I’ve noticed something remarkable over my fifteen years of designing spaces for young people—children and teenagers have this uncanny ability to detect when something about their environment isn’t quite right. They might not articulate it the way adults do, but they’ll show you through their behavior. And nowhere is this more apparent than in clinical and educational settings where we expect them to process emotions, learn, or heal.
Last autumn, I visited a traditional adolescent therapy center in Manchester that a colleague had designed. Everything looked perfect on paper—appropriate furniture scale, “calming” blue walls, adequate lighting. Yet watching the teenagers shuffle in, I noticed how they hunched their shoulders, avoided eye contact, and positioned themselves as far from windows as possible.
The space technically met all requirements, but it felt distinctly… artificial. Compare this to a project I worked on in Edinburgh three years ago—a mental health unit for young people aged 12-18 that we completely reimagined using biophilic principles.
The transformation wasn’t just aesthetic but functional. During my follow-up visit, I observed teenagers who had previously been withdrawn now gravitating toward window seats overlooking a small grove of silver birches. Staff reported that therapy sessions conducted in rooms with natural elements had significantly better engagement rates.
“It’s not just that they like it better,” the clinical director told me, nursing her tea. “They actually open up more when they’re near the windows or sitting by the living wall. We’re getting breakthrough conversations that weren’t happening before.” I’ve become slightly obsessed with understanding this phenomenon.
Why do nature-connected spaces seem to work so effectively for young people’s mental health? The research offers compelling clues. Children and adolescents haven’t fully developed the cognitive filters adults use to navigate artificial environments.
They respond more directly to sensory information, making them both more vulnerable to sterile, disconnected spaces and more responsive to natural elements. When I began specializing in biophilic design for youth settings, I thought it would be straightforward—add plants, use natural materials, increase natural light. I quickly learned how naive that approach was.
True biophilic design for young people isn’t about decorating with nature; it’s about fundamentally understanding developmental needs and creating environments that support them. Take the case of the Oakwood Learning Center outside Bristol. Their previous space for neurodivergent children featured the standard recommendations—neutral colors, minimal visual “distractions,” and carefully controlled lighting.
Despite following best practices, they struggled with high anxiety levels among students and difficulty transitioning between activities. We worked together to completely reconceptualize the space around biophilic principles. Rather than eliminating complexity (which rarely exists in nature), we created rich, multi-sensory environments with coherent natural patterns.
We installed a small water feature that created gentle background sounds similar to a brook. The fluorescent overheads were replaced with lighting systems that subtly shifted throughout the day, mimicking natural light progressions. Within three months, they recorded a 41% reduction in anxiety-related incidents and significant improvements in attention spans.
I remember visiting six months after completion and finding one student who previously couldn’t tolerate group activities contentedly reading in a small alcove with a living plant wall and dappled light patterns. His teacher whispered to me, “He’s been able to stay regulated here for nearly an hour. That’s never happened before.” The most challenging aspect wasn’t the design itself but convincing stakeholders that these elements weren’t frivolous additions.
I’ve sat through countless meetings where administrators or board members questioned whether “fancy nature stuff” was necessary. “Can’t we just hang some pictures of forests?” one particularly frustrating school administrator asked me. I had to explain—patiently—that while images of nature offer some benefits, they pale in comparison to actual natural elements that engage multiple senses.
It took showing them the research on attention restoration theory and stress reduction in nature-connected environments to get buy-in. Studies demonstrating improved clinical outcomes, reduced medication needs, and faster recovery times in healthcare settings with biophilic elements finally convinced them. The fact that students in classrooms with natural light score 25% higher on standardized tests didn’t hurt either.
I’ve learned that effective biophilic design for young people’s mental health spaces needs to address several critical dimensions. First, there’s the obvious visual connection to nature—windows with actual views of trees or gardens, not parking lots. But equally important are non-visual connections: the acoustic properties of a space (does it echo artificially or absorb sound like natural environments?), the tactile experience of materials, even subtle air movement that mimics outdoor settings.
One of my favorite projects involved redesigning a residential treatment facility for teenagers recovering from trauma. The original building was a converted office structure—all rectilinear spaces, dropped ceilings, and synthetic surfaces. Working with a limited budget, we identified strategic interventions that would offer the biggest impact.
