Why We Keep Talking About Biophilic Design

Biophilic design is a framework rooted in something pretty fundamental which is the fact that humans evolved outdoors, and that most of us are spending 90% of our time inside spaces that completely ignore that fact.

We've been thinking a lot about this lately, especially working on residential projects in Toronto where the tension between density and livability is very real. So here's our take on what biophilic design actually means, why it matters in our climate and our city, and what it looks like when it's done well.

Not Just Plants and Wood Cladding

Biophilic design is not "put a fiddle leaf fig in the corner and call it a day." And it's not exclusively a material palette (though yes, natural materials matter).

The framework we work from developed by researchers Elizabeth Calabrese and Stephen Kellert identifies five core principles. They're worth understanding because they shift the conversation from aesthetics to intention.

One: Repeated and sustained engagement with nature. A single skylight doesn't cut it. The question is whether a space gives you ongoing, daily contact with natural light, air movement, changing seasons, views of living things. A window you actually linger at. A room that feels different on a grey November Tuesday than it does in July.

Two: Human adaptations to the natural world. We're wired for certain things: natural light cycles, thermal variety, the ability to sense changes in weather and time of day. When buildings strip all of that away in the name of control and efficiency, people feel it even if they can't name what's wrong. Good biophilic design works with those adaptations rather than overriding them.

Three: Emotional attachment to settings and places. This one is maybe our favourite because it's the hardest to quantify and the easiest to feel. Does a space make you want to stay? Does it have what you'd call character? Places that connect to their site, their landscape, their specific geography tend to generate this. Generic ones don't.

Four: Positive interactions between people and nature. This is about removing friction between inside and outside and not just visually but physically. Doors that actually open onto things. Courtyards. Porches that get used. Spaces that make going outside feel like an extension of being home rather than a departure from it.

Five: Integrated architectural solutions. Nature connection can't be bolted on at the end. It has to be baked into the design from the beginning. Orientation, fenestration, materiality, how spaces flow. This is what separates a biophilic building from a regular building with some plants in it.

What This Looks Like in Practice

We've been looking closely at four built case studies — different scales, different climates, different budgets — and a few things keep coming up.

The Tudor Revival Expansion (Minnesota)

Architect Christopher Strom was asked to convert a dark, unfinished attic into livable space for a historic lakeside home. The existing building was designed by Franklin Ellerbe — a well-regarded mid-century architect — so the constraint was real: you can't just cut holes wherever you want.

The solution was dormers. Three of them, facing the lake. It sounds simple, but the execution required rebuilding the entire roofline (the original balloon framing made it complicated), adding a ridge beam, improving insulation. The payoff was a bright, ventilated rec room where there used to be nothing.

What we find compelling here isn't the complexity of the intervention — it's the specificity. The windows are operable. The dormers are lake-facing on purpose. There's a window seat that does exactly what a window seat should do: give you a sheltered spot with a view. Prospect and refuge in a single piece of built-in furniture.

That's biophilic design. Not a vibe, a decision.

The Knoll House (Vermont)

Architect Elizabeth Herrmann was working with clients who had been camping on this land for years before they built on it. They knew exactly what the light did through the trees in late afternoon. They had an emotional attachment to the place before there was ever a house on it.

Herrmann's response was to design a 2,300 square foot home that felt like it grew out of the site rather than landed on it. Stained cedar exterior that reads as part of the landscape. Monochromatic interiors that let the views do the talking. Windows arranged like large-format paintings.

The kitchen window is positioned so you can bring in fresh air without losing your sightline from the sink. The living room has a 52-square-foot window that's visible from multiple rooms. The whole layout is oriented so kids can move freely between inside and out — which sounds like a small thing until you realize how many houses make that feel like a production.

Forever Home in Puget Sound (Washington)

This one is particularly interesting from a technical standpoint. The clients originally imagined a western-facing wall with windows flanking each side. Architect Rick Sundberg pushed them toward something bolder: a full wall of glass to harness daylight.

In an overcast climate like the Pacific Northwest — not so different from what we deal with in Toronto, honestly — you have to be intentional about light. Sundberg's firm uses modeling software to analyze light intensity, spectrum, and behavior before specifying glazing. That's the kind of rigor that separates a beautiful project from a livable one. The owner noted that the windows stay warm on the inside in winter and cool in summer — that's thermal performance doing its part alongside the visual connection.

The Jewel Box Cabin (Northern Minnesota)

Architect Sara Imhoff's clients wanted one thing: the feeling of being in the forest. Not looking at it through a small window — actually in it.

Her approach: windows on at least three sides to capture the best light qualities. Wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling glazing to maximize tree and lake views. Large south-facing windows for passive solar in the winter, reducing the cabin's electrical load. A clerestory window that brings in light while maintaining privacy. Natural materials throughout — wood, stone, leather — to extend the connection to the landscape even on the interior surfaces.

The clients described sitting at their table and looking up and just seeing trees. That's the goal. That's what "integrated" means.

What We Think About When We Think About Toronto

Toronto isn't Vermont. They have a semi-detached in the Annex, or a narrow lot in the east end, or a condo unit with one wall of glazing facing another building.

But the principles still apply, they just require more creativity.

Natural light can be brought in from above when you can't get it from the sides. Courtyards and garden connections can be carved out of tight lots. Materiality matters even more in urban spaces because the landscape isn't doing the work for you. Operable windows that actually ventilate — not just decorative ones — change how a space feels to live in.

And the emotional attachment piece? That's about designing for your specific site, not a generic version of it. What does this particular corner of the city look like at 7am in February? What trees are actually on this lot? What's the prevailing wind? Those specifics are where character comes from.

We're not romanticizing rural architecture. We're saying the same questions apply here, and they're worth asking on every project regardless of scale.

Why It Matters More Than It Used To

The research on daylight, air quality, and wellbeing has been building for a long time. We know that people who have access to natural light at work report better sleep. We know that views of nature reduce stress markers. We know that ventilation affects cognitive function.

We spent a couple of years during the pandemic finding out in the most direct possible way that the quality of our home environments is not a luxury consideration. It's a health one.

Biophilic design isn't about spending more money to make a house look impressive. It's about making buildings that support the people living in them… and the idea that give you light when you need it, air when you need it, a view when you need it. That feel like a good place to be, year after year, in all seasons.

That's the bar. And it's worth designing to.