I still cringe when I think about my first “accessible” biophilic design project. God, it was such a disaster. Like, epic levels of well-intentioned failure.
It was for this community center in Northeast Portland—a beautiful old building with a neglected courtyard that the director, Amara, wanted to transform into what she called a “healing sensory garden” for their diverse community members. I was so excited to get the commission. I’d been reading all about sensory gardens and their therapeutic benefits, especially for people with autism, dementia, and various sensory processing differences. This was my chance to create something truly special that would serve everyone in the community.
I spent weeks researching plants with interesting textures and fragrances, designed these gorgeous raised beds at what I thought were perfect heights for wheelchair users, created winding paths with different surface materials for tactile stimulation… I was so proud of this design. It had everything—sound elements with small wind chimes and bubbling water features, aromatic herbs strategically placed at different heights, even a small area with edible berries.
The installation went smoothly, and the garden looked stunning. Seriously, it was magazine-worthy. The community center scheduled this big ribbon-cutting ceremony, and I was practically floating with pride as about fifty people gathered for the grand reveal.
That’s when Carmen showed up. She was a regular at the community center’s senior programs and used an electric wheelchair. I watched her face as she approached the garden entrance, expecting to see the same wonder I felt. Instead, I saw her expression fall as she realized there was a 4-inch step into the garden space that I had somehow completely overlooked in my design.
Four. Inch. Step. No ramp. No warning. Just an impassable barrier for anyone using a wheelchair or mobility aid.
My stomach dropped. How had I missed something so fundamental? I’d been so focused on the sensory elements and the aesthetic design that I’d completely failed to address the most basic accessibility need: actually being able to enter the space.
Carmen was incredibly gracious. “It happens all the time,” she said with a resigned shrug when I profusely apologized. But those four words felt like a knife to my heart. It happens all the time. My “inclusive” design was perpetuating the exact problem I thought I was solving.
And it got worse. As other community members began to explore the garden, more issues emerged. The “wheelchair-accessible” raised beds? Too high for children and people of short stature. The beautiful river rock path I’d created for sensory stimulation? Impossible to navigate for anyone with balance issues or using canes. The fragrant herbs I’d so carefully selected? Triggered asthma attacks in two visitors.
My perfect sensory garden was a masterclass in exclusion disguised as inclusion.
That project changed everything about how I approach biophilic design. I realized that I’d been thinking of accessibility as a checklist item rather than as the fundamental starting point for truly inclusive design. I’d been designing for some imaginary “average” disabled person rather than the complex, diverse reality of human bodies and needs.
But here’s the thing—that spectacular failure led to my best work. After taking a few days to recover from the embarrassment (and, if I’m honest, a bit of self-pity), I called Amara and asked if I could try again, this time with a completely different approach. Instead of me designing FOR the community, could we design WITH them?
Amara, who honestly should have fired me on the spot, agreed. We spent the next three months hosting design workshops with community center members of all abilities. I learned more in those sessions than in all my years of formal education combined.
Jenny, who has low vision, taught me that high-contrast borders on paths aren’t just helpful—they’re essential for her navigation. Carlos, who has autism, explained how certain plant arrangements could create overwhelming visual stimuli, while others provided a calming sense of order. And Carmen, bless her, not only forgave my original error but became the garden’s fiercest advocate, educating all of us on the nuances of designing for wheelchair users beyond just ramps and path widths.
“It’s not just about being able to enter a space,” she explained during one particularly eye-opening session. “It’s about being able to actively participate in it. What good is a garden if I can see it but not touch it, smell it, or care for it?”
We completely redesigned the garden based on their input. The new version included multiple entry points with proper ramping, adjustable-height planters that could be modified based on user needs, and a far more thoughtful approach to plant selection that considered common allergies and sensitivities. We created wider turning radiuses at path intersections, installed rest areas with different seating options, and added clear signage with braille and raised lettering.
