"We are not separate trees. We are a forest."

My journey to regenerative design began not in a classroom or conference, but alone on my sofa, reading Peter Wohlleben's The Hidden Life of Trees. I had spent years designing retail spaces and fashion showrooms; beautiful, polished environments where everything was about the brand, the display, the sale. I was good at it. My work was appreciated. Clients were happy.

But something was missing. I felt it every time I walked into one of my completed projects: a kind of hollowness, despite all the aesthetic perfection. The spaces looked alive in photographs but felt oddly empty when you stood inside them.

Then came Wohlleben's book. Page after page revealed a hidden world I'd never imagined: trees that communicate through fungal networks, mother trees that nurture their young, forests that function as superorganisms. I devoured his other books; The Inner Life of Animals, The Secret Network of Nature, each one opening my eyes wider. Here was a completely different paradigm: not competition and isolation, but cooperation and connection.

 I started asking uncomfortable questions. What if the spaces I was designing, all surface and spectacle, were actually working against the people who inhabited them? What if there was a way to design that honored the deeper needs of human beings, not just as consumers, but as living, breathing organisms inseparable from nature?

That's when everything shifted. I founded Habitarmonia with a new vision: to create spaces where life, all life, could truly flourish. The work became less about showcasing products and more about nourishing people. Less about impressing clients and more about healing communities. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

A few years into this transformation, I found myself facilitating a Biophilic Camp in the Dolomites. We had gathered under ancient trees, a diverse group of architects, designers, and ecological thinkers, discussing the profound importance of trees in our lives and in our designs. The conversation had been intellectual, animated with references and theories, until one participant asked a simple question: 'But what are the trees actually doing right now, beneath our feet?'

We fell silent. And in that silence, something shifted. We began to truly pay attention—not analyzing, just listening. The wind moving through the canopy. The dappled light on the forest floor. The way the temperature dropped several degrees in the shade of those massive trunks. One participant knelt down and gently moved aside the moss and needle litter, revealing pale fungal threads woven through the soil like intricate lacework.

"This is how they communicate," someone whispered. "This is the wood-wide web; the mycorrhizal network connecting tree to tree, sharing water, nutrients, information." It was Wohlleben's words coming to life before our eyes. We sat with that realization: beneath our feet, an entire civilization of cooperation was unfolding. The trees weren't competing. They were collaborating. 

That moment in the Dolomites, seeing with my own eyes what I'd first read about in Wohlleben's books, changed everything for me. Because if trees - trees! - can create such sophisticated systems of mutual support and collective intelligence, what might be possible for us? For our organizations? For the spaces we design and inhabit?

 Could we design retail spaces that nourished rather than depleted? Corporate offices that healed rather than stressed? Communities that regenerated rather than extracted?

Why We're Burning Out: The Crisis of Disconnection

Let me be honest with you. When I was designing those fashion showrooms and retail spaces, I believed the story we've all been told: that efficiency is king. That productivity trumps everything. That we can separate ourselves from nature and still thrive. That beauty is about surfaces, not systems.

I designed sterile environments with perfect lighting for product display. I optimized floor plans for maximum browsing flow and conversion rates. I created spaces that looked impressive in photographs and drove sales numbers up, but felt dead to inhabit. And I watched, really watched, as the staff who worked in these spaces day after day grew increasingly exhausted, disconnected, burned out, including me.

The retail manager who developed chronic migraines from the lighting. The creative team that lost their spark in a windowless design studio. The boutique staff who couldn't wait to leave at the end of each shift, despite working in what was supposed to be a 'beautiful' space.

Here's what I've learned since then: chronic stress isn't just uncomfortable, it's literally killing us. Dr. Jie Yin's groundbreaking 2019 study tracked 100 people in virtual reality environments, measuring their heart rate variability, blood pressure, and skin conductance levels. The results were stunning: participants in biophilic environments, spaces with natural elements, showed measurably better stress recovery within just four minutes. Four minutes.

