The leather-bound journal sits on my desk, its pages warped from that time I spilled tea all over it during a particularly stressful meeting with our contractor. Its cover is worn at the corners, and several pages have come loose from their binding. But this battered notebook contains the most honest record of our six-month biophilic renovation journey—the good, the bad, and the “why didn’t anyone warn me about this?” moments that transformed not just our 1970s split-level home but also how my partner and I relate to indoor space.

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I started the journal on a whim after we closed on the house. It wasn’t meant to be anything profound—just a place to collect inspiration images, material samples, and measurements. But somewhere between the initial demolition and the first major crisis (a water line the contractor hit while installing the foundation for our sunroom extension), it evolved into something more valuable: an unfiltered chronicle of the messy reality behind designing a home that reconnects its inhabitants with natural elements and patterns.

That journal has become my most referenced professional resource. When clients ask me what they should expect when implementing biophilic design in their own renovations, I don’t show them the glossy photos from the magazine spread our home was featured in last year. I show them selected pages from this journal, coffee stains and all.

Because the polished end result doesn’t reveal the critical lessons learned through mistakes, unexpected discoveries, and occasional moments of accidental brilliance. Let me share some of the most valuable insights from those pages—the ones I return to repeatedly in both my personal and professional life. Our first major mistake was classic: we prioritized aesthetics over function.

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The entry from March 12th reads: “The living wall is FINALLY installed and it’s STUNNING against the natural plaster wall. The ferns and philodendrons look exactly as I imagined. Mark is worried about the irrigation system complexity.

Said something about ‘points of failure’ that I half-listened to because I was too busy admiring how the light plays on the different leaf textures. Probably fine.”

Narrator voice: It was not fine. Three weeks later: “Second leak from the living wall.

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Water damage to plaster wall is visible now. Mark giving me I-told-you-so looks. Contractor says entire irrigation system needs to be replaced.

Designer (me) is experiencing minor emotional crisis.”

We’d selected a beautiful but over-engineered hydroponic living wall system, chosen primarily because it looked the most “integrated” with our interior design aesthetic. What we should have prioritized was operational simplicity and access for maintenance. The sleek, minimalist system had pump components that couldn’t be easily accessed without removing plants, meaning minor issues became major operations.

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We eventually replaced it with a less visually seamless but far more reliable system with accessible components and manual backup options. The lesson wasn’t that living walls don’t work in residential settings—they absolutely can—but that biophilic elements need to be designed with real-life maintenance as the primary consideration, not just visual impact. Now whenever I specify living walls for clients, I have them physically act out the maintenance routine during the design phase.

If it feels awkward or requires contortionist moves, we modify the design before installation. Another entry from mid-renovation reveals a triumph that emerged from financial constraints: “Had to cut $7,000 from somewhere to cover the foundation repair costs. Eliminated the expensive built-in aquarium that was planned for the dining area.

Feeling devastated. Mark suggested we use that wall for the salvaged wood shelving instead and create a ‘gallery’ of natural objects we collect on hikes and travels. Not the statement piece I wanted, but it’s something.”

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That “something” has become the heart of our home.

Those shelves now display an ever-changing collection: interesting seed pods, unusual rocks, birds’ nests that fell from trees, a piece of driftwood from our anniversary trip. Each object carries a story and a direct connection to places that matter to us. Visitors are drawn to these shelves in a way they never would have been to the aquarium—picking up objects, asking questions, sometimes even bringing us natural items they think would fit the collection.

It created a personal biophilic connection that the more impressive but less personally meaningful aquarium never could have achieved. My journal also records the day I nearly abandoned a core element of our design due to contractor pushback: “Jim (contractor) trying to talk me out of the variable-width floor planks AGAIN. Says it’s more labor-intensive, will cost more, and ‘looks weird.’ Standing my ground but feeling less confident.

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What if everyone who visits thinks our floors look ‘weird’ too?”

Thank god I held firm on that one. The reclaimed oak flooring with varied plank widths creates a subtle natural pattern that standard uniform flooring could never achieve. The irregularity feels right in a way that’s hard to articulate—it’s one of those biophilic elements that works on an almost subconscious level, creating visual complexity that mimics natural environments without demanding conscious attention.

Four different friends have since used variable-width flooring in their own renovations after experiencing it in our home. But the journal also records genuine regrets. The most painful to reread: “Realized today we’ve designed the perfect house for the adults we are but not for the older adults we’ll become.

