I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the intersection of my two obsessions: biophilic design and women’s health. It wasn’t until my cousin Emma got pregnant last year that I started connecting these dots in a more deliberate way. She was having a terrible first trimester—morning sickness that lasted all day, insomnia despite bone-deep exhaustion, and anxiety that seemed to spiral with each midnight WebMD search.
When she came to stay with me for a weekend to “escape” her apartment (her words, not mine), something fascinating happened. By the second morning, she mentioned sleeping better than she had in weeks. By Sunday afternoon, she was napping peacefully in my reading nook—the one nestled in that east-facing bay window surrounded by my collection of trailing pothos and prayer plants, with that perfect strip of sunlight that creeps across the cushions around 2pm.
“There’s something about your place,” she said while we were having tea later. “I feel… I don’t know…
calmer here.” That conversation sent me down a research rabbit hole that’s honestly changed how I approach my work. It turns out the connection between nature-integrated environments and reproductive health isn’t just some woo-woo concept—there’s legitimate science behind it, though it’s scattered across different disciplines that don’t always talk to each other. I mean, we’ve known for ages that environment affects fertility and pregnancy outcomes.
Just look at the extensive research on environmental toxins and reproductive health. But what’s less discussed is how positive environmental elements—specifically biophilic ones—might support reproductive wellbeing. And let’s be clear, when I say reproductive health, I’m talking about the whole journey: fertility, pregnancy, birth, and early infancy.
Let’s start with fertility, shall we? Stress is a notorious fertility-wrecker. It messes with hormone levels, disrupts ovulation, and reduces sperm production and quality.
I’ve sat with too many friends going through fertility treatments who’ve told me about the clinical coldness of reproduction clinics—places where your most intimate biological functions are being monitored under harsh fluorescent lighting in rooms that feel more like sterile laboratories than spaces of healing and creation. A few years back, I consulted on a small fertility clinic redesign in Portland. The director was initially skeptical about investing in biophilic elements—”Our patients are focused on test results, not décor,” he told me.
But we started small: adjusting the lighting to mimic natural daylight cycles, introducing a living wall in the waiting area, replacing the vinyl flooring with FSC-certified wood, and creating a small courtyard garden visible from treatment rooms. Six months later, he called me. “Something’s changed,” he said.
“Our staff reports less patient anxiety before procedures, and—this is anecdotal, but interesting—our nurses think they’re seeing improved embryo quality.” Now, correlation isn’t causation (my statistics professor would be proud I remembered that), but subsequent patient surveys showed dramatically improved emotional experiences during treatment cycles. This isn’t surprising when you consider the research. Natural environments have been shown to reduce cortisol levels—a stress hormone that can interfere with reproductive function.
Studies from Japan on “forest bathing” demonstrate that even brief exposure to natural settings triggers measurable physiological changes, including reduced stress hormones and improved immune function—both relevant to fertility. Then there’s pregnancy—a time when women become hyper-aware of their surroundings. There’s this fascinating evolutionary theory that pregnant women develop a heightened sensitivity to their environment as a protective mechanism for their developing baby.
I’ve watched friends who previously couldn’t care less about their living spaces suddenly become obsessed with making their homes “right” during pregnancy. This nesting instinct has biological underpinnings. Research suggests that pregnant women’s brains actually undergo structural changes, particularly in regions associated with social cognition—essentially preparing them to be more attuned to their baby’s needs.
Their environmental sensitivity extends beyond safety concerns to less obvious factors like light quality, air circulation, and spatial arrangement. A Swedish study from 2018 (which I’ve quoted probably a hundred times in presentations) found that pregnant women with daily access to green spaces reported lower anxiety levels and fewer pregnancy complications than those in more urban environments without such access. Even more fascinating was a follow-up that tracked birth outcomes, showing slightly higher birth weights (a key indicator of neonatal health) among babies whose mothers had regular nature exposure during pregnancy.
I saw this play out with my sister-in-law Jessie. She spent most of her pregnancy working from a basement office with artificial lighting and poor ventilation. Her blood pressure kept creeping up at prenatal appointments despite medication adjustments.
Out of desperation, my brother converted their spare bedroom into a work space for her—one with actual windows overlooking their backyard maple trees. They added a small tabletop fountain (mostly because I wouldn’t shut up about the benefits of natural sounds) and some easy-care plants. Within two weeks, her blood pressure stabilized.
Her doctor was surprised enough to make note of the environmental change in her chart. Now let’s talk about labor and delivery—arguably when environment matters most intensely. The hospital birth environment has improved somewhat from the sterile, medicalized settings of previous decades, but many labor rooms still feel fundamentally institutional.
