# Natural Biophilic Elements: My Journey Bringing the Outdoors Inside
I keep thinking about this little cafe I stumbled across during a weekend trip to this coastal town in Oregon last year. I mean, I’ve been in a lot of coffee shops – probably too many, honestly – but this one was different. It wasn’t just cute or Instagram-worthy, it felt alive, you know? Like the whole place was breathing. The walls had actual moss growing on them (which sounds weird but somehow worked), these massive floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, and all these art pieces that looked like they’d been inspired by tide pools and driftwood. I sat there for like three hours just soaking it in, and when I finally left, I felt more relaxed than I had in months.
That experience got me diving deep into what I later learned is called biophilic design. And look, I’m not an expert or anything – I still work my regular office job doing data entry for a logistics company – but I’ve gotten pretty obsessed with this whole idea of bringing nature into our everyday spaces. It’s way more than just throwing a few plants around, though that’s definitely part of it.
The basic concept is simple enough: humans have this deep connection to nature that we’ve kind of engineered out of modern life, and biophilic design tries to bring it back. But the more I’ve read about it and experimented in my own apartment, the more I realize how much thought can go into making spaces that actually connect with our biology instead of fighting against it.
I came across this article about a corporate office redesign that really stuck with me. The designers didn’t just add some potted plants and call it a day – they completely rethought how the space connected people to natural elements. They started with light, which makes total sense when you think about it. Most offices have this harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look like they’re dying, but these guys went big on natural light. Multiple skylights, huge windows, the works. But here’s what I found interesting – they positioned everything to capture soft morning and evening light, not the harsh midday stuff. Apparently there’s actual research showing this kind of lighting helps with sleep cycles and reduces stress.
That got me thinking about the lighting in my own apartment. I’d been dealing with these awful overhead fixtures that came with the place, and after reading about circadian lighting, I invested in some smart bulbs that change color temperature throughout the day. Cost me about sixty bucks total, but honestly, it’s made a huge difference in how I feel, especially during those dark winter months in Seattle.
The materials thing is something I’m still figuring out, but I’ve started paying way more attention to textures and finishes. I read about this house project where they used all reclaimed wood with the knots and imperfections still visible, rough stone with natural variations, even concrete with exposed aggregate. The whole point was authenticity – materials that looked and felt like they came from nature instead of a factory.
I can’t exactly tear out my apartment’s laminate flooring, but I have been slowly replacing stuff as it wears out. Got this amazing reclaimed wood coffee table from a thrift store for thirty bucks that probably would’ve cost me three hundred new. Found some natural fiber rugs that actually feel good under bare feet instead of that scratchy synthetic stuff I used to have. Little changes, but they add up.
Water is another element that keeps coming up in everything I read about biophilic design. Makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint – our brains are wired to be attracted to water sources. I’ve seen pictures of these incredible installations, like hotel lobbies with actual streams running through them, or this outdoor classroom built around a river. Obviously I can’t install a stream in my one-bedroom rental, but I did find this little tabletop fountain at a thrift store. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple stone bowl with a small pump, but the sound of trickling water is surprisingly calming when I’m working from home.
One thing that really fascinated me was learning about direct versus indirect connections to nature. Direct connections are obvious – plants, water features, natural materials you can see and touch. But indirect connections are more subtle, like using fractal patterns that show up everywhere in nature. I started noticing these patterns once I knew to look for them – the branching of trees, the spiral of pinecones, the way rivers meander. There’s something about these patterns that our brains find naturally pleasing, even when they’re abstracted into artwork or architectural details.
Color is huge too, and this is something I’ve experimented with a lot in my own space. I used to have these bright white walls that felt sterile and cold. After reading about how natural color palettes affect mood, I talked my landlord into letting me paint. Went with this warm, mossy green in the bedroom and a soft clay color in the living room – colors I pulled from hiking photos I’d taken around the Pacific Northwest. The difference was immediate. Friends started commenting that my apartment felt “cozy” for the first time ever.
I remember reading about this one project where they created a living wall system in a library. Not just a decorative plant wall, but an actual growing ecosystem that changed over time. I’m nowhere near ready to attempt something like that – I’ve killed enough houseplants to know my limitations – but there’s something appealing about spaces that evolve and change instead of staying static.
