You know, when you’ve lived in the same house as long as I have, you start to notice things about how spaces affect people. My wife and I have been in this place since 1987, and over nearly four decades, I’ve watched how different changes to our environment – some intentional, many not – have impacted our daily comfort and wellbeing.
The real wake-up call came about eight years ago when my wife had her stroke. Suddenly our comfortable ranch house wasn’t just about looking decent anymore – it needed to actually support healing and help manage chronic pain. That’s when I started learning about something called biophilic design, though I didn’t know the fancy term for it at first.
I remember reading an article our daughter sent me about therapeutic gardens, and it got me thinking about how disconnected we’d let our house become from the natural world over the years. When we moved in back in ’87, we had those heavy drapes that blocked most of the natural light, wall-to-wall carpeting, and honestly, the only living things inside were whatever houseplants my wife managed to keep alive on the windowsills.
It’s interesting how we just accepted that indoor spaces were supposed to be completely separate from outdoor ones. You had your house, you had your yard, and they didn’t really connect except through doorways. But when I started reading about how our bodies actually respond to natural elements – light cycles, living plants, organic textures – it made perfect sense. Our grandparents’ generation knew this stuff instinctively.
The first major change I made was improving the natural light throughout the house. I enlarged several windows where the structure would allow it and replaced all those heavy curtains with sheer ones that let daylight filter through. The difference in my wife’s mood, especially during Michigan’s gray winters, was noticeable within a few weeks. She was sleeping better and seemed less depressed during the day.
But the real game-changer was creating that raised garden bed outside where she could tend plants while seated in her wheelchair. I built it at exactly the right height after measuring her reach from the chair, and filled it with herbs and flowers she could easily care for. Watching her work with soil and plants again – something she’d done for decades before the stroke – brought back a spark I hadn’t seen in months.
The small greenhouse I assembled from a kit has been another major success. Even in January, she can putter around with seedlings and small plants. There’s something about having living things to care for that seems to help with both her pain management and her sense of purpose. I can’t prove it scientifically, but the days she spends time in there are definitely her better days.
I made some mistakes along the way, of course. That expensive indoor fountain I installed leaked and damaged the hardwood floor in the living room – cost a fortune to repair. And the automated window treatments I tried to set up were too complicated and kept malfunctioning. Sometimes the simple solutions work better than the high-tech ones.
But I’ve learned a lot about what actually helps versus what just sounds good in theory. For instance, not all plants work well indoors, especially if you’re dealing with limited natural light like we had initially. I wasted money on several beautiful plants that just couldn’t thrive in our conditions. Now I stick with the reliable ones – snake plants, pothos, ZZ plants – species that can handle less-than-perfect conditions and still clean the air.
The texture changes have been subtler but important too. I replaced our glass-topped coffee table with a solid wood one made from reclaimed oak – found it at an estate sale and refinished it myself. Swapped out the synthetic throw pillows for natural cotton and wool ones. Added area rugs made from natural fibers over the old carpeting. These changes make the house feel warmer and more comfortable somehow, less institutional.
One thing that surprised me was how much the sound of water helps. I set up a small tabletop fountain in our bedroom – nothing fancy, maybe $80 at the garden center – and it masks the street noise while creating a peaceful background sound. My wife says it reminds her of the creek that ran behind her childhood home.
I’ve been sharing what I’ve learned with other folks from church who are dealing with similar aging-in-place challenges. A lot of people our age are trying to figure out how to modify homes they’ve lived in for decades to meet changing physical needs and health requirements. Small environmental changes can make a real difference in daily comfort and wellbeing.
The seasonal aspect is something I wish I’d understood earlier. Now I actually change things throughout the year – different plants, adjusting the lighting, rotating in warming elements like cedar and pine scents in winter. It keeps our connection to natural rhythms even when we’re spending more time indoors.
Working with our church to improve their fellowship hall has taught me that these principles work in community spaces too. We added better natural lighting, some low-maintenance plants, and replaced some of the harsh fluorescent fixtures with warmer LED lights. People linger longer after services now and seem more comfortable during meetings.
What drives this for me is seeing how much environment matters, especially as you age and spend more time at home. These aren’t expensive designer tricks – most of what I’ve done has been pretty budget-friendly. It’s about understanding that we’re not separate from the natural world, even when we’re indoors. Our homes should support that connection, not fight against it.
I’m still learning and trying new things. Current project is winterizing that greenhouse better so my wife can use it comfortably year-round. Also working on creating a better pathway between the house and garden so she can get outside more easily when weather permits.
After all these years in the same house, I’ve realized that making a space work for you isn’t just about furniture and paint colors. It’s about creating an environment that supports your health, connects you to natural rhythms, and makes you actually want to come home at the end of the day. That’s worth the effort, whether you’re dealing with health challenges or just trying to create a more comfortable place to live.
Robert is a retired engineer in Michigan who’s spent the past few years adapting his longtime home for accessibility and wellbeing. He writes about practical, DIY ways to make homes more comfortable and life-affirming as we age — from raised-bed gardens to better natural light.