We couldn’t afford to replace all the flooring, so we created a “natural pathway” of cork and sustainably harvested wood through the main circulation areas, keeping the existing carpet in peripheral spaces. We installed skylights in the group therapy rooms and created window seats deep enough for adolescents to properly nestle in with books or journals. The most transformative element was converting an unused courtyard into a sensory garden that became accessible from the main living areas.
The staff were shocked by how quickly the teenagers’ relationships with the space changed. Previously, residents would retreat to their rooms whenever possible. After the renovation, the window seats and courtyard became the most sought-after spots.
More importantly, therapists reported that trauma narratives emerged more readily in the biophilically designed spaces, accompanied by better emotional regulation. “They’re not just happier here,” the lead psychologist told me, “they feel safe enough to do the hard emotional work they couldn’t do before.” That’s what many people miss about biophilic design for youth mental health—it’s not about creating pretty spaces; it’s about creating environments where difficult psychological and developmental work can happen with less resistance. I made a crucial mistake early in my career of assuming that biophilic design principles that work for adults would transfer directly to spaces for young people.
They don’t—at least not entirely. Children interact with environments differently; they’re more likely to engage physically with spaces, testing boundaries and exploring with their whole bodies. Teenagers, meanwhile, seek both social connection and privacy, often simultaneously.
When designing a partial hospitalization program for adolescents with anxiety disorders in Glasgow, we created what the staff now calls “prospect and refuge” spaces—areas where teens can be socially adjacent without direct interaction. These spaces use plants as partial visual screens, natural materials that dampen sound, and seating options that can be reconfigured based on desired proximity to others. The space supports the paradoxical teenage need to be both seen and invisible.
The results have been remarkable. Average length of stay in the program has decreased by nearly two weeks, and staff retention has improved significantly. One nurse told me, “I used to come home completely drained from managing behavioral issues.
Now I have energy left to actually provide care.” I’ve become particularly interested in how biophilic design can support young people through transitions—not just physical transitions between spaces, but emotional and developmental transitions as well. Consider how primary-aged children might move from high-energy play to focused learning, or how adolescents might shift from social interaction to therapeutic vulnerability. In natural environments, transitions are rarely abrupt—there are gradient zones like forest edges or shorelines.
We can create similar transition spaces in built environments that help regulate arousal levels and prepare young people for different modes of engagement. At a children’s grief center in Leeds, we designed a transitional journey from arrival to therapy rooms that gradually shifts sensory experiences. Entrants move from a light-filled reception area with the sounds of a small water feature, through a corridor with gradually decreasing ceiling height and increasing plant density, to intimate counseling spaces with views of a private garden.
The therapists report that children arrive in a more regulated state, requiring less time to settle before meaningful work can begin. There’s something truly gratifying about seeing a teenager who’s been disconnected—from themselves, from others, from their environment—suddenly engage because something in the space speaks to their innate biological connection to the natural world. I watched a young man with severe depression, who had barely spoken in group sessions, spontaneously reach out to touch the bark of a small indoor tree and then begin talking about memories of climbing trees as a child.
That moment of reconnection became a turning point in his treatment. Of course, there are practical challenges. Living elements require maintenance.
Natural materials may need more frequent replacement than synthetic alternatives. Variable lighting systems cost more upfront than standard fixtures. When working with limited budgets—as we nearly always are in youth mental health settings—these considerations matter.
I’ve developed something of a triage approach: if you can only implement a few biophilic elements, which will have the most impact? Generally, I prioritize natural light, followed by direct views to nature, then living elements like plants, followed by natural materials and patterns. But this hierarchy shifts depending on the specific needs of the population being served.
For children with sensory processing difficulties, tactile natural elements might take priority. For adolescents with depression, exposure to changing natural light patterns throughout the day can help regulate disrupted circadian rhythms. After fifteen years of designing these spaces, I’m still learning.
Each project teaches me something new about how young people interact with their environments. What remains constant is the profound impact that connecting to nature has on developing minds and emotions. In a world where children spend less time outdoors than any previous generation, bringing nature into therapeutic and educational environments isn’t just beneficial—it’s essential.
The young people I design for may not understand terms like “biophilia” or “attention restoration theory,” but they recognize when a space feels right—when it supports rather than constrains them. And really, there’s no higher praise for a designer than watching a previously distressed teenager sink into a window seat, gaze out at swaying branches, and finally exhale.
