I’ll never forget the exact moment when I realized COVID-19 had fundamentally altered our relationship with built environments. It wasn’t during lockdown (though those endless days in my apartment certainly planted the seed). It was actually about six months after restrictions lifted, when I visited a commercial development that had been under construction before the pandemic but completed afterward.
The original plans I’d seen featured the standard sleek, minimalist office lobby – lots of steel, glass, and perhaps a token sculptural plant. What greeted me instead was almost unrecognizable: cascading interior gardens, operable windows, outdoor working terraces, and natural materials at every touchpoint. The project manager sheepishly explained, “We had to completely redesign midway through.
No one wanted to lease the original concept once COVID hit.” That visit crystallized something I’d been sensing in my consulting work – the pandemic hadn’t just created a temporary blip in design priorities; it had triggered a fundamental reevaluation of our relationship with nature in the spaces where we live, work, and heal. Looking back, it seems almost painfully obvious. When forced to spend weeks confined within our homes, we collectively discovered (or rediscovered) something scientists have been documenting for decades: our physical and mental wellbeing is profoundly connected to natural elements.
Houseplant sales skyrocketed during lockdown – not just because people needed new hobbies, but because they instinctively sought living connections during a period of profound isolation. I talked to Maria, a client who runs a nursery in Portland, and she told me her business nearly tripled in 2020. “People would come in looking absolutely desperate,” she said.
“They’d tell me they hadn’t slept properly in weeks and were hoping plants might help. I started keeping research articles behind the counter about air-purifying species and the mental health benefits of caring for living things.” The data backs this up. A study from the University of Vermont found that during the early pandemic, outdoor activities – especially in natural settings – were one of the few reliable buffers against anxiety and depression.
People who incorporated regular nature exposure, even just through window views, showed significantly better psychological resilience than those without access. My own experience mirrored this research perfectly. My apartment’s south-facing windows overlook a small community garden, and I swear that visual connection kept me sane during the darkest weeks of isolation.
I’d spend hours watching the seasonal changes, tracking the progress of strangers’ vegetable plots. When my sourdough starter inevitably failed (joining millions of other abandoned pandemic bread experiments), I channeled my nurturing energy into an increasingly elaborate indoor garden. That fiddle leaf fig is still with me – a living souvenir from a transformative period.
But here’s what’s fascinating to me: unlike sourdough starters and Zoom happy hours, our renewed relationship with natural elements didn’t fade as the pandemic receded. Instead, it became permanently embedded in our expectations of built environments. Take workplace design, for instance.
Pre-pandemic, biophilic elements in offices were typically viewed as nice-to-have amenities or aesthetic choices. Post-pandemic, they’ve become non-negotiable components of employee recruitment and retention strategies. I recently consulted on a tech company’s headquarters where access to natural light, views, and outdoor workspaces ranked higher in employee surveys than traditional perks like free food or game rooms.
“We can’t get people back to the office without offering something they can’t get at home,” the HR director told me. “For many, that ‘something’ is a better connection to nature than they can access in their apartments.” The healthcare sector has perhaps seen the most dramatic shift. I’ve worked with hospitals for years, fighting uphill battles to incorporate evidence-based biophilic elements.
The research has been clear for decades: patients with views of nature recover faster, require less pain medication, and experience fewer complications. Yet implementation was usually minimal, hampered by budget constraints and institutional inertia. Post-pandemic, the same facilities are now approaching me with ambitious plans for healing gardens, nature-integrated waiting areas, and staff respite spaces with robust natural elements.
What changed? As one hospital administrator explained: “COVID made the connection between environments and health outcomes impossible to ignore. When we saw how dramatically different death rates were between identical patient populations in different physical settings, we couldn’t unsee it.” The housing market reflects similar shifts.
Real estate agents I’ve spoken with report outdoor space commanding unprecedented premiums, even in formerly indoor-focused urban markets. Apartment developers who once maximized units per floor are now reconfiguring to ensure each dwelling has private outdoor access. A developer friend in Chicago told me they completely scrapped plans for a 90-unit building to redesign it with 70 units, each with a balcony or terrace.
“We’ll make more money with fewer units because people won’t compromise on outdoor space anymore,” she explained. The pandemic essentially compressed what might have been a gradual 15-year evolution in biophilic design into an 18-month revolution. Concepts that were considered experimental or fringe in 2019 are now baseline expectations.