Think about that. In the time it takes to make a cup of tea, your nervous system can shift from fight-or-flight to rest-and-digest, simply by being surrounded by nature. Not a weekend retreat in the mountains. Not a two-week vacation. Four minutes in a space designed with nature in mind.

But here's the deeper truth that the research, and Wohlleben's books, reveal: we are nature. Our bodies haven't forgotten this, even if our minds have. Our nervous systems recognize the fractal patterns in leaves, the irregular rhythms of birdsong, the dappled light through trees. These aren't luxuries or aesthetic choices, they're biological necessities.

Once I understood this, I couldn't design the same way anymore. The shift from retail and fashion showrooms to regenerative spaces wasn't just a career change, it was a complete transformation of how I understand my role as a designer.

From Sustaining to Regenerating: A Love Letter to the Future

Sustainability has become our rallying cry. 'Do less harm,' we tell ourselves. 'Take less, waste less, damage less.' And yes, these matter tremendously. But...

What if we've been thinking too small?

Imagine you're in a relationship with someone you love deeply. Would you be satisfied if your partner said, 'My goal is to harm you slightly less each year'? Of course not. You'd want them to actively nourish you, celebrate you, help you grow into your fullest expression.

That's the difference between sustainability and regeneration. Regeneration is about creating positive-sum outcomes: situations where everyone, everything, becomes more alive, more vital, more resilient. Where giving actually increases what we have to give. Just like the trees in Wohlleben's books, where mother trees don't deplete themselves by sharing with their young, they actually strengthen the entire forest ecosystem by doing so.

The Haudenosaunee people have a principle I think about constantly: the Seventh Generation. Before making any major decision, they ask: 'How will this affect the children seven generations from now?' Not next quarter. Not next year. Seven generations.

When I learned this, I wept. Because it's so radically different from how we've been taught to think in the world of commercial design, where success is measured in quarterly sales figures and trend cycles. And yet, how beautiful. How profoundly loving. To make decisions today with your great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren in mind.

The Six Layers: How a Tree Teaches Us to Design for Life

The Flourish Tree Model didn't come from a boardroom or a design brief. It came from sitting with trees, like that afternoon in the Dolomites, from listening to forests, from paying attention to how life actually works when we're not trying to control it. It came from reading Wohlleben and realizing that nature has been showing us the blueprint for regenerative systems all along.

Trees don't compartmentalize. They don't say, 'Today I'll work on my roots, tomorrow I'll focus on my leaves.' Everything happens simultaneously, interdependently. The roots feed the leaves, the leaves nourish the roots, the fungal networks connect it all, and the whole system thrives through this continuous exchange.

This is how regenerative design works. Not in isolated parts, but as a living whole.

Layer One: The Soil, Knowing Where You Stand

Before you plant anything, you must know your soil. Is it rich or depleted? Acidic or alkaline? What grew here before? What wants to grow here now?

In design, this means truly understanding context, not just the physical space or the brand guidelines, but the soul of a place. Who are the people who will use this space? What are their dreams, their struggles, their rhythms? What is the history of this land? Whose ancestral territory are we on?

When I was designing retail spaces, I'd ask: What's the target demographic? What's the price point? What's the brand identity? Now I ask: What do the people here need to thrive? How does this place want to be? What is the ecosystem, both ecological and social, that we're part of?

The Soil Layer is about humility. It's about admitting we don't have all the answers and being willing to slow down and listen. To observe the micro-climates, the light patterns, the way people naturally move through space when no one's directing them toward the checkout counter.

The Practice:

Spend time in the space you're designing, not measuring, not planning, just being. Notice what you notice. What draws your attention? Where does sunlight fall? Where do people naturally gather? What sounds exist? Trust that your body knows things your mind hasn't figured out yet.

Layer Two: The Roots, Creating Safety to Grow

A tree can only grow as high as its roots grow deep. No amount of sunlight or water matters if the foundation isn't secure. Wohlleben writes beautifully about how trees invest so much energy in their root systems, far more than we can see above ground.

