikes me most about this work is how it’s changed my perspective on what makes a space truly functional. I used to think accessibility meant ramps and wider doorways – important stuff, but pretty basic. Now I understand it’s about creating environments where everyone can actively participate and benefit.

In our home modifications, this has meant thinking beyond just helping my wife navigate the space safely. It’s meant ensuring she can still tend plants, smell flowers, hear birds, feel different textures – all the connections to nature that improve her mood and pain levels.

The therapeutic benefits of these natural connections are well-documented, but they only work if people can actually access them. A beautiful view through a window is meaningless if someone can’t get to the window. A sensory garden doesn’t help if the plants are out of reach or the paths are impassable.

I’ve been sharing what I’ve learned through my church and community connections because I think there are a lot of folks dealing with similar challenges. How do you maintain therapeutic connections to nature when mobility or sensory abilities change? How do you create accessible outdoor spaces on a limited budget?

The feedback has been encouraging. Other retirees have adapted our planter designs for their own situations. A local senior center asked me to help improve their courtyard space. Nothing professional – just sharing practical experience and lessons learned.

What I keep coming back to is that accessible design benefits everyone. The varied planter heights that accommodate wheelchair users also help people with arthritis avoid painful bending. The textural variety that assists people with visual impairments creates more engaging experiences for everyone. The sound elements that provide orientation cues also create more peaceful, restorative environments.

This isn’t charity work or special accommodations. It’s recognizing that we all experience the world differently and designing environments that work for the full range of human abilities. When we do that thoughtfully, we create spaces that are more beautiful, more functional, and more therapeutic for everyone.

At my age, with my own mobility starting to decline and my wife’s ongoing health challenges, I understand viscerally how important these design choices are. The connections to nature that support our wellbeing as we age – they need to be accessible to actually be beneficial. It’s not enough for them to exist; we need to be able to reach them, experience them, and interact with them meaningfully.

That’s what accessible design really means to me now. Not just getting through the door, but being able to fully participate once you’re inside.