I’ve always believed that the magic of design isn’t just about making pretty spaces—it’s about creating environments that fundamentally change how people feel and behave. This belief has guided my work for years, but nowhere has it been more evident than in my experiences with economically struggling communities. Last autumn, I found myself standing in the center of Millfield, a once-thriving manufacturing district that had seen better days.
Abandoned storefronts lined the main street, their windows either boarded up or displaying dusty, outdated merchandise. The town square—once the community’s heart—had become a concrete wasteland with a few sad, neglected benches. The only splash of color came from graffiti decorating the walls of what used to be the town’s largest employer, a textile factory that had closed its doors nearly a decade earlier.
I was there at the invitation of the town council, who’d reached out after reading some of my articles on Biophilic Flair. “We don’t have much budget,” the council chair had explained over the phone, “but we need something to bring life back to our downtown. People just don’t want to be here anymore.” Looking around that gray October afternoon, I couldn’t blame them.
The space felt unwelcoming, sterile, disconnected—the physical manifestation of the economic decline that had plagued the community for years. This wasn’t my first rodeo with struggling urban areas. I’d previously consulted on three similar projects, each with varying degrees of success.
The most promising had been in Riverside, where the integration of a community-maintained native plant corridor along their main shopping street had increased foot traffic by 27% within six months and led to the opening of five new businesses within a year. But Millfield presented unique challenges. Their budget was tighter, for one thing.
And unlike Riverside, which had a river running through town that could serve as a natural focal point, Millfield lacked obvious natural features to build upon. “We need something transformative,” said Elena, the youngest council member and the project’s most passionate advocate. “But we’ve got barely £30,000 to work with, and that’s after scraping together every possible grant and donation.” Thirty thousand pounds.
For urban redevelopment, that’s practically couch cushion money. But constraints often spark creativity, don’t they? We walked the five-block area they hoped to revitalize.
I noticed a few promising elements: several buildings had south-facing walls that received excellent sunlight. The wide sidewalks, while cracked and uneven, offered generous space. And despite the neglect, three massive oak trees still stood in the town square, survivors from a more prosperous era.
“Those trees are over a hundred years old,” Elena mentioned, following my gaze. “There used to be a dozen of them, but most were removed in the ’80s when they redesigned the square to be more ‘modern.'” She rolled her eyes at this last word. Those three trees became our starting point.
Working with local volunteers (because, again, budget), we began by expanding the growing spaces around the existing oaks, removing concrete to create larger, more natural soil beds. We planted native understory shrubs and perennials, chosen specifically for their seasonal interest and low maintenance needs. A local metalworker—previously commuting two hours daily for work—created simple but elegant protective barriers from reclaimed materials from the old factory.
The town square transformation was our most visible initiative, but not our only one. We identified twenty locations for “pocket gardens”—small planted areas that could be tucked into unused spaces along the main street. Each garden was designed to contain at least one structural element (often a small tree or large shrub), seasonal perennials, and, crucially, comfortable seating.
I’ve learned through bitter experience that planted areas without places to sit become merely decorative. People need to be invited to linger, to experience the space intimately rather than just passing through. We sourced benches made from reclaimed timber from—you guessed it—the old factory.
Each bench incorporated subtle design elements that reflected the town’s textile manufacturing heritage. One of our most controversial decisions was reducing car access to the main street. Research consistently shows that pedestrian-friendly spaces increase dwell time and, consequently, commercial activity.
But try telling that to business owners convinced that customer convenience means parking directly outside their shop. The compromise? We narrowed the street to single-lane traffic, widened the sidewalks, and added bioswales—planted depressions that manage rainwater runoff while creating green corridors.
“People will hate this,” warned the owner of the hardware store, watching as volunteers planted switchgrass and black-eyed Susans in the newly created spaces. “Nobody’s going to walk an extra fifty feet to buy a hammer.” Six months later, he sheepishly admitted his sales had increased by 15%. The project wasn’t without its challenges.
