Allow me to recount the time I managed to kill seventeen plants over the course of three weeks and made a grown man shed tears. Trust me when I say no one was attempting to do this on purpose, I would never, but this single incident continues to haunt me to this day.
We start all the way in 2022 when I gained a contract that seemed extremely lucrative at first glance. A tech startup based in Portland hired me to redecorate their entire office. The head office of the company was still stuck on the starting phase of biophilia and lacked the knowledge of its rich depths. Let’s just say their understanding of sustainability concepts was incorporatively superficial. I must also mention that their CEO, Marcus, is obsessed with the term “biophilia.” He spent an entire week trying to “energise his office space with nature” which I can gladly say, is bs. A friend of mine recommended me and it did not come to my surprise, as my projects likely led him to assume that I exclusively dealt with the integration of nature into residential spaces.
“I want to feel connected to nature even while coding,” Marcus told me during our first conversation while eyeing the sterile open-plan office with its clinical illumination and a pitiful fig tree languishing in the corner. “Our team requires something alive in the area.”
Encouraged by the first lecture of Oxford’s MBA program, I kicked off with my monologue on biophilia. Blame Edward O. Wilson for this—theory of humans being biologically compelled to connect with other living systems and nature. It’s not only about design, but also about how the basic framework of human history is set up. I informed them of the constructive, or productive, benefits achieved by bringing natural elements into the work environment. They spend 99.9% of a human’s lifetime being in nature directly, hence natural elements are bound to make a positive impact. The statistics I shared exposed the astonishing boost to productivity, stress level, and creativity—the whole nine yards, so to speak.
Marcus was all ears. By the end of the meeting, the project budget astonishingly doubled.
The prospect of starting my biophilic design career was very appealing, so I decided to undertake a tackling task for myself. I was excited, spent many weeks formulating a plan which included gathering materials, planning, and constructing. I sought guidance from Tomas, a brilliant botanist who knew how to identify plant species within seconds and possessed all the details on what condition plants would thrive indoors. Biologically, himself and I formulated what I still consider brilliant. Water features, light and natural forms, and the design itself resembled live walls.
Alongside my contractors who while thinking I was out of my mind, still enjoyed the enthusiasm but reaped the benefit of a transformed area out of it. Over the week exhausted, but enthusiastic with a newfound energy worked for 16 hours straight. While we were completing the task I spied the office and it turned out to be beyond my expectations. Amazing; was the office was absolutely stunning. Out of immaculate beauty, resided a framework which made individual say ‘wow’ on both entrance and involuntarily. The transformation to the design was so brilliant to the species that thoughts of life emerging out of the materials during this time made the office stunning.
Celebration day went off without a hitch. Employees strolled around with expressions from polite shock to actual tears (in a good way). Marcus could not contain himself. I briefly explained biophilia and showed her how they traced the redesign to our need for nature in some form. It started with direct contact through plants and water features. Also, indirect contact via natural materials and patterns—including symbolic shapes and images representing nature—and even some symbolic connections were made through shapes and images that stimulate nature. Everybody was paying attention and I really started to believe I am a design goddess.
That is, until I made one crucial misstep.
“Oh, it’s mostly self-sustaining! Just water twice a week and some light pruning,” to Marcus’ maintenance questions, I answer most cheerfully. Then I passed out the absolute no read maintenance booklet I had so thoughtfully crafted and went on to my next assignment in Seattle.
Three weeks later, Marcus called me in a panic. “Everything’s dying,” he uttered, sounding deeply concerned. “The walls are turning brown. There’s some kind of… mold? And something’s leaking. You need to come back. Now.”
To my surprise, the plant was indeed dead. I can only describe it as carnage. Wondrous self-caring walls were brown, my precious selaginella and ferns were nothing but ash, and many pot bound floor plants were limp. The leaking irrigation for the hanging garden was slowly creating a hole in the ceiling. Not to mention the mold growing on the wooden elements of the water feature.
Tomas, my botanic specialist, sobbed when he examined it. I mean tears come streaming down as he said, “These are living things,” embracing a shriveled fern. “They suffered.”
My heart sunk. Not in the tender way you cradle a child’s head, though. After all, considering this “biophilic design” I had spent hours perfecting, I completely omitted how the busy office would require time, attention, and effort—more than a rudimentary understanding of botany—to maintain a complicated ecosystem of plants. In my attempts to encourage a relationship with nature, I had built a “self-sustaining” natural habitat that, in reality, lacked any means of longevity—and it turns out that, in relation to biophilia, that’s actually the worst possible scenario.
Marcus made me anxious after a horrendous panic-attack inducing meeting with him. He took one look at the mess I had made and I could sense his animosity radiating from his glowering eyes. With no choice left, I hired the professional maintenance branch to nurse what plants were salvagable. Alongside simplifying the irrigation systems, I substituted more delicate species with hardier options, installed moisture sensors, and automated systems whenever feasible. Finally, I went above and beyond by leading employees in workshops on basic plant care—shifting maintenance from a burden to a team endeavor sleeping in an utterly dormant state.
It taught me something far more valuable than design successes ever could, and in life, often we learn the hard way.
