I’ll never forget the moment I realized COVID had completely changed how we think about our living spaces – and it wasn’t during those endless lockdown days in my 400-square-foot studio, though that definitely started it. It was actually like six months after things reopened, when I was walking past this new office building in downtown Chicago that I’d watched them construct during the pandemic.
I remembered seeing the original plans posted on the construction fence – your typical sleek corporate lobby with lots of steel, glass, and maybe one sad sculptural plant if they were feeling generous. But when I peeked through the windows at the finished space, I literally stopped walking. There were cascading plants everywhere, windows that actually opened (revolutionary!), outdoor working areas, and natural materials instead of that sterile minimalist aesthetic that screams “productivity over humanity.”
Later I found out from someone who worked there that they’d completely scrapped the original design halfway through construction. Apparently no companies wanted to lease office space that looked like a medical facility after everyone had spent months trapped in their apartments realizing how much our surroundings affect our mental health.
That made so much sense to me because I’d been living through my own version of this revelation. When lockdown started, I was basically using my studio apartment as a place to sleep and store my stuff – working long hours, socializing outside the apartment, not really thinking about the space beyond “wow, this is small and depressing.” Then suddenly I was stuck in this tiny, dark box 24/7, and it became very clear very quickly that my living environment was actively making me feel terrible.
Everyone talks about how houseplant sales exploded during the pandemic, and I was definitely part of that statistic. But it wasn’t because I needed a hobby – it was because I was desperately trying to bring something alive into a space that felt like a cave. I bought Patricia (my first pothos) from the grocery store for eight dollars and became obsessed with keeping her alive. Within a week I was googling plant care at 2am and setting phone reminders to check her soil moisture.
Turns out there’s actual research backing up why so many of us instinctively reached for plants during lockdown. I found this study from the University of Vermont showing that people who had access to nature – even just views of trees from their windows – had way better mental health outcomes during the early pandemic than people stuck in spaces with no natural elements. Which explains why I spent so many hours staring out my one terrible window at the brick wall, desperately trying to catch glimpses of the sky.
My building’s rooftop was technically accessible but basically abandoned – just tar paper and HVAC equipment. I started going up there during my lunch breaks just to see actual sunlight and feel less claustrophobic. Met other residents doing the same thing, all of us looking slightly unhinged from being indoors too much. We started talking about maybe doing something with the space, which eventually turned into our little rooftop garden project.
The thing that’s wild to me is that unlike sourdough starters and Zoom happy hours, this connection to nature didn’t fade when the pandemic ended. If anything, it’s become a permanent expectation. Like, people I know who never cared about having outdoor space before will now walk away from apartments without balconies. The real estate market in Chicago completely shifted – even tiny outdoor spaces command insane premiums now because everyone realized how much they need access to fresh air and plants.
I’ve been following office design accounts on Instagram (don’t judge me, it’s fascinating), and the changes are dramatic. Companies that used to brag about ping pong tables and free snacks are now advertising their natural light and outdoor work areas because employees literally won’t come back otherwise. One post I saw from a tech company showed they’d converted their conference rooms to have living walls and operable windows because “we can’t compete with people’s home offices unless we offer better access to nature.”
Healthcare spaces are changing too, which is probably overdue since there’s been research for decades showing that patients recover faster when they can see trees from their hospital windows. My mom was in the hospital last year (nothing serious, thankfully), and I was shocked by how much they’d integrated plants and natural light compared to the sterile medical environments I remembered from before. The nurse told me they’d redesigned the whole wing during COVID because they couldn’t ignore the connection between environments and health outcomes anymore.
But here’s what’s frustrating me about this trend: there’s a lot of fake biophilic design happening now that’s basically just aesthetic. Like, slapping some botanical wallpaper in a windowless room and calling it “nature-connected.” I went to a coworking space recently that advertised its biophilic design, and it was just fake plants and green furniture in a space with no windows and terrible air circulation. The manager seemed genuinely confused when I suggested actual living plants might be more effective than plastic ones.
This matters because real biophilic design isn’t just about looking at pictures of forests – it’s about creating actual connections with living systems. True natural elements work with multiple senses and change over time, like actual plants do. My apartment still has terrible natural light, but my collection of plants under grow lights creates humidity, produces oxygen, and gives me living things to care for. That’s completely different from just putting up a nature poster.
What I find really interesting is how this connects to other pandemic changes, especially around air quality. We all became obsessed with ventilation (for obvious reasons), and now people want spaces that actually breathe instead of being sealed boxes with recycled air. My building started opening windows in the hallways and lobby for the first time ever, and honestly it makes such a difference in how the space feels.
I’ve also noticed more interest in transitional spaces – like covered outdoor areas that aren’t fully inside or outside. The restaurant on my block converted their dining room to this flexible space that can be mostly enclosed in winter but opens completely in summer. Their customers want to feel like they’re eating outside even when Chicago weather makes that impossible, so they created this compromise that maintains that outdoor sensory experience while protecting against the elements.
The pandemic basically accelerated changes that might have taken decades to happen gradually. Concepts that seemed experimental or expensive in 2019 are now basic expectations. But I’m worried about who gets access to these improvements. Better biophilic design can’t just be another amenity for people who can afford luxury apartments and fancy office buildings.
The mental health and physical benefits of connecting with nature are human needs, not luxury preferences. The same communities that were hit hardest by COVID – often living in housing with the least access to natural light, outdoor space, and air quality – are the ones who need these improvements most. But they’re also the least likely to see developers investing in extensive green features.
That’s why I think community-level solutions like our rooftop garden are so important. We pooled resources from multiple residents to create shared access to outdoor growing space, which none of us could afford individually. It’s not perfect – I still have to climb four flights of stairs and coordinate with other people – but it gives everyone in the building access to soil, sunlight, and growing food regardless of income.
I’m seeing more interest in this kind of collective approach to bringing nature into urban spaces. Community gardens have waiting lists. Neighborhood groups are advocating for pocket parks and tree planting. People are realizing that individual solutions only go so far when you’re dealing with systemic issues around housing quality and urban planning.
The challenge now is making sure these post-pandemic insights about the importance of nature connection actually translate into policy and development practices that benefit everyone, not just people who can afford to pay premiums for better living environments. Because if COVID taught us anything, it’s that our health and wellbeing are interconnected – and that includes our connection to the natural world, even when we’re living in tiny apartments in the middle of cities.
My current project is trying to grow herbs on my kitchen counter using grow lights, which feels very symbolic of this whole pandemic-influenced shift toward bringing nature indoors by any means necessary. The first attempt died within a week, but I’m trying again because having fresh basil in my tiny dark apartment feels like a small victory against the limitations of urban living.
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.