In human systems, this foundation is psychological safety. And I'm not talking about the corporate buzzword version where everyone nods politely in meetings. I'm talking about the bone-deep sense that you can be fully yourself, messy, uncertain, learning, without fear of punishment or rejection.

Dr. Stephen Porges's Polyvagal Theory teaches us something profound: our bodies are constantly scanning our environment for cues of safety or danger. This happens before conscious thought: it's called neuroception. When our nervous system detects safety, we relax, we connect, we create. When it detects threat, we shut down or gear up for fight-or-flight.

Now here's what most people miss: our nervous systems read environments as well as people. A harsh fluorescent light designed to make products look appealing, a windowless space optimized for square footage, a layout where you can't see the exits, these trigger subtle stress responses, even if we're not consciously aware of them.

The research backs this up: teams with high psychological safety perform 2-3 times better than those without it. Not 10% better. Two to three times. That's not incremental improvement, that's transformation.

But safety alone isn't enough. The Roots Layer is also about purpose; the Japanese concept of Ikigai, which roughly translates to 'reason for being.' When your individual purpose aligns with your collective purpose, when what lights you up serves what lights others up, magic happens.

The Practice:

Create circle practices in your organization. Not meetings, circles. Where people speak from the heart, listen without judgment, witness each other's truth. Watch what happens when people feel truly seen and heard. This is how roots deepen.

Layer Three: The Trunk, Structure That Serves Life

The trunk of a tree is both strong and flexible. It holds the weight of branches and storms while allowing for movement, growth, adaptation. Rigid trunks snap. Weak ones collapse. The art is in finding the balance.

In spaces and organizations, this is what we call salutogenic design, design that actively creates health rather than merely preventing disease. It's a radical shift from asking 'What maximizes sales per square foot?' to asking 'What creates wellness?'

Aaron Antonovsky, who coined the term 'salutogenesis,' studied Holocaust survivors and discovered something unexpected: some people emerged from unimaginable trauma with remarkable resilience. What was different about them? They had what he called a strong 'sense of coherence', a deep trust that life is comprehensible, manageable, and meaningful.

How do we design spaces that foster this sense of coherence? Through legibility, spaces that are easy to understand and navigate. Through manageability, giving people control over their environment (temperature, light, privacy). Through meaningfulness, connecting spaces to purpose and beauty.

Studies show that well-designed healthcare environments can reduce patient stress by 25%, decrease recovery time by 8.5%, and lower medication needs. Think about that: the same medical treatment becomes measurably more effective simply because the space itself is healing.

This isn't magic. It's biology. When our environment feels coherent and supportive, our bodies can redirect energy from vigilance and stress management toward healing and growth.

The Practice:

Walk through your space as if you're seeing it for the first time. Can you easily understand where to go? Do you have choices about where to sit, stand, move? Is there variation, some areas bright and energizing, others soft and calming? Good structure provides both clarity and flexibility.

Layer Four: The Branches, When Beauty Becomes Medicine

Here's something we've forgotten: beauty isn't decoration. Beauty is medicine.

In my retail and fashion showroom days, beauty was strategic; designed to attract, to sell, to impress. But there's a different kind of beauty: the kind that heals, that nourishes, that connects us back to our deeper nature.

Neuroscientist Semir Zeki has spent decades studying what happens in our brains when we experience beauty. The results are remarkable: beauty activates the same reward centers that light up when we experience love, joy, and deep satisfaction. It releases dopamine and endorphins. It literally makes us feel better.

But not just any beauty. Research in fractal aesthetics shows we're most drawn to the mathematical patterns found in nature, the branching of trees, the spiral of shells, the irregularity of coastlines. These patterns have a fractal dimension between 1.3 and 1.5, and our brains find them endlessly fascinating without becoming overwhelming.

This is where the ancient Japanese practice of Shinrin-Yoku - forest bathing - becomes revelatory.