Of all my udnerstanding in concept, ideals, and practices regarding nature, I missed the coffin nail in the casket, and that is: Biophilia isn’t simply integrating elements of nature into the surroundings; it’s about forming a relationship with living organism systems. It reminds us that we’re a part of nature, not just passive spectators or entitles consumers. My overzealous design created nature connection, but mere appearance and not substance.
As I now call it, the Great Plant Massacre of 2022 changed my view on approximches of biophilic design completely. My conviction to the intrinsic connection to nature in us is still very vivid, because that has not changed. My understanding now, however, is that true biophilia is as much a matter of process as it is arististic. There are no more staged fills for engagment te with elements of nature other than backgrounds made for green fleeced selfie opportunities.
Recently, I went to visit that startup again. Although a lot of my work does remain, most of it has been changed. The last time I spoke to the maintenance team, I told them that they could come for supervision only once every week instead of every day. Now, it is obvious that the employees have taken control of various zones within the office. Marcus mentioned an internal Slack channel dedicated to plant inquiries and other forms of “plant-related” celebrations. I also heard that the marketing manager has been propagating some pothos cuttings, which have now attained several desks. The lead developer installed a bird feeder right outside the window, and now he is calculating the bird species sighted.
It does not have the biophilic showcase that is immaculate, which I originally designed. It’s more collaborative, messier, and more alive. And honestly? It’s much better.
It helped me understand biophilia further, especially in relation to what it means in our current world. The term was popularized by Edward O. Wilson during the 1980s. He was coining the term to explain ‘why humans like to be surrounded by plant life’, and could talk about our essential biological need to connect with other living creatures.
This isn’t a load of malarkey—there’s reputable work being done in this area. Research finds that even short exposure to natural sights and sounds can lower blood pressure, decrease stress hormones, boost immune response, and improve emotional state. Nature-viewing hospital windows result in faster recovery times for patients. Natural light and greenery in classroom enhances student performance. Green spaces around workplaces decrease sick-leave absenteeism for workers.
My friend Leila, a neuroscientist at OHSU, told me, “When we’re looking at nature or spending time in it, our cognition changes. We are less mentally taxed as we shift from a focus that is top-down and effortful, to one that is more free-flowing. It is profoundly restorative qualitatively to our mental abilities.”
Last summer, I conducted a mini biophilia experiment and sustained attention to nature during the course of a month. After completing a particularly stressful work week, I resolved to connect with nature every day for a month, no matter how busy my schedule was. It was as easy as tuning into bird songs while having my morning coffee on my balcony, or hiking in Forest Park and enjoying an afternoon at Sauvie Island. My mood, productivity, and sleep quality was monitored during this period.
The outcomes were quite surprising to say the least. I noticed my average sleep quality, rated subjectively each morning, increased from a 6/10 to an 8.5/10. My productivity, especially for creative tasks, improved quite significantly. Also, my partner Tom pointed out how much calmer I seemed compared to before, which highlights the drop in my general anxiety levels.
What I found most intriguing was an effect that I could not measure, a change regarding my relationship with the world around me. I began to notice things that I had been too busy to observe earlier: the gradual changing of daylight throughout the day, when particular plants would bloom, and the patterns of bird activities in the mornings. I felt myself becoming less detached from the natural world and more like I was participating in it.
This is important because it seems to me that one of the most significant disconnection in our lives today is this sense of separation. The feeling that nature is “out there” which we occasionally visit, rather than a system we are part of 24/7. We live in climate regulated boxes, consume food whose source is always behind the curtains, and spend countless hours mindlessly scrolling on a screen. It is understandable why we feel anxious, depressed, or even disconnected.
Biophilia gives me hope because it seems that the urge to be connected to nature hasn’t evaporated completely, even when technology is surging forward. This need is hardwired within us, dormant and waiting to be unleashed. This can be seen during the pandemic when there was wide audience toward houseplants and in forest bathing and nature therapy. It can be seen through the increasing property value near parks and in botanical gardens during weekends.
We all are aware of the drastic change in my clients when we revamp the interiors from sterile lifeless boxes to lively ones. There is a moment that I live for and that I’m sure other people would want to experience in their lifetime and it is when a client walks into a new biophilic designed space and their body relaxed. Their pulse shifts along with changes in voice volume. Often there are no words to express this feeling, which I am certain is acknowledgment of recognition.
I’m not advocating for us to retreat into the forests as hermits, but it does sound appealing at certain points. What I do mean is that we need to be more deliberate in integrating opportunities for meaningful interactions with nature in our lives. Also, we have to realize that biophilia is not just a whimsical thing that people do; it is a necessary component of life.
Suffice it to say I destroyed 17 houseplants and made a man cry. That was not exactly my high point as a designer, but that exceptional failure planted lessons about true biophilia that no success could teach. Genuine connection with nature isn’t something you simply put in place and forget about; it’s something that needs care, ongoing maintenance, and nurturing. Just like any significant relationship.
Oh, and if you’ll excuse me, I need to tend to my plants – all 73 of them. Apparently, I now collect them the same way some people do shoes, which means my apartment has morphed into what Tom affectionately refers to as ‘the urban jungle.’ I’ve become this person who talks to her monstera while voicing strong opinions about soil mixtures and guess what? I have never been happier.
