I found myself in an awkward silence during a client meeting last Tuesday when the project manager asked me to explain the difference between “regenerative” and “regenerative design.” You know that moment when someone asks what seems like a simple question, but you realize the terminology we throw around in our field has gotten… well, messy?
The silence stretched longer than comfortable while I gathered my thoughts. Here’s someone trying to understand concepts that could transform how we approach built environments, and I’m stumbling over vocabulary that’s evolved into something confusing even for practitioners. That meeting made me realize how much clarity we’ve lost in our eagerness to adopt progressive terminology.
Let me back up a bit. When I first encountered these terms during my graduate work in Minneapolis, “regenerative” appeared almost exclusively in agricultural contexts. Farmers were moving beyond sustainable practices – which basically meant “do no harm” – toward methods that actively restored soil health, increased biodiversity, and created positive environmental cycles. The idea was revolutionary: instead of maintaining the status quo, these practices made ecosystems healthier over time.
Then something interesting happened. The concept jumped disciplines.
Architecture and design communities began adopting “regenerative” to describe approaches that went beyond green building standards. Instead of simply reducing environmental impact, regenerative building practices aimed to create net-positive effects. Buildings that generated more energy than they consumed, managed stormwater to benefit surrounding areas, or integrated food production systems that enriched local communities.
But here’s where things get confusing, and why that client meeting got awkward. People started using “regenerative design” to mean different things depending on their background and focus.
Some use “regenerative design” specifically for the design process itself – a methodology that emphasizes continuous learning, adaptation, and improvement throughout a project’s lifecycle. This approach treats design not as a fixed solution but as an ongoing conversation between built and natural systems. I’ve seen this work beautifully in community-based projects where resident feedback continuously shapes how spaces evolve.
Others use “regenerative design” to describe the intended outcomes – spaces that restore ecological and social health over time. A playground that remediates contaminated soil while providing community gathering space. A corporate campus that creates habitat corridors while improving employee wellbeing.
Then there’s a third interpretation I’ve encountered: “regenerative design” as a business philosophy emphasizing local materials, community engagement, and economic models that strengthen rather than extract from local systems. This version focuses as much on social regeneration as environmental restoration.
The confusion multiplies when you consider that all these interpretations can coexist in a single project. That pediatric cancer center I mentioned in my backstory? If I’d managed to keep that healing garden in the design, it could have embodied regenerative principles (restoring patient wellbeing), used regenerative design processes (ongoing collaboration with medical staff and families), and supported regenerative outcomes (creating habitat while reducing healthcare costs through improved patient experiences).
What frustrates me most is how this terminology confusion creates barriers for people genuinely interested in these approaches. During workshops, I watch participants’ eyes glaze over when presenters use “regenerative” and “regenerative design” interchangeably without explanation. We’re accidentally making accessible concepts seem academic and exclusive.
My approach has evolved toward what I call “plain language regeneration.” Instead of immediately diving into terminology, I start with outcomes. “What if this building actually made its neighborhood healthier over time?” “What if your office renovation created more biodiversity than existed before construction?” “What if this housing development strengthened local food systems while providing homes?”
These questions bypass terminological confusion and get to the heart of what regenerative approaches offer: the possibility that human habitats can enhance rather than degrade the systems they’re part of.
I’ve noticed that when I frame conversations this way, clients become partners rather than passive recipients of design services. The conversation shifts from “what style do you want?” to “what positive changes do you want to create?” That’s when the real magic happens – when we’re all working toward shared outcomes rather than debating vocabulary.
The Singapore experience I mentioned earlier taught me something crucial about this. The most successful nature-integrated projects there didn’t announce themselves as “regenerative” anything. They simply delivered measurable benefits: cooler microclimates, improved air quality, enhanced biodiversity, stronger community connections. The terminology mattered far less than the tangible improvements to daily life.
That said, precision in language does matter, especially when working with regulatory bodies, funding sources, or multidisciplinary teams. When I consult on larger projects, I’ve started creating glossaries that define how we’re using specific terms within that project context. “For this project, when we say ‘regenerative design,’ we mean…” It sounds bureaucratic, but it prevents the kind of miscommunication that derails progress.
I’ve also found value in distinguishing between regenerative principles and regenerative outcomes. The principles – continuous learning, systems thinking, positive environmental impact, community benefit – can guide any design process. The outcomes – restored ecosystems, strengthened communities, improved human health – provide measurable goals regardless of terminology.
My current thinking is that we need less attachment to specific terms and more focus on measurable improvements. Whether you call it “regenerative,” “restorative,” “net-positive,” or something else entirely matters less than whether you’re actually creating beneficial change over time.
The client from that awkward Tuesday meeting? We ended up having a fantastic follow-up conversation where I ditched the terminology altogether and showed examples of projects that actively improved their contexts. Buildings that cleaned stormwater runoff. Landscapes that supported endangered species while providing recreation. Interior renovations that improved indoor air quality while reducing energy consumption.
By the end of that conversation, she wasn’t asking about definitions anymore. She was asking how we could apply these approaches to her project. That’s the conversation I want to be having – not parsing terminology, but exploring possibilities for positive impact through thoughtful design.
The field will continue evolving its vocabulary, and that’s fine. What matters is maintaining focus on the fundamental shift these approaches represent: from minimizing harm to maximizing benefit, from extractive to generative relationships with natural systems, from static solutions to adaptive processes.
Whatever we call it, that shift represents the future of responsible design practice.