But the most important change wasn’t physical—it was philosophical. The garden was no longer designed to be a static, finished space. Instead, it was designed to evolve based on ongoing user feedback. We installed a simple system for community members to suggest changes, and the garden’s maintenance plan included quarterly assessment meetings where users could discuss what was working and what wasn’t.
Honestly? The second version wasn’t as visually spectacular as my original design. The paths were more utilitarian, the planting scheme less dramatic. But it was infinitely more successful because people actually used it. ALL people. I remember watching a grandmother in a wheelchair planting herbs alongside her granddaughter, a teenager with autism finding a quiet corner during a busy community event, and a blind man confidently navigating the space using the textured pathways and scented plant markers we’d developed together.
That failure and subsequent learning process transformed my entire approach to biophilic design. I realized that truly inclusive spaces require us to expand our understanding of how humans interact with nature beyond just the visual and ambulatory experience that most designers default to.
Since then, I’ve visited some truly remarkable inclusive biophilic spaces that have further shaped my thinking. The VanDusen Botanical Garden in Vancouver blew me away with their thoughtful integration of accessibility features that don’t feel like afterthoughts. They’ve got these amazing sensory maps that help visitors with various needs plan their experience. And their volunteer guides are trained to provide tours that engage different senses—not just visual descriptions but encouraging touch, smell, and even taste where appropriate.
I spent an afternoon there shadowing a guide who was leading a group that included several people with visual impairments. The way she described the plants, encouraged appropriate touch, and created a rich sensory experience was masterful. “Plants don’t just exist to be looked at,” she told me afterward. “They’re living beings that engage all our senses—we just need to create the conditions for that engagement to happen safely and meaningfully.”
Another project that really changed my thinking was a visit to the Eden Project in Cornwall during a trip to the UK. What struck me wasn’t just their obvious accessibility features—though the thoroughness of their wheelchair accessibility is impressive. It was their commitment to cognitive and sensory accessibility. They have these “Relaxed Sessions” specifically designed for visitors who might find crowded or noisy environments challenging. Staff receive specialized training, they adjust lighting and sound levels, and they create quiet zones where people can decompress if they’re feeling overwhelmed.
When I asked one of their designers about the business case for such comprehensive accessibility, he laughed. “It’s not a business case—it’s a human case. But if you want the financial argument, our attendance has increased by 22% since implementing these measures. Turns out, creating spaces that work for people with specific accessibility needs makes them better for everyone.”
That concept—that accessibility benefits everyone—has become central to my design philosophy. When we design biophilic spaces that accommodate diverse needs, they don’t become “special” spaces for disabled people; they become better spaces for all people.
Take lighting, for example. Designing lighting that works for people with photosensitivity or visual processing differences typically means creating more nuanced, adjustable systems with better glare control and more natural light integration. These same features create more comfortable, aesthetically pleasing environments for everyone. Similarly, creating multiple pathways through a space to accommodate different mobility needs results in more interesting, dynamic environments that encourage exploration and provide choice for all users.
Of course, there are practical challenges. Budget constraints are real, especially for public projects or community spaces. I’m working on a school garden project right now where we’re implementing accessibility in phases because the full vision isn’t financially feasible all at once. We started with the essential backbone—proper entry points, primary pathways, and basic infrastructure—designed to accommodate the specific needs of current students while allowing for future expansion.
Another huge challenge is the tension between different accessibility needs, which sometimes conflict with each other. A surface texture that provides helpful navigation cues for a blind person might create difficulty for someone using a wheelchair. A plant that provides important sensory stimulation for neurodivergent visitors might trigger allergies in others.
My friend Rafael, who designs therapeutic gardens for healthcare settings, calls this the “accessibility paradox.” He told me, “The moment you solve for one accessibility need, you often create a new challenge for someone else. The key isn’t trying to create one perfect solution, but rather creating multiple pathways to experience the same space.”
That advice has been transformative for my practice. Instead of aiming for universal solutions (which often end up serving no one particularly well), I now focus on creating multiple options throughout a space. Different seating heights and styles, alternate pathways, variety in sensory experiences—all designed to give users choice rather than a one-size-fits-all approach.