The first time I practiced forest bathing intentionally, I thought I was doing it wrong. My instructor had guided us to walk slowly, stopping frequently, engaging all our senses. 'You're not going anywhere,' she said. 'You're just... being with the forest.' After twenty minutes of this, just standing there, breathing, noticing, something shifted. My shoulders dropped. My breathing deepened. Colors seemed more vivid. Time expanded. I felt, for the first time in months, truly present.

Dr. Qing Li's research on Shinrin-Yoku has documented extraordinary effects. Just 15-20 minutes of mindful time in nature:

• Reduces cortisol levels (your primary stress hormone)
• Lowers blood pressure and heart rate with lasting effects
• Increases Natural Killer cell activity, your immune system's first line of defense against cancer and viruses, with effects lasting up to 30 days
• Reduces anxiety, depression, and confusion while increasing feelings of vigor
• Improves sleep quality

The secret? Phytoncides, aromatic compounds that trees release to protect themselves from insects and fungi. When we breathe them in, they interact with our own biology in profound ways. It's not mystical; it's molecular.

But here's what makes this relevant to design: you don't need a forest to access these benefits. Biophilic design: bringing natural elements, patterns, and materials into built environments can trigger similar responses. Views of nature. Natural materials like wood and stone. Irregular patterns that mirror nature. Living plants.

The Japanese aesthetic principle of Wabi-Sabi teaches us to find beauty in imperfection, in the weathered, the asymmetrical, the natural. A perfectly smooth synthetic surface might look 'clean,' but it offers our senses nothing to engage with. A piece of natural wood, with its grain and variations, constantly rewards our attention.

The Practice:

Engage all five senses intentionally. What do you see? (Seek natural light, views, patterns.) What do you hear? (Consider acoustic quality, natural sounds.) What textures can you touch? (Warm wood, cool stone, soft textiles.) What scents are present? (Fresh air, plants, natural materials.) Even taste matters, access to water, to fresh air, to spaces that support wellbeing.

Layer Five: The Leaves, The Legacy We're Creating

Leaves are the tree's gift to the world. Through photosynthesis, they transform sunlight into energy—not just for the tree, but for the entire ecosystem. They produce oxygen for others to breathe. When they fall, they nourish the soil for future growth.

This is the work of measuring impact and creating legacy. Not just financial returns or sales conversion rates, but the full spectrum of value we create.

I've developed a framework I call ROI/ROR/ROP; Return on Investment, Return on Relationship, Return on Planet. Because if we're only measuring money, we're missing most of what matters.

Paul Zak's research on organizational trust found that companies with high-trust cultures see 74% less stress and 106% more energy at work. Not 7%. Seventy-four percent less stress. When you create the conditions for people to thrive, they do. And the organization thrives with them.

But the returns extend beyond the organizational walls:

Return on Relationship:

Trust deepens. Collaboration becomes genuine. Partnerships flourish. The quality of human connection improves. And here's what science confirms: teams with strong psychological safety perform 2-3 times better. Not because they work harder, but because they work together, freely sharing ideas, taking creative risks, supporting each other's growth.

Return on Planet:

Carbon sequestered. Biodiversity enhanced. Ecosystems restored. Water cleaned. Soil regenerated. This isn't charity; it's how living systems work. When you design regeneratively, you create conditions for life to flourish, all life, not just human life.

The question isn't 'Can we afford to do this?' The question is: Can we afford not to?

The Practice:

Measure what matters. Track not just financial metrics, but wellbeing indicators, relationship quality, environmental impact. What you measure, you tend to improve. Start asking different questions: Are people thriving? Are relationships deepening? Is the planet better or worse for our presence?

Layer Six: The Mycelium, The Invisible Web That Connects Us All

Now we come to the layer that changed my understanding of everything, the layer that Peter Wohlleben first opened my eyes to, and that was revealed to us during that afternoon in the Dolomites.

Dr. Suzanne Simard is a forest ecologist at the University of British Columbia whose research Wohlleben beautifully translates for wider audiences. Her work on mycorrhizal networks, the fungal threads that connect trees underground, revealed something that seemed almost mystical: trees communicate. They share resources. Mother trees recognize their own offspring and send them extra nutrients. When a tree is attacked by insects, it sends warning signals through the network to its neighbors, who then ramp up their chemical defenses.

