What If Architecture and Design Started with Care?

Portland Airport

Architecture, Mental Health, and the Spaces We Endure

We Shouldn’t Design Only for People Having a Good Day

If we know that certain spatial qualities reduce stress and improve well-being, why aren’t they the baseline?

Architecture doesn’t just reflect society; it actively shapes psychological load.

We design most large commercial environments as extraction machines, not as places for humans, and we’re surprised when people feel depleted.

That contradiction sits at the heart of how we currently build.

And we feel it every day, even if we don’t always have language for it.

Large-scale commercial interior integrating daylight, greenery, and spatial openness (Emporia Shopping Center, Malmö, Sweden).

Architecture as a Mental Health Modifier

Architecture profoundly impacts mental health by influencing stress levels, mood, and cognitive function through spatial design, natural light, and biophilic elements. Thoughtful design, incorporating nature, acoustic comfort, and calming, flexible spaces, can reduce anxiety and mental fatigue. Poorly designed, cramped, visually chaotic, or dark environments can quietly worsen existing mental health challenges.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way.

In a slow, accumulative, nervous-system-wear-and-tear kind of way.

While architecture cannot replace clinical treatment, it absolutely functions as a preventative layer and a supportive tool, shaping daily happiness, resilience, and emotional bandwidth.

Or eroding it.

We Don’t Experience Buildings Equally

If someone is well-resourced emotionally → they may tolerate harsh environments.

If someone is already depleted → the same space becomes a serious stressor.

This supports an ethical design argument:

We shouldn’t design only for people having a good day.

That alone reframes overwhelm as a design problem, not a personality flaw

Some environments require far more cognitive and nervous-system labor than others.

Public space belongs to everyone, including tired people, those grieving, those overstimulated, those burned out, those anxious, those neurodivergent, those chronically ill, or simply those having a rough Tuesday.

Designing only for the most resilient nervous systems is not inclusive design.

My Own Nervous System Has Opinions

I am often overwhelmed in spaces that are noisy and unorganized.

You will not find me at Nordstrom Rack, where everything exists in piles.

There is not a deal on Earth that makes me willing to walk through a visual tornado to maybe, possibly, find something I might like.

This isn’t because I don’t like shopping.

 I opt out because the environment is hostile to my nervous system.

That distinction matters.

It shows how the environment shapes behavior, including economic behavior.

Which feels quietly radical in a consumer culture built on tolerating discomfort in exchange for “savings.”

It suggests something simple but profound:

Quality of experience matters.

Dignity in everyday environments matters.

I’m not asking for luxury.

I’m asking for baseline human consideration.

I thrive in spaces that are interesting, thoughtful, and legible, and I tend to spend more in these spaces.

• Spaces with a clear path.

• Spaces where I can understand where I am and where I’m going.

• Spaces that feel considered rather than accidental.

When I spend a day in highly stimulating environments, malls, airports, big-box stores, and convention centers, I often need a solid 48 hours of recharging afterward.

That alone tells me something important:

These environments aren’t neutral.

Shopping Centers, Airports, Metro Stations: Stress by Design

Especially:

·       Shopping centers

·       Metro stations

·       Airports

·       Large enclosed complexes

Common traits:

·       Difficult wayfinding

·       Lack of exterior views

·       Little to no nature

·       High noise levels

·       Visual overload

These environments are not designed primarily around human nervous systems.

They are designed around throughput, retail density, and monetization per square foot.

Shopping centers, in particular, are typically planned so that the number of leasable retail units is maximized.

This is not an architect’s personal failing.

It is a development model.

But acknowledging that reality doesn’t mean we stop asking questions.

Could we add small resting zones with greenery?

Could cafés and restaurants be positioned to actually see outdoors?

Could seating be treated as essential infrastructure instead of wasted area?

Could rooftops become publicly accessible parks?

Is every square foot truly required to generate direct retail income?

Jewel Changi Airport in Singapore. Shopping Mall Atrium, Shanghai, China. An office building in Austin, Texas

Or could more pleasant, mentally supportive malls actually increase people’s desire to stay longer, return more often, and yes, spend more?

Another uncomfortable question:

Is mall labyrinth-like layout intentional?

Is disorientation a side effect… or a strategy?

Because disorientation increases dwell time.

But disorientation also increases stress.

And again: we shouldn’t design only for people having a good day.

Good Mental-Health-Supportive Design Is Often Accidental

Right now, mental health benefits tend to be:

“A side effect of good architecture,” not an explicit goal.

That observation is powerful and a little damning.

It implies:

• We know how to do better.

• We just aren’t structurally required to.

• When mental health is not embedded into codes, metrics, pro formas, and briefs, it becomes optional.

• Optional things are the first to get value-engineered out.

Patterns We Already Understand

Certain spatial qualities reliably support wellbeing:

• Connection to nature

• Natural materials

• Muted, nature-derived colors

• Clear spatial organization

• Thoughtful acoustics

• Good air quality

• Comfortable thermal conditions

These aren’t radical ideas.

They’re not experimental.

They’re not new.

And yet they remain inconsistently applied, especially in large-scale commercial environments.

Counterbalancing Reality

I understand we cannot dim airport lighting.

I understand malls require visibility.

But design is not binary.

If we can’t change one condition, we can counterbalance it with others.

• More warmth in materials.

• More visual softness.

• More greenery.

• Better acoustics.

• Clearer spatial hierarchy.

• Places to pause.

Design is about orchestration.

Right now, many environments feel like every instrument is playing fortissimo.

The U.S. Context

This conversation lands especially hard in the United States because it intersects with:

• Car-centric urbanism

• Mega-scale commercial development

• Privatized public space

• Profit-first development models

• Underfunded public infrastructure

• Rising anxiety, burnout, and loneliness

We spend enormous portions of our lives in environments designed primarily for efficiency, liability management, and retail extraction.

Then we wonder why people feel disconnected, exhausted, and emotionally threadbare.

We cannot meditate our way out of systemic environmental stress.

Architecture and Design as a Quiet Form of Care

I am not arguing that buildings cure depression.

I am arguing that buildings participate in mental health.

They can add friction.

Or they can quietly reduce it.

They can demand constant vigilance.

Or they can allow exhale.

Multiply that difference across millions of daily interactions, and suddenly, architecture looks a lot like public health infrastructure.

Which, frankly, it is.

A Modest Proposal

What if mental health became a baseline design criterion rather than a bonus?

Not as a marketing buzzword.

Not as a specialty niche.

Not as a luxury upgrade.

But as a fundamental performance metric:

Does this space reduce unnecessary cognitive load?

Does it offer moments of sensory relief?

Does it support orientation, dignity, and human comfort?

If the answer is no, we shouldn’t call it “good enough.”

Closing Thought

People’s relationship with the built environment should be positive.

The environments we inhabit most should not routinely make us feel tense, disoriented, depleted, or small.

We can do better.

We already know how.

The question is whether we are willing to make human wellbeing a non-negotiable design input, rather than a fortunate accident.