Our initial plant selections included several species that proved unsuitable for the location. After a particularly brutal summer heatwave, we had to replace about a third of our original plantings with more resilient varieties. The irrigation system—designed to use harvested rainwater—failed spectacularly during its first test, creating a minor flood that damaged one shop’s inventory (lesson learned: always test water systems before planting).
But what surprised me most wasn’t the technical challenges—it was the community’s response. People started showing up. Not just to shop or run errands, but to be in the space.
I remember visiting about eight months after the project’s completion. It was a mild spring afternoon, and the redeveloped area was buzzing with activity. A young mother sat nursing her baby beneath one of the oak trees, completely at ease in a space that had previously felt unsafe.
Two elderly men played chess at one of the new café tables that had spilled onto the widened sidewalk. A teenager sketched in a notebook, perched on one of our reclaimed timber benches. The hardware store owner had set up an outdoor display of garden tools.
The previously vacant storefront next door now housed a coffee shop, its windows thrown open to connect the interior with the newly greened street. Three other empty spaces had been leased, one to a local artisan collective, another to a bookshop, and the third to a small tech startup drawn by—in the founder’s words—”the creative vibe of the area.” Was it perfect? Absolutely not.
Some plantings still struggled. Maintenance remained a challenge, particularly during the busy summer months when volunteer enthusiasm waned. And the economic impact, while positive, wasn’t miraculous—Millfield still faced significant challenges.
But something fundamental had shifted. The space felt alive, connected, part of a natural world rather than divorced from it. And this shift had catalyzed economic activity that conventional economic development strategies had failed to generate.
The numbers tell part of the story: commercial occupancy increased by 40% in the redeveloped area within 18 months. Foot traffic more than doubled. Property values increased (a mixed blessing that required careful management to prevent gentrification).
New businesses created 32 local jobs. But the most compelling evidence came in less measurable forms. The elderly resident who told me they’d begun walking to the shops again “just to sit under those trees for a while.” The business association report noting that customer dwell time had increased significantly.
The teacher who regularly brought classes to the square for outdoor lessons. I’m not suggesting that planting trees and creating pocket gardens can solve complex economic challenges. The forces that devastated communities like Millfield are powerful and multifaceted.
But I’ve become convinced that biophilic elements—thoughtfully integrated into urban revitalization efforts—can catalyze positive change in ways that traditional approaches often miss. Traditional economic development tends to focus on tax incentives, infrastructure improvements, and business attraction strategies. These have their place.
But they often ignore a fundamental truth: people are drawn to environments that make them feel good. And we feel good in spaces that connect us to natural elements and processes. This isn’t just my personal philosophy—it’s supported by growing research.
Studies show that retail environments with natural elements see higher per-visit spending and increased customer loyalty. Commercial districts with significant tree canopy outperform those without in multiple economic metrics. Even property values consistently show premiums for locations with access to quality green spaces.
The Millfield project taught me another crucial lesson: biophilic design doesn’t have to be expensive or elaborate to be effective. Our budget was minuscule by urban redevelopment standards. But by focusing on strategic interventions—the trees, the pocket gardens, the bioswales, the comfortable seating—we created a framework that allowed natural processes and human activity to intertwine and reinforce each other.
I’ve since consulted on similar projects in seven other communities, each with its own challenges and constraints. Some had more resources than Millfield, others even less. But the pattern has remained consistent: when we create spaces that connect people with natural elements, community and economic revitalization follows.
The most rewarding moment from the Millfield project? About two years after completion, I received an email from Elena with a newspaper clipping attached. The town had just approved funding to expand the biophilic redevelopment to additional streets.
The money came partly from increased tax revenue from the revitalized area and partly from a special assessment that business owners had voted to impose on themselves—the same business owners who had initially resisted the changes. “Thought you’d want to see this,” Elena wrote. “Turns out people will pay for trees after all.” I’ve pinned that clipping above my desk as a reminder of what’s possible when we recognize that economic vitality and connection to nature aren’t separate goals—they’re intimately linked aspects of creating places where people and communities can thrive.