But not all pandemic-influenced biophilic design trends are equally beneficial. I’m concerned about what I call “shallow biophilia” – cosmetic applications that mimic natural elements without delivering functional benefits. You know, slapping some botanical wallpaper in a windowless room and calling it “nature-connected.” The market is suddenly flooded with products claiming biophilic credentials that offer minimal physiological or psychological advantages.
I visited a coworking space last month that proudly advertised its “biophilic design.” What I found was a collection of fake plants, nature-themed artwork, and green upholstery in an hermetically sealed environment with artificial lighting. The space manager seemed genuinely confused when I suggested actual living plants and improved ventilation might better support their members’ wellbeing. “But it looks natural,” she insisted.
“Isn’t that the point?” It’s not, of course. The point is creating meaningful human-nature connections that support our biological needs – something photographs of forests simply cannot provide, no matter how artfully arranged. This distinction between authentic and performative biophilic design becomes increasingly important as the concept mainstreams.
True biophilic design works with multiple senses – not just vision, but touch, smell, and even sound. It incorporates both literal natural elements (plants, water, natural light) and analogous patterns that mirror natural forms. Most importantly, it creates environments that respond and change, reflecting the dynamic qualities that characterize natural systems.
My colleague Javier, who designs luxury hotels, summed it up perfectly: “Before COVID, clients wanted nature as decoration. Now they want nature as experience.” This shift toward experiential biophilia is evident in the explosion of interest in functional natural systems within buildings. Living walls have evolved from decorative installations to integrated components of ventilation and humidity control.
Rainwater collection systems are being designed as visible, celebrated features rather than hidden infrastructure. Even mushroom-based building materials, once considered fringe experiments, are entering commercial applications. The pandemic also forced a reckoning with another aspect of biophilic design that had been underappreciated: the importance of transitional spaces between indoors and outdoors.
These threshold zones – covered porches, verandas, loggias, winter gardens – historically served crucial functions in mediating our relationship with the elements. They fell out of favor in the era of mechanical climate control but are experiencing a dramatic renaissance. Last spring, I worked with a restaurant group converting a traditional dining room into what they called a “permanent temporary outdoor space” – essentially a highly flexible area that could transition seasonally from mostly enclosed to mostly open-air.
“Our customers want to feel like they’re eating outside even when weather makes that impossible,” the owner explained. The solution involved operable walls, radiant heating, and a retractable roof system that maintained the sensory experience of outdoor dining while protecting against extreme conditions. What’s particularly interesting is how this renewed interest in biophilic design intersects with other pandemic-accelerated trends, especially around health and ventilation.
We now understand that good ventilation isn’t just about comfort – it’s a critical health intervention. Natural ventilation strategies that were previously valued primarily for energy savings are now recognized for their dual benefits to both planetary and human health. I recently completed a project for a forward-thinking school district in Minnesota that beautifully illustrates this convergence.
Their pre-pandemic plans for a new elementary school included standard mechanical ventilation and limited operable windows (typical for their climate). Their revised design incorporated a sophisticated natural ventilation system using thermal chimneys, significantly expanded glazing with bird-friendly patterning, interior growing spaces in each classroom, and extensive covered outdoor learning areas that remain usable even during their severe winters. The facilities director told me something that’s stuck with me: “We realized we weren’t just designing for education – we were designing for resilience.” That single word – resilience – perhaps best captures the pandemic’s lasting impact on our approach to biophilic design.
We no longer see nature connection as an amenity or luxury; we recognize it as a critical component of human and community resilience. This shift isn’t just changing how we design – it’s changing who participates in design. Some of the most innovative biophilic approaches I’ve seen recently have come from disciplines previously peripheral to the built environment: immunologists consulting on material selections, ecologists informing landscape integration, psychologists evaluating spatial configurations.
God, I’m actually optimistic about this evolution, which isn’t something I say lightly (just ask any of my friends who’ve endured my professional cynicism). While the pandemic brought immeasurable suffering, its impact on how we conceptualize and prioritize nature in our built environments may ultimately improve millions of lives. The widespread recognition that our physical surroundings profoundly affect our health has created momentum for changes that advocates like me struggled to advance for years.
The challenge now is ensuring these benefits extend beyond privileged spaces. Biophilic design must not become another amenity available only to the wealthy. The physiological and psychological benefits of nature connection are human needs, not luxury preferences.
Our post-pandemic approach must prioritize bringing these elements to the environments that need them most – affordable housing, schools in marginalized communities, community centers, and public spaces. After all, if COVID taught us anything, it’s that our wellbeing is fundamentally interconnected – linked not just to each other, but to the natural systems that have always sustained us, even when we’ve done our best to forget them.