I’ve also become much more interested in adaptive technologies as complementary elements to physical design. At a recent project for a nature center, we incorporated QR codes throughout the garden that linked to audio descriptions, sensory maps, and alternative navigation tools. Visitors can choose how they want to experience the space based on their specific needs and preferences.
My colleague Mei, who specializes in digital accessibility, pushed me to think beyond static solutions. “The physical environment has limitations,” she explained, “but digital tools can adapt instantly to individual needs. The trick is making sure they enhance rather than replace the direct connection with nature.”
That balance—using technology to facilitate nature connection rather than substitute for it—is something I’m still working to get right. In one project, we went overboard with digital interpretive elements, creating what was essentially a tech-mediated nature experience rather than a direct one. Now I’m much more judicious, using technology primarily to remove barriers to direct experience rather than becoming the experience itself.
I’m currently working on what might be my most ambitious inclusive biophilic project yet: a public park redesign that centers the experiences of disabled community members without segregating them into “special” areas. We’ve assembled a paid advisory panel of local disabled residents who are guiding every aspect of the design process, from initial concept through implementation and evaluation.
One of our advisors, Tony, who has been using a wheelchair since a spinal cord injury fifteen years ago, challenged me on my initial concept sketches. “This still feels like you’re designing a ‘normal’ park and then adding accessibility features,” he said. “What would it look like if you started with our needs as the baseline rather than the modification?”
That question led to a complete rethinking of the project. Instead of designing traditional park elements and then making them accessible, we’re starting with the diverse embodied experiences of our advisory panel and designing outward from there. The resulting concepts are unlike anything I’ve created before—both more practical in some ways and more imaginative in others.
For example, rather than creating a traditional sensory garden as a specialized feature, sensory engagement is integrated throughout the entire park. Fragrant plants aren’t relegated to a specific area but are strategically placed along all major pathways. Textural variety isn’t a special feature but a fundamental design principle applied to every surface and transition.
The project is still in development, but I’m already learning so much from the process. Perhaps the most important lesson is about the difference between compliance and inclusion. It’s embarrassingly easy to create spaces that technically meet accessibility codes but still feel unwelcoming or impractical for many disabled users.
As Carmen pointed out to me years ago at that first failed garden, “ADA compliance is the floor, not the ceiling. I can legally enter many spaces that I would never choose to spend time in because they make every aspect of my experience difficult or uncomfortable.”
That insight has stuck with me. Now I evaluate my designs not just on whether they meet legal requirements, but on whether they create equitable experiences. Can everyone enter with the same ease? Can everyone participate in the same activities? Do all users have access to the key sensory and emotional benefits that make biophilic spaces so valuable?
I still mess up sometimes. Last year, I designed a corporate courtyard with this gorgeous water feature that I thought was universally accessible—until a visitor who uses hearing aids pointed out that the sound of falling water made conversation impossible for him in that area. We had to retrofit acoustic baffling elements to create zones where the water was visible but its sound was muted enough for clear communication.
But each mistake is an opportunity to learn, and I’m grateful for the disabled experts and community members who have been willing to share their knowledge—sometimes patiently, sometimes (justifiably) not so patiently—to help me create better spaces.
That terrible first sensory garden with its 4-inch step barrier? I keep a photo of it on my desk as a reminder of what happens when we design for an imagined ideal rather than actual human beings in all their complexity. It’s my personal reminder that true biophilic design isn’t just about connecting people with nature—it’s about connecting ALL people with nature, in ways that respect their autonomy, dignity, and diverse needs.
As for Carmen, she’s now one of my most trusted consultants on accessibility matters. She reviews my designs before implementation and doesn’t hesitate to tell me when I’m missing something important. “Four inches or four millimeters—a barrier is still a barrier,” she reminds me. And she’s right. In truly inclusive biophilic design, the goal isn’t just bringing nature into our spaces—it’s making sure everyone can actually experience it.