Simard called it the 'Wood Wide Web.' Her 1997 paper in Nature showed that a single fungal network can connect hundreds of trees across acres of forest, creating a living internet of information and resource exchange.

The implications struck me like lightning during that Biophilic Camp, and continue to guide everything I do. Because this is exactly how healthy human systems work, not through hierarchy and competition, but through relationship and reciprocity. The most important connections are the ones we cannot see: trust, care, shared purpose, collective intelligence.

In organizations, this mycelial layer is culture. It's the invisible field of shared values, unspoken norms, patterns of relating. You can't see it on an organizational chart, but everyone feels it the moment they enter the space.

Strong cultures have:

• Trust networks: People know they can depend on each other
• Knowledge exchange: Learning flows freely, not hoarded
• Psychological safety: Vulnerability is welcomed, not punished
• Cross-pollination: Ideas and insights travel between departments
• Collective intelligence: The whole becomes genuinely wiser than any individual part

Indigenous wisdom has known this forever. The principle of 'All My Relations', Mitakuye Oyasin in Lakota, recognizes that we're all related: humans, animals, plants, water, earth, sky. What we do to one, we do to all. We are the forest, not separate trees. 

Vietnamese Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh calls this interbeing. Look at a piece of paper, he says, and you can see the sunshine that helped the tree grow, the rain that nourished it, the logger who cut it, the mill worker who processed it. Everything contains everything else. Nothing exists in isolation.

The Practice:

Create council circles, spaces where people gather to speak and listen from the heart. Three simple principles: speak your truth, listen without judgment, witness what arises. No fixing, no advising, just presence. Watch what happens when people feel truly heard. The mycelial network strengthens, and collective wisdom emerges.

Three Streams Converging: When Science Validates What Wisdom Always Knew

What makes the Flourish Tree Model different isn't any single element. It's how we weave together three ways of knowing that our culture has artificially separated:

Science shows us the mechanisms.

We can now measure the cortisol reduction from forest bathing, map the mycorrhizal networks connecting trees, track the neural activation when we experience beauty, document the performance benefits of psychological safety. Science gives us the 'how' and the 'what.'

Ancient wisdom provides the context and meaning.

Indigenous knowledge keepers have been saying for millennia: everything is connected. We are nature, not separate from it. What we do to the earth, we do to ourselves. Seventh-generation thinking. All My Relations. These aren't quaint sayings—they're survival wisdom born from thousands of years of paying attention.

Embodied practice integrates both into our actual lives.

Understanding intellectually that nature reduces stress is different from actually standing in a forest—like we did in the Dolomites—breathing deeply, feeling your shoulders drop. Reading about psychological safety is different from sitting in circle, speaking your truth, being witnessed. We must move wisdom from head to heart to hands.

This integration is everything. Science without wisdom becomes sterile and extractive. Wisdom without science can't speak the language of our current culture. Practice without either becomes empty ritual.

But when all three streams converge? Magic happens. Transformation becomes not just possible, but inevitable.

How This Works in Practice: Three Pathways

You might be thinking: 'This is beautiful, but how do I actually do this?' I understand. Let me share the three ways people engage with this work:

The Academy: For Those Who Want to Master This Approach

Our 12-week certification program takes you deep into each layer of the Flourish Tree Model. But here's what makes it different: this isn't just intellectual learning. Every week includes embodiment practices—forest bathing, meditation, breathwork, council circles. Because you can't teach what you haven't experienced.

You'll complete a portfolio project with mentor guidance, join a global network of regenerative practitioners, and get lifetime access to our evolving resource library. But more than anything, you'll transform your own relationship with design, with nature, with purpose.

"This program didn't just teach me new techniques; it changed who I am as a designer and as a human. I now design from a place of deep listening rather than ego."

