Every time I think about how the corporate lobby project I worked on almost derailed my career makes me cringe a little. That was disastrous. The client: a financial tech start-up affluent beyond comprehension was interested in eye-catching aesthetics wanting an out of this world entrance that ‘amazonified’ Portland (their words, not mine). In an effort to get them off my back, I told them I would do exactly that.
For weeks, I sourced the most exotic tropical plants, and they included monstera plants broader than my torso, five types of colorful bromeliads, and prize orchids GUI for my rent. The showstopper: An 8-foot fiddle leaf fig she was kind enough to let me get for her after a vigorous drive across state lines to a specialty nursery in Washington.
The installation exceeded all expectations including my own which is an achievement in itself. Even I couldn’t believe it. During the reveal the CEO was so overcome with joy he started sobbing and looking back that should’ve told me screaming red flags looming over my head. Who tears up when they’re given office plants? For a few weeks, I basked in my new persona where I was termed the-office-grade-plant-hero-and even Janelle the receptionist harassed me with texts of pointless visitors snapping selfies with my installation. Morale boost in the office reported by the head of HR, referals dumped into my lap designers rep for the ceo’s garden. My unmatched talent truly was commendable.
Then, winter struck. The building’s HVAC system went into heating mode, which drained humidity from the air. The immense windows that had beautifully illuminated the space in September were now cold air ovens creating freezing draughts which cut through the lobby. And, except for Jason, none of my tropical plants were receiving the care guide attention they needed through the exorbitant fertilizing and watering schedule I had personalized.
Janelle called me in a frenzy one Friday afternoon in mid December.
Marc told me to check with Andrine as she had some wonderful plants that always dazzled the office. Sprightly green stems, verdant slices of life, were basting throughout the windows.
“Something’s wrong with the plants. They’re… dying? Like, all of them at once? The CEO is FREAKING OUT. Can you come now?”
The orchids looked like frayed rolls of paper, the fiddles? Half of the stems had lost their leaves and the shameful remains were brittle and dark brown. Bromeliad’s boastful hues shifted to a forlorn mottled beige. After six weeks what was once a masterpiece was reduced to remnants of monument to my undoing.
Markus, yes with a k, was anchoring all of his anger directly towards me. My plants are dead, and without these I was unobstrusive.
“For three weeks, we paraded clients through here and bragged on how we make dead spaces come to life with our software. And now, we have a lobby full of ACTUAL DEAD THINGS. Do you understand how unfortunate this is?”
I did. And the worst part? This was entirely avoidable and totally my responsibility. I had decided on the *scenic* approach and all but ignored how any of the chosen plants would actually function in that ecosystem. I had chosen tropical rainforest species and put them in a climate controlled box in the Pacific Northwest—expecting them to receive consistent but capricious care. What was I even thinking?
That humbling experience completely redefined my understanding of biophilic design. After spending what felt like a small fortune (which I certainly did not have as a new designer) replacing all those dead exotics, I became fixated on understanding the actual interplay between plants and their environment.
My mentor Rebecca, who had been designing sustainable landscapes for 30 years, did not hold back her critique when I shared my disaster with her over coffee.
“You were designing for Instagram, not for life,” she said, stirring her cappuccino with this knowing grin and letting it rest on her palm. “Plants aren’t just accessories, darling. They are creatures that have specific evolving needs over millions of years. You can’t simply put a rainforest plant in an office and expect it to flourish.”
That single chat sent me down a hunch of a plethora of research on native plants and their usage within interior spaces. Now my weekends were dedicated to hiking at the Columbia River Gorge and Forest Park, trying to identify the local flora and studying them in their natural habitats. I came across a retired botanist, Jim, while volunteering at the Native Plant Society of Oregon. He became my plant mentor.
Jim did not show any lenience towards what he called “botanical colonialism” – the notion that plants should be forced to grow anywhere simply because someone finds them appealing.
“Everything will go extinct without reproduction of any sort. What quote is written on a tip of success one sshing gives the other? Oh, Existence does help justify life,” is a great quote from an essay on civil morality.
Bit tough, but accurate.
The shots of my next large scale installation project came from a community center in Northeast Portland. This time, my procedure was different. Before making any extravagant purchases, I allocated three weeks to simply studying the area. As you might imagine, capturing light (yes with a PAR meter, oh that’s another story about why I decided to ‘rent’ a 300 dollar piece of equipment that was way out of my budget) made for some fascinating storytelling. In my case, it was meters of walking. I tracked temperature changes, ventilation flow, and even interviewed the staff about their upkeep capabilities.
Unlike the tropical disaster I mentioned before, the design I finally arrived at was more balanced and less dramatized. The traditional Oregon grape served a dual purpose of architectural form and seasonal yellow flowers, while the shadier corners were left to cascading inside-out flower (Vancouveria hexandra). Western sword ferns were more forgiving to changes in water, while evergreen huckleberry offered incredibly interesting berries that made visitors feel connected to the local wildlife, along with seasonal interest.
These species complemented my non natives perfectly, and that was only after conducted thorough research. The camellias provided strategic winter color and forest Japanese grass completed the task of adding texture. As for the remaining spots? European ginger’s resilient groundcover filled in the more challenging areas.