The simplicity aspect really resonates with me. Some of the most effective biophilic spaces I’ve read about are also the most straightforward. Like this one museum I came across in an article that just added skylights positioned to frame clouds drifting by, or a restaurant with windows that open to reveal swaying trees and let in the sound of wind. Simple interventions that let nature do the heavy lifting.
I think that’s part of what drew me to this whole approach – it’s not about perfection or expensive installations. Nature itself is messy and unpredictable, full of asymmetries and imperfections that somehow create harmony. I’ve been trying to embrace that in my own space instead of fighting it. My little herb garden on the kitchen windowsill grows in whatever direction it wants. The plants I’ve managed to keep alive (rosemary, pothos, and a surprisingly resilient snake plant) aren’t arranged in perfect symmetry.
What really gets me excited about biophilic design is the research backing it up. This isn’t just aesthetic preference – there are actual studies showing that people recover faster from surgery when they have views of nature, that children in classrooms with natural light perform better on tests, that office workers take fewer sick days in buildings with plants and good natural lighting. Our bodies and brains genuinely respond to these natural elements in measurable ways.
Living in the city, you really feel that disconnection from natural rhythms. Constant noise, artificial lighting at all hours, everything scheduled and rushed. But I’ve seen examples of how biophilic design can create pockets of calm even in dense urban environments. I read about this high-rise apartment that felt like an oasis despite being surrounded by concrete and glass. Big windows opening onto a terrace with native plants, furniture made from locally sourced wood, walls finished with natural clay. The whole space was designed to filter and soften the harsh urban environment.
That gave me ideas for my own place, which faces a pretty busy street. I can’t control the noise outside, but I can work with what I have. Positioned my desk near the one window that gets decent natural light, and used a mirror on the opposite wall to reflect the view of some trees across the street. It’s a simple trick, but it makes the space feel twice as bright and gives me that visual connection to greenery even when I’m stuck inside working.
Texture has become something I pay way more attention to now. Swapped out synthetic fabrics for natural ones wherever possible – linen curtains instead of polyester, wool throws, cotton pillows. Again, not expensive changes, just different choices when things needed replacing anyway. But the sensory experience of the space is completely different. Everything feels warmer and more inviting.
Scent is another layer I’m still exploring. I came across this article about a spa that used lavender and eucalyptus to create what they called a “multisensory experience,” and it got me thinking about the smells in my own space. Started growing herbs on the windowsill partly for cooking, but also because fresh basil and rosemary just make the whole kitchen smell better. Way more pleasant than whatever artificial fragrance was in those plug-in air fresheners I used to use.
Sound is tricky in an apartment, but I’ve found some small ways to work with it. That little fountain I mentioned helps mask street noise, and I’ve got some wind chimes on the balcony that catch the breeze. Nothing dramatic, but they add these subtle natural sounds that make the space feel less sealed off from the outside world.
What I love most about this approach is that it doesn’t require perfection or a huge budget. Nature is inherently imperfect – trees grow crooked, rocks have cracks, rivers change course. Embracing that imperfection in living spaces feels more honest and relaxing than trying to achieve some magazine-perfect aesthetic. My apartment isn’t going to be featured in any design blogs, but it’s become a place where I actually want to spend time instead of somewhere I just sleep and store my stuff.
The more I learn about biophilic design, the more I notice how it shows up in spaces that feel good to be in. That busy coffee shop with tons of plants where people linger and chat. The restaurant with natural wood and good daylight that always has a wait for tables. The doctor’s office with aquariums and soft lighting where you don’t mind waiting as much. Once you start paying attention, the patterns become pretty obvious.
I keep experimenting with new things in my own space – some work better than others. The self-watering system I tried to rig up for my herbs was a disaster that leaked all over the counter. But the full-spectrum light bulbs I installed have definitely helped with my energy levels, especially during Seattle’s long, gray winters. It’s all about finding what works within your constraints and building from there.
Jeff writes about bringing bits of nature into everyday living spaces — not as a designer, but as a curious renter who experiments, fails, and keeps trying again. He shares what he’s learned about light, plants, and small changes that make big differences for real people living in ordinary apartments.
