It was the mushrooms growing under the sink that finally pushed us over the edge. Not the good kind you’d put in a fancy risotto—the kind that suggest your kitchen has officially surrendered to moisture issues. My partner Jake found them while looking for the plunger (don’t ask) and his exact words were, “Either we renovate this kitchen or I’m moving back to my mother’s house.” Considering his mother lives in a retirement community in Arizona that explicitly prohibits “guests under 55 who stay longer than a weekend,” I knew he wasn’t entirely serious.
But the mushrooms? Yeah, those were very real. We’d been putting off the kitchen renovation for years.
Our 1930s craftsman had charm for days, but the kitchen had suffered through a particularly unfortunate 1970s remodel involving dark wood cabinets, laminate countertops in a color I can only describe as “institutional mustard,” and fluorescent lighting that made everyone look like they were recovering from a tropical disease. I’d been making mood boards and pinning inspirational kitchens since we moved in, but something always seemed more urgent—the leaking roof, the ancient furnace, the bathroom where the floor had developed a concerning slope toward one corner. But fungi in your cabinetry tends to clarify priorities pretty quickly.
As a biophilic design consultant, I knew this was my chance to practice what I preached in the most challenging environment possible: a working kitchen with real-world constraints. Most of my clients came to me for help with living spaces, offices, or occasionally bedrooms. Kitchens were trickier—they needed to prioritize function, withstand constant use, meet food safety requirements, and somehow still incorporate genuine connections to nature that wouldn’t get destroyed by the first sauce splatter or knife slip.
Jake was supportive but had concerns. “I’m all for bringing nature inside, but I don’t want herb gardens where cutting boards should be, and if you replace our oven with a fire pit, I will leave you.” His skepticism wasn’t entirely unwarranted. Early in our relationship, I’d gone through what he calls my “extreme biophilia phase” where I tried installing a living wall in our tiny apartment bathroom.
Let’s just say moss doesn’t thrive when directly exposed to shower steam, and our security deposit paid the price. We started by listing non-negotiables. Jake, who does most of the cooking, needed proper workspace, good task lighting, and storage that made sense.
I needed the space to incorporate genuine biophilic elements—not just aesthetic nods to nature, but features that would create meaningful nature connection and deliver the cognitive and emotional benefits that come with it. We both needed something that could handle real life: dinner parties that got messy, weeknight cooking when we were too tired to be precious about things, and our energetic dog who viewed the kitchen as mission control for household activities. The demolition revealed both challenges and opportunities.
Removing the drop ceiling uncovered gorgeous original beams that had been hiding for decades. Stripping away layers of linoleum and vinyl flooring revealed original hardwood that could be restored. But we also found knob-and-tube wiring that needed replacing, pipes that had been leaking inside walls for who knows how long, and enough mouse evidence to suggest we’d been unwittingly running a rodent hostel.
Our contractor, Dave, had worked with me on client projects before but never on a kitchen. When I showed him my initial plans incorporating a small interior garden space, natural material transitions, and filtered natural light pathways, he gave me what I’ve come to recognize as “the look”—that slightly pained expression that means “I respect your expertise but question your grip on reality.”
“It’s a kitchen,” he said, tapping my drawings. “You’re going to have grease, moisture, heat, spills.
All these natural materials you’ve specified—the unsealed wood, the plant zone, the natural stone—they’re going to take a beating.”
He wasn’t wrong. The core challenge of biophilic kitchen design isn’t incorporating nature—it’s incorporating nature that can survive kitchen conditions. It requires a different approach than other spaces, one that balances idealism with practicality.
So we regrouped. Rather than trying to cram every biophilic principle into the design, we prioritized elements that would be most impactful while still being functional. The big breakthrough came when we stopped thinking of “kitchen” and “nature” as competing priorities and started seeing how they could complement each other.
Natural light became our first focus. The original kitchen had one small window over the sink that faced a neighbor’s blank wall. By reconfiguring the layout slightly, we were able to expand that window and add a second one that captured morning sunlight.
This wasn’t just for aesthetics—research shows that exposure to morning sunlight helps regulate circadian rhythms, improving mood and energy levels throughout the day. Since the kitchen is where we start our mornings (Jake is evangelical about his pour-over coffee ritual), maximizing that natural light had real biological benefits. For materials, we had to find balance between naturalistic elements and practicality.
The soapstone countertops were a splurge, but they checked multiple boxes: as a natural material with subtle variation in pattern, they provide the complexity and non-repetitive sensory information that our brains respond positively to, while also being incredibly durable and developing a patina that actually improves with use. Unlike some natural stones, soapstone doesn’t need harsh chemical sealants, which supported another of our goals—minimizing synthetic chemicals in the space. The backsplash presented a classic biophilic design challenge—how to incorporate natural references that wouldn’t be compromised by cooking realities.
