We often think of architecture in terms of beauty, function, or innovation—but what if architecture could help you heal?

I’ve spent most of my adult life thinking about how the spaces we occupy impact us for better or worse. Recently, I’ve been reflecting on how deeply our surroundings affect us, and the healing that certain places and experiences in the built environment have brought me throughout some of the hardest, and most wonderful, times of my life. Spaces can drain us—or breathe life into us, elicit a fear response—or help soothe our nerves, and welcome us into shared experience—or exacerbate a sense of isolation. It’s not just about clean lines or cozy corners; it’s about how a room feels, how it holds us in moments of rest, creativity, joy, or even grief.

Have you ever walked into a building and just felt something—like a sense of calm, inspiration, or even excitement—without really knowing why? It’s not just good architecture at play; it’s how our brains respond to the spaces around us.

Have you ever wondered... what in the world do we mean when we talk about design for connection?

That is the question the wonderful people of See Change Sessions asked recently as we sat around a warm stage surrounded by interesting people from across the globe, coming together for one week in Burlington, VT.

I love people. My love of people is the reason I chose architecture, and the reason I focus on social health and human well-being. Not to mention one of the many reasons you’ll nearly always find me at coffee shops - well that and um coffee. 

But even so, extensive time surrounded by even the most wonderful humans can overwhelm my system. Part of my ability to dedicate myself to human connection, relies on time connecting alone with myself. For this reason, I was delighted when Francesca Specter reached out to discuss solitude for the New York Times.  

Summertime in our house growing up meant that my mom was up early and spent the day in her element. Some people are trained to be special education or vision teachers, but mom was born for this, and you could see her giddy excitement spending summers with teen and pre-teen kids at Texas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired in central Austin.

Maybe it took a child’s eyes to see what was there all along wanting to be, a green space of connection, play, and possibility. A place to welcome everyone.