The contrast with birth centers designed with biophilic principles couldn’t be more striking. I visited a birth center in Seattle last year that blew my mind with its thoughtful integration of nature. Each birth suite had huge windows overlooking garden spaces, skylights that brought in ambient light, living plants, natural wood furnishings, and water features that created gentle background sounds.
Birthing tubs were positioned to allow laboring women to gaze at tree canopies. Even the lighting was engineered to adjust automatically with natural circadian rhythms. Their outcomes?
Lower intervention rates, reduced pain medication usage, and—this really got me—shorter active labor durations compared to typical hospital settings. The midwife director explained that women laboring in nature-connected spaces seem to relax more deeply between contractions, allowing their bodies to work more efficiently. “Oxytocin flows better in beautiful spaces,” she told me with a knowing smile.
This makes perfect sense when you understand the hormonal orchestra of birth. Oxytocin—the hormone that drives contractions—is inhibited by stress hormones. Environmental factors that reduce stress (natural light, views of nature, pleasant ambient sounds) create a physiological state more conducive to labor progress.
It’s not just about comfort; it’s about creating conditions that support the biology of birth. After birth, biophilic elements continue to matter—perhaps even more intensely. Newborns are exquisitely sensitive to their surroundings as their sensory systems develop.
They’re drawn to certain visual patterns (high contrast edges and curves found in natural forms), sounds (particularly flowing water and rustling leaves), and light qualities (the filtered, shifting patterns of natural light). I helped design a NICU renovation in Chicago that incorporated biophilic principles specifically for premature infants. We installed circadian lighting systems that subtly shifted throughout the day, mimicking natural light cycles to help establish sleep-wake rhythms.
Special sound systems played gentle nature recordings at specific frequencies shown to be calming to newborns. Even the privacy screens featured fractal patterns similar to those found in nature—patterns that research suggests have inherent calming properties for humans. The impact on both babies and parents was remarkable.
Infants in the renovated units showed improved weight gain, better sleep quality, and reached developmental milestones slightly earlier than historical averages. Parents reported feeling less stressed during hospital stays, and staff turnover decreased. One neonatologist told me, “I was skeptical about spending money on design when we needed medical equipment.
Now I consider the environment part of our medical equipment.” For mothers, postpartum recovery in nature-connected spaces has been linked to reduced rates of depression and anxiety. A study from Denmark found that new mothers with bedrooms overlooking green spaces had lower Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale scores than those with urban views. Even more fascinating, a small pilot program in Finland that offered “nature prescription” walks for new mothers showed promising results for improving mood and reducing postpartum anxiety.
My own mother’s experience speaks to this. After my brother was born (in the middle of a dreary Michigan January), she struggled with what was likely undiagnosed postpartum depression. She credits her gradual recovery to the sunroom addition my father completed when my brother was about two months old.
She spent hours there each day, surrounded by her houseplants, watching birds at the feeder just outside the windows. “That room saved me,” she’s told me more than once. So what do we do with this information?
For one, we need to start thinking about reproductive environments as medical interventions in their own right. The sterile, technology-dominated spaces we’ve created for conception, pregnancy, birth, and early parenting may actually be working against the very outcomes we’re trying to achieve. I’m not suggesting we all need to give birth in forest meadows (though honestly, the research on unobstructed access to nature during labor is pretty compelling).
What I am advocating for is thoughtful integration of biophilic elements into all spaces related to reproduction and early parenting. This isn’t luxury—it’s evidence-based design that supports physiological function. For anyone working with reproductive health settings, consider these relatively simple interventions: maximize natural light, incorporate views of nature (even simulated ones have benefits), introduce natural materials (particularly wood with visible grain), integrate plants where infection control permits, create soundscapes that include gentle water and nature sounds, and design lighting systems that respect circadian rhythms.
For expectant or new parents, prioritize nature connection in your home environment. Even in urban settings or rental properties, small changes can make meaningful differences: positioning a comfortable chair near a window with a green view, adding plants that improve air quality, opening windows for fresh air when weather permits, using natural materials in baby items, and creating opportunities for daily outdoor time. The evidence is clear: our reproductive biology responds to our surroundings in profound ways.
By creating environments that acknowledge and support our innate connection to the natural world, we can potentially improve outcomes across the entire reproductive journey—from conception through early parenting. And really, isn’t that what biophilic design is all about? Creating spaces that recognize and nurture our fundamental biology as living organisms evolved in natural settings?
Emma ended up redecorating her bedroom after that weekend at my place. Nothing fancy—just repositioning her bed to face the window with a view of an old oak tree, adding some air-purifying plants, and replacing her synthetic bedding with natural fibers. “I can’t prove it helped,” she told me when my niece was born seven months later, “but that room became my sanctuary.
I felt different being in it.” Sometimes, that’s all the evidence we need.