- Jose Krebs., Architect, Chile

The Ecosystem: For Those Who Want to Keep Growing

Learning doesn't stop after certification. The Ecosystem is our living community; small peer groups (we call them Collective Harmonia Masterminds) of 8-12 people who meet regularly to support each other's work and growth.

We gather monthly for BEInG Circles; embodiment practices that keep us grounded and connected. We share resources, celebrate successes, work through challenges together. Because remember: we are not separate trees. We are a forest.

Consulting: For Organizations Ready to Transform

Sometimes you need a partner to walk beside you through the transformation. That's what our consulting services provide.

We work with healthcare facilities, corporate offices, hospitality spaces, and mission-driven organizations. Our process mirrors the tree layers:

• Soil Reading: Deep context analysis through observation, listening, and understanding
• Root Assessment: Measuring psychological safety and purpose alignment
• Trunk Design: Creating structures and systems that support flourishing
• Branch Cultivation: Implementing beauty and sensory engagement
• Fruit Measurement: Tracking ROI/ROR/ROP over time

The results speak clearly: 32% stress reduction, 25% faster patient recovery in healthcare, 15% productivity gains in corporate settings, 85% staff retention (versus industry average of 60%), and projects that achieve carbon-negative outcomes.

An Invitation: Join the Forest

I want to tell you something I've learned over years of this work: You don't have to have it all figured out to begin.

You don't need to transform everything overnight. You don't need permission from the top. You don't need a massive budget or perfect conditions.

You just need to start. Maybe it's bringing plants into your office. Maybe it's creating a circle practice with your team. Maybe it's choosing one space and asking: How can I help life flourish here? 

Small interventions in complex systems can have disproportionate effects. One person practicing deep listening changes the quality of every conversation. One space designed for aliveness shifts how people show up. One leader embodying regenerative principles inspires others to do the same.

This is how forests grow: one tree at a time, yes, but never alone. Always in relationship. Always connected through those invisible mycelial threads—just like we discovered together in the Dolomites, and just like Wohlleben showed me through his words years before.

"What we do to the web of life, we do to ourselves."

Whether you're an architect, designer, researcher, organizational leader, educator, or simply someone who senses that there must be a better way, there's a place for you in this work.

The world needs spaces where people can breathe deeply, think clearly, connect authentically, and create courageously. It needs organizations that don't extract life force but replenish it. It needs systems designed not just for efficiency, but for aliveness.

This isn't idealism. This is the most practical thing we could possibly do. Because at the end of the day, we're all seeking the same thing: to feel alive, to contribute meaningfully, to be part of something larger than ourselves, to leave the world better than we found it.

Let's flourish together. 🌿

Ready to begin?

Explore the Academy: habitarmonia-academy.com

Join the Ecosystem: habitarmonia-academy.com/ecosystem

Partner with us: Book a free 30-minute discovery call

With love and respect for all relations,

Nuria Muñoz Arce

Founder, Habitarmonia

References & Resources

Books That Opened My Eyes:

Wohlleben, P. (2016). The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate. Greystone Books.

Wohlleben, P. (2017). The Inner Life of Animals. Greystone Books.

Wohlleben, P. (2018). The Secret Network of Nature. Greystone Books.

On Biophilic Design:

Yin, J., et al. (2019). Effects of biophilic indoor environment on stress and anxiety recovery: A between-subjects experiment in virtual reality. Environment International, 136, 105427.

On Forest Bathing:

Li, Q. (2022). Effects of forest environment (Shinrin-yoku/Forest bathing) on health promotion and disease prevention. Environmental Health and Preventive Medicine, 27, 43.

On Mycorrhizal Networks:

Simard, S.W., et al. (1997). Net transfer of carbon between ectomycorrhizal tree species in the field. Nature, 388, 579-582.

Simard, S.W. (2018). Mycorrhizal networks facilitate tree communication, learning and memory. In: Memory and Learning in Plants. Springer, 191-213.

On Psychological Safety:

Porges, S.W. (2011). The Polyvagal Theory. W.W. Norton & Company.

Zak, P.J. (2017). The neuroscience of trust. Harvard Business Review.