Okay, so there’s this thing that happens when you walk into certain spaces where your body just goes “oh, thank god” and relaxes in a way you didn’t even realize you needed. I used to think it was just me being dramatic, but turns out there’s actual science behind why some apartments feel like prison cells while others make you want to never leave.
I learned this the hard way during the pandemic when I was trapped in my 400-square-foot studio with one terrible window and lighting that made me look like a zombie. My mental health was completely shot, and I started getting desperate enough to try anything – including buying my first plant from the grocery store for eight dollars. That pothos (her name is Patricia, don’t judge) accidentally taught me something that fancy interior design blogs charge thousands of dollars to figure out.
There’s this concept called biophilic design, which basically means creating spaces that connect us to nature instead of making us feel like we’re living in a beige box. A biologist named Edward Wilson came up with the term “biophilia” back in the 1980s – it’s our built-in need for natural elements. But honestly, people have been figuring this out for centuries. Like, traditional Japanese gardens were designed to be viewed from inside houses, and Middle Eastern architecture used water and plants to cool spaces and make them feel better to be in.
Here’s what I wish someone had told me when I was crying in my terrible apartment: you don’t need a huge budget or a complete renovation to make your space feel more human. You just need to understand what your body actually needs to function properly, which turns out to be way more connected to nature than most of us realize.
When I started tracking how changes to my apartment affected my sleep and stress levels (I know, I got really nerdy about it), I found out that adding plants and better lighting literally changed how my body worked. My cortisol levels – that’s your main stress hormone – dropped measurably after I installed some cheap LED grow lights and created what I generously call a “living wall” but is really just a bunch of plants on floating shelves.
The thing is, most people get this completely wrong. They think biophilic design means turning their space into a jungle, so they go buy a bunch of expensive plants that die within a month because they have no idea about light requirements or watering schedules. Trust me, I killed like thirty plants learning this lesson. You can’t just throw greenery at a space and expect it to work.
Real biophilic design starts with understanding what you’re working with. In my case, that meant accepting that I have basically no natural light and finding plants that can survive under grow lights. It meant figuring out that my building’s radiator heat creates humidity problems and choosing plants accordingly. Snake plants and pothos aren’t Instagram-sexy, but they’ll actually stay alive in terrible conditions while still cleaning your air.
The lighting thing is probably the most important change you can make, and it doesn’t have to cost a fortune. I replaced my horrible overhead fluorescent with warm LED bulbs and got a daylight lamp for my kitchen table workspace. The difference was immediate – I stopped feeling like I was living in a cave, and my sleep improved because my circadian rhythms weren’t completely messed up anymore.
Natural materials make a huge difference too, even in small doses. I found this piece of driftwood on Lake Michigan and just keep it on my bookshelf because touching the worn texture helps me think. Research shows that natural materials actually lower your blood pressure – your nervous system recognizes them as safe. I can’t afford to renovate with real wood and stone, but I can add small touches like a wooden cutting board or some interesting rocks I collected hiking.
Water features sound fancy and expensive, but I made one using a ceramic bowl from Goodwill, a small pump from Amazon, and some river rocks. It cost maybe twenty dollars total and creates just enough sound to mask street noise without being distracting. The key is keeping it simple and making sure you can actually maintain it.
Colors matter more than I expected. Natural environments don’t have those harsh, saturated colors you see in a lot of apartments – everything’s got subtle variations and undertones. When I repainted (with my landlord’s permission), I chose colors that could exist somewhere in nature. Not literal forest green, but colors with the kind of complexity you find in weathered wood or river stones. It made the space feel calmer immediately.
The view situation is tricky when your window faces a brick wall three feet away. I can’t change what’s outside, but I got creative with mirrors to reflect what little natural light I do get, and I created visual interest with plants arranged on the windowsill and hanging from the ceiling. It’s not a mountain vista, but it’s better than staring at brick.
Air quality is something I never thought about until I started researching why certain plants are recommended for indoor spaces. Spider plants, peace lilies, and rubber trees actually remove harmful chemicals from the air. It’s not dramatic, but every bit helps when you’re living in a space with no cross-ventilation and questionable building materials.
The rooftop garden project taught me that access to actual outdoor space is incredibly powerful for mental health, even if you have to share it and climb four flights of stairs to get there. Not everyone can convince their landlord to let them create a rooftop garden, but many buildings have unused outdoor spaces that residents could potentially improve with some organization and persistence.
What I’ve learned through way too much trial and error is that the goal isn’t to recreate the outdoors inside – that’s impossible and expensive. It’s about acknowledging that humans evolved in natural environments and our bodies still expect certain things: varied lighting that changes throughout the day, natural textures, living things around us, decent air quality, some connection to the rhythms of the natural world.
The best part about biophilic design is that you can start small and cheap. Maybe it’s just one plant that won’t die, or swapping out your harsh overhead bulb for something warmer. Pay attention to how these changes affect how you feel in your space, then build from there. Your body will tell you what’s working.
I still live in the same tiny studio with the same terrible window. I still can’t afford those gorgeous lofts with floor-to-ceiling windows and built-in planters that you see on design Instagram. But I’ve made this space work so much better than I thought possible when I first moved in and cried looking at that brick wall.
The thing that drives me to share this stuff is knowing that access to environments that support human wellbeing shouldn’t be a luxury, but it basically is if you’re young and broke in a city. I can’t change the fact that most affordable apartments are designed terribly, but I can share what I’ve figured out about making them more livable with creativity and persistence instead of just money.
Start with whatever you can afford – even an eight-dollar grocery store plant is better than nothing. Pay attention to how small changes affect your mood and energy. You don’t need to transform your entire space overnight. You just need to start working with your biology instead of against it.
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.