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No accommodations for mobility changes—raised garden beds too high to sit at, gaps in the deck boards that could catch a cane, bathroom thresholds with unnecessary level changes. Started researching universal design principles for possible modifications, but so much would have been easier to incorporate from the beginning.”

That entry hits me in the gut every time. In my professional work, I’m careful to discuss design longevity with clients—how spaces need to accommodate changing physical abilities and life stages.

Yet in our own home, we designed for our immediate selves, not our future ones. We’ve since modified some elements, but others would require major structural changes. It was a humbling reminder that biophilic design isn’t just about connecting to nature—it’s about creating spaces that remain accessible and nurturing throughout the full human lifespan.

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The most valuable insights often came from tracking our actual behavior patterns versus what we predicted during design. An entry from two months post-completion: “We’ve used the elaborate outdoor meditation deck exactly twice. Meanwhile, we’re fighting over who gets the window seat in the kitchen nook every morning.

Didn’t expect that to become prime real estate. Think it’s because it gets the early light, feels sheltered with plants on either side, and lets us watch birds at the feeder while drinking coffee. Lesson: smaller, sheltered spaces with good views > grand statement spaces.”

This observation has profoundly influenced my client projects.

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I now include “behavior testing” periods in renovation timelines—weeks where we implement temporary versions of design elements to see how they’re actually used before finalizing. It’s revealed surprising patterns about how people naturally gravitate toward certain spatial configurations regardless of what they think they want. The prospect-refuge theory (we prefer spaces with good views out while feeling protected from behind) proves itself repeatedly in these tests, though the specific implementation varies widely between individuals.

Some journal entries capture pure joy that reminds me why all the hassle was worthwhile: “Thunderstorm tonight. First time experiencing it with the skylight above our bed. Watched lightning illuminate rain streaming down the glass.

Mark said it was like camping but with good mattress and no bears. Felt connected to the storm in way that’s hard to describe—not separated from it by the usual barriers. Fell asleep to rain sounds.

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Worth every penny of that skylight upgrade.”

These moments of connection—when the boundary between “inside” and “outside” temporarily dissolves—remain the most powerful aspect of our biophilic renovation. They’re what clients struggle to articulate when they initially come to me saying things like, “I want my home to feel more natural” or “I need to feel less boxed in.” They’re seeking those transcendent moments when architectural barriers seem to fade, allowing direct experience of natural patterns and processes. Not all the successful elements were expensive or complicated.

One of the simplest but most impactful changes was using multiple light sources at different heights rather than relying on overhead lighting. My journal notes: “Replaced overhead fixture in living room with indirect uplighting, three floor lamps of varying heights, and two table lamps. The lighting layers create constantly shifting shadow patterns as the day progresses.

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Space feels simultaneously more intimate and more alive.”

This lighting approach cost substantially less than our original scheme with elaborate control systems, yet it’s been more effective at creating the dynamic, natural feel we wanted. The layered light creates gentle transitions between spaces and mimics the dappled light experience of moving through a forest canopy. It’s now a standard recommendation in all my residential projects, regardless of budget.

The last entry in this renovation journal, written exactly one year after we moved back in, reads: “Home now feels less like a place we own and more like a relationship we’re in. It demands attention, changes with seasons, surprises us sometimes. Not always easy but consistently rewarding.

We’re more aware of weather, time of day, seasonal shifts than we’ve ever been while living indoors. Success metric: neither of us wants to be anywhere else.”

And that, ultimately, is what successful biophilic design creates—not just a beautiful space, but a relationship with place. The mistakes, compromises, and unexpected triumphs recorded in my battered journal all contributed to this outcome.

The perfectly executed elements matter less than I thought they would. It’s the cumulative effect of creating a space that responds to natural rhythms and reminds us, daily, that we’re biological beings with intrinsic connections to the natural world—even when we’re inside. I still write in that journal occasionally, noting how our home continues to evolve and how our interaction with it shifts over time.

It reminds me that biophilic design isn’t a static achievement but an ongoing conversation between people, space, and the natural elements we invite inside. The conversation continues, and I’m still learning what it has to teach.

 

Author

Carl, a biophilic design specialist, contributes his vast expertise to the site through thought-provoking articles. With a background in environmental design, he has over a decade of experience in incorporating nature into urban architecture. His writings focus on innovative ways to integrate natural elements into living and working environments, emphasizing sustainability and well-being. Carl's articles not only educate but also inspire readers to embrace nature in their daily lives.

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