We found handmade ceramic tiles with a subtle organic pattern and varied glaze that created visual complexity similar to natural surfaces. They weren’t literally natural, but they provided the visual fractals that research suggests can reduce stress and improve cognitive function. And crucially, they could stand up to the inevitable sauce splatters and could be cleaned without special care.
Flooring was another compromise. I originally wanted reclaimed wood for its connection to natural materials and embodied history. Dave gently pointed out that wood in kitchens—especially around dishwashers, sinks, and refrigerators—inevitably suffers water damage.
We eventually found a porcelain tile with a convincing wood grain pattern that could handle moisture while still providing the visual warmth of wood. Not a perfect solution from a purist biophilic standpoint, but one that acknowledged the realities of kitchen life. The cabinet situation required creative thinking.
Traditional upper cabinets would block the new windows and create shadows over the workspace. After much debate (and a few heated discussions about storage capacity), we replaced most upper cabinets with open shelving made from reclaimed barn wood that Jake’s father had been storing in his garage for years. The wood wasn’t just sustainable and meaningful; its varied coloration and visible grain created the kind of non-repetitive natural patterning that research shows can hold attention without causing fatigue—what scientists call “soft fascination.”
Plants were obviously essential, but not in the quantity or positioning I might have used in other spaces.
We created a specific zone away from the main cooking area—a slightly wider windowsill with proper drainage and grow lights for herbs and small edibles. This kept plants safe from cooking splatter while still keeping them visible from primary work zones. Studies show even visual access to plants can reduce stress and improve focus, so positioning was key.
We also installed a small green wall using a modular system specifically designed for kitchen environments—easy to clean, with removable plant inserts that could be swapped out seasonally or if something wasn’t thriving. Water elements in biophilic design are typically about creating multisensory experiences—the sound, movement, and visual qualities of water have measurable calming effects. In a kitchen, though, water needs to be functional first.
We invested in a statement sink—a large, hand-hammered copper farmhouse style that developed a living patina with use. The variable sounds it created (different from the flat sound of stainless steel) added subtle auditory variation. The faucet we chose had adjustable flow patterns, which served practical cleaning needs while also creating different water sounds and movements.
Lighting was where we really pushed the integration of technology with biophilic principles. We installed a smart lighting system that mimicked natural daylight cycles, gradually shifting from energizing cooler light in the mornings to warmer, softer light in the evenings. Under-cabinet lighting was positioned to create the dappled effect similar to sunlight filtering through leaves—a pattern that research suggests triggers positive psychological responses.
None of this light shifting is dramatically obvious (guests don’t walk in saying “wow, your kitchen is mimicking forest light patterns!”), but its effect on how we feel in the space is significant. The renovation took three months—two months longer than the contractor initially estimated, which I’m told is actually quite good in renovation time. The first meal Jake cooked in the new kitchen was a disaster—not because of the design, but because he got so distracted showing off features to our friends that he completely forgot about the roast in the oven.
The smoke detector works great, by the way. Living with the space has been the real test. A year in, some elements have proven more successful than others.
The herb wall thrives because it’s positioned correctly for light and is easy to maintain. The soapstone counters have developed a beautiful patina that tells the story of our cooking life. The open shelving—which friends warned would become a dust collector—has actually stayed remarkably functional because the things we use daily live there, constantly cycling through use and cleaning.
Some things didn’t work as planned. The copper sink requires more maintenance than we anticipated—a regular cleaning ritual that Jake finds meditative but I find annoying. One section of the under-cabinet lighting had to be adjusted because it created uncomfortable glare during food prep.
And during summer months, the expanded windows mean the kitchen gets hotter than ideal during afternoon cooking sessions. But the successes far outweigh these minor issues. The kitchen has become the center of our home in a way it never was before—not just for cooking, but for morning coffee rituals, evening unwinding, and weekend gatherings.
Friends who visit tend to linger there longer than in our deliberately designed living spaces. My favorite unexpected outcome is how Jake, who initially approached the biophilic elements with skepticism, has become their biggest defender. When his mother suggested we could “get more storage” by removing the herb wall, he launched into a surprisingly detailed explanation of attention restoration theory and the cognitive benefits of proximate nature.
For anyone considering a biophilic kitchen renovation, my advice is to prioritize function first, then find the natural connections that enhance rather than complicate that function. Start with the fundamentals—natural light, material selection, spatial layout—before adding decorative natural elements. Accept that kitchens demand compromise between ideal biophilic principles and practical realities.
And perhaps most importantly, design for how you actually live and cook, not for how you aspire to live and cook or how kitchens are portrayed in design magazines. Our kitchen isn’t perfect from either a purely functional or purely biophilic perspective. But it’s perfectly balanced for us—a space where nature connection enhances rather than competes with the practical demands of daily life.
And there hasn’t been a mushroom sighting in over a year, which Jake considers the true measure of success.
