The first spa project I ever worked on was surprising. It was nothing like what I had pictured as a healing and relaxing place. This spa was located in a great spot, offering high-end services and sophisticated treatments. But the space itself felt so severe! It was bright, almost too bright; it was clean, almost too clean. And the aroma it emitted… it was definitely a scent found in a spa, but it was so centrally produced and precisely controlled that it felt more like a perfume factory than a sanctuary for the senses. There was no way biophilic design was in operation here. The treatments might have been top-notch, but I sure wouldn’t want to go in for a massage after having spent time in that version of a spa.
Having that aim in mind, we set out to do an utter redesign, using biophilic principles to revamp the spa from a clinical space into an environment that felt more natural. I remember one conversation during our initial site visit that stands out. The spa owner, understandably, was a little apprehensive about our proposed use of water and light—her main concern being that these elements were impractical. But I knew to my core that a careful integration of these biophilic elements could create something transcendent and special. It could be a calm space, an instinctual space, a space that could feel like “biophilia,” a portmanteau of sorts for biology and love.
We started with natural light. The original space had very poor access to natural sunlight and depended too much on brittle-looking overhead fluorescent fixtures—but the lighting scheme needed to fall in line with how the center wanted to present itself. One of the first things I recommended was adding windows where they would have the biggest visual—and also emotional—impact. You know where the big windows need to go in a space like this, in areas that will have the most interaction with the public. The first added element, a huge window by the entrance, immediately switched up the visual access. From one side of the window, you could see a room that contained a half-dozen people; from the other side, you could see a Spanish guitar.
An element of biophilia we had to bring in was water. I have always thought of water as a basic revitalizing ingredient, possessing an inherent ability to calm and clear the mind. Even the sound of water, when it cannot be seen, can bring a sense of deep tranquility. So, we installed a waterfall in the spa’s central waiting area. It was an indoor waterfall, of course. The feature was almost laughably simple. It consisted largely of stone slabs with water trickling down them into a shallow pool that clearly enjoyed the status of pond, not pool. And yet! The sound was transcendent. Hearing the gentle flow of water was at least as effective as the candles and simmer pots in the old waiting room when it came to putting clients into a pre-massage state of relaxation.
Including greenery was another crucial element—not just as décor, but as a meaningful and interactive part of the space. In each treatment room, we placed houseplants that are low-light and low-maintenance, yet delightful. As I discussed these plants with the massage therapists, they initially raised the question of practicality. Is it feasible to have a high-maintenance plant in a treatment room and not be a distraction to the therapist? What if one of us “kills” a plant and it starts looking sad? The therapists ultimately decided that the plants add an enviable atmosphere of tranquility and good vibes to the treatment rooms.
The materials we chose also mattered in changing the spa’s energy. We replaced synthetic, shiny finishes with real ones—using wood, stone, and bamboo wherever we could. We chose inviting stone floors with texture, instead of cold, polished tile, for our guests to walk across and experience with their bare feet. We replaced the reception desk with a wooden counter carved from a single slab of reclaimed oak. The tactile connection to this natural surface is something we often underestimate, but it plays a huge role in grounding people. It helps them feel comfortable and that they’re present in this moment. I know you’re probably thinking, “But what about the money?” These materials cost money, and there’s no getting around that, but I still insist that their use matters for creating a human-friendly environment.
The very aromas of the spa were skillfully chosen to approximate a biophilic experience. Instead of synthetic fresheners or loud perfumes, we employed essential oils from nature—lavender, eucalyptus, and sandalwood. These oils not only imbued our space with a calm yet invigorating energy but also made an almost seamless transition from our indoor environment to that of the guests wandering in from our appreciated natural world. One of my favorite moments was overhearing two guests in the relaxation lounge discuss how the smell of lavender brought back memories of campfires and sleeping under the stars. One half-expect to see those two women visiting the east side of the continental divide—our countryside commune.
Finally, I want to address how we made places of refuge. In any good spa, there need to be quiet spaces where guests can simply decompress without interruptions. Instead of the typical lounge area filled with semi-comfortable but ultimately non-descript seating, we created a “nesting” area inspired by the tranquility of natural landscapes. We used not only curved walls but also warm earthy tones and an abundance of greenery to shape small alcoves where guests could enjoy solitude. The arrangement of these lounging opportunities was done with an eye toward making the space feel intimate while still allowing for “cocooning” without being considered isolating.
Designing a spa with biophilic elements is not about creating something opulent. It’s about the kind of intimacy that makes us feel linked to an extravagantly close degree—to our inner selves and to the world outside. I recollect each project since that first spa and the way nature and my relation to it have laid a hand upon these spaces and me. I suppose the next few words could be construed as a writer’s brag, but I’m not too proud; I’m just a bit awed by the nature of nature. With intimacy as their fundamental principle, these spaces do what all good science, art, and architecture ask of themselves: They help us to be.