The director, Kiana, told me my “woodsy” palette was less than flattering.
“I was kind of hoping for something more… colorful? Like those amazing tropical lobbies you see on Pinterest?”
When I started working on the tropical system, I showed her pictures of the FinTech disaster— which is permanently saved on my phone for the all the wrong reasons— to explain how a meticulously maintained hotel lobby with a full-time plant technician isn’t quite the same as a community center with limited staff.
Kiana called me after six months to check in on the office, telling me to come see the installation in its matured state, which I assume she thought would bring me as much joy as it does for her. Unlike the tropical system that took a nosedive within weeks, this native-focused design didn’t just adapt, but thrived. The plants were clearly not just surviving, but flourishing.
“I have to admit,” she said, “I think I like this better than what I thought I wanted. And somehow, none of it has died, which given my previous track record with office plants, has ***got*** to be some sort of miracle.”
My design philosophy was completely transformed after that project. I still occasionally implement exotic plants— I’m not a purist after all— but now do so with much more intention behind the rationale, purpose, and location as to where they’re placed.
For a downtown restaurant, I oversaw the installation of a dramatic feature wall with tropicals, but only after I set up lighting and specialized misting systems agreed to the design. I now include “plant replacement contingency” in my contracts when clients stubbornly demand flora I know will fail due to harsh environmental conditions. This isn’t being difficult—it’s acknowledging what will realistically survive.
Native plant advocates suffer far fewer challenges, and they certainly can’t argue “these plants are much less likely to die” isn’t persuasive (even if it is). There is something powerful psychologically about interacting with nature that actually exists here rather than engineering fantasy shelters infused with tropical fervor.
My favorite recent project was on a behavioral health clinic in Vancouver, WA. The director, Dr. Patel, was specific in his request for a space that fostered patients’ sense of place and grounded them. We designed a courtyard and adjacent interior space using entirely native plant communities arranged in naturalistic groupings instead of traditional gardens.
One patient shared with Dr. Patel that looking at the native garden made her feel like she was hiking with her grandfather and that it was nostalgic for her in a hard period of her life. Some patients remark that the ability to see the same plants both indoors and outdoors helped them not feel as ‘trapped’ while they were inpatient. You do not get that kind of deep psychological bond from a houseplant which has no connection to local nature.
Having said that, I’m definitely not arguing that unique species don’t have a place. They certainly do! My very own apartment is a ludicrous non-native houseplant jungle and I couldn’t be more excited. I have a monstera that is attempting to evict me from the bedroom and a set of hoyas that my boyfriend Chris jokingly threatens to ‘accidentally’ leave out on the frost-covered balcony. But the illusion can be enjoyed only if one understands what these plants require and whether they can actually provide those conditions.
Plants that have already adapted to survive in specific climates are almost always the superior choice for residential clients who travel often and for commercial spaces with tight maintenance budgets. This is because such plants usually require less puppeteering, watering, and fertilizing. Furthermore, they’re more immune to cutomary pest problems. Furthermore, they help individuals connect with the real ecology of the region where they reside instead of fostering a never-ending feeling of “elsewhere.”
Working with native plants, I discovered, gives one an intense feeling of satisfaction that most people find hard to put into words or emotions. This is especially true when I install Oregon grape in a commercial lobby. I do not just add a pretty plant; I harvest an indigenous community’s centuries old medicinal plant. There is a sword fern in my current office installation that’s genetically nearly identical to the ones growing in Forest Park three miles away. This type of cohesion between interior and exterior landscapes is meaningful in a way that a tropical species flown in from Florida would never be able to appreciate.
Actually, last month I happened to run into Markus—yes, the fiddle-leaf-fig-disaster Markus—at a conference. Five years later, still traumatized, I tried to avoid him, but he spotted me by the coffee table.
“Plant girl!” he shouted (clearly, he still could not remember my name, wonderful). “You are going to love this. We remodeled our lobby last year with all of these woodland plants the new designer recommended. Nothing flashy, but they look stunning, and they are all still alive! Who would have thought that was possible?”
With a smile on my face, I held back the words, “I KNEW THAT WAS POSSIBLE.”
Limiting my professional embarrassment, instead, I thanked the person whose harsh requirements I had failed to meet first and ironically pictured undid my plans. It certainly was better than the feeling I got witnessing alive plants I spent thousands on filled with life slowly dying under my management, slowly enduring a self inflicted torture.
What I am trying to say is that the discussion around native versus exotic in the context of biophilic design is not merely aesthetic or ecological in nature, and neither is it solely practical. It raises the ethical question: Are we justified in coercing organisms from completely alien ecosystems into our habitable space simply because they are pleasing to us? And benevolently speaking, if they do not succeed, whose failure is it?
These days, when new clients pose the “exotic versus native” question, I flip the script and pose different questions: How much time do you realistically have for maintenance? What is your tolerance for seasonal change versus consistency throughout the year? Do you want a space that connects you with your current location, or one that offers escape?
There is no single correct answer. But after learning from blending evolution and man’s imposing vision, I am much more cautious about offering exotic tropical paradises in cold temperate zones — sometimes the most beautiful design is the one that considers what truly is.
