Focusing on architecture that promotes well-being and health can be rewarding, but it can also be frustrating. Even after learning about the driving forces behind positive experiences in the built environment, the causes of stress, and the role of sensory cues, there often remains one crucial, overlooked piece of the puzzle: presence.

We can design for well-being, work with evidence-based cues, and draw on neuroscience and psychology — but can any of it truly help if our users are not fully there?

In a world where we move faster and live increasingly through screens, can we still be present enough to feel the benefits of good architecture?

Or has architecture itself become removed from presence, too?

Mindfulness guides say: “be in the present,” “breathe deeply,” “let thoughts float like clouds,” and even “be present with your fears.” But it’s hard.

There have been many times in my life where I’ve neglected presence — planning, rushing, checking, scrolling — even though the most restorative moments I’ve experienced were simple, grounded, and screen-free: hiking in the mountains, quiet mornings at home with my children, sitting still in a meaningful space.

Still, I might have continued to downplay the importance of presence if I hadn’t read Skärmhjärnan (The Screen Brain) by Swedish psychiatrist Anders Hansen. He explains the mechanisms behind our dependence on phones and social media — the dopamine hits, the constant comparison, the overstimulation. Screens make reality seem dull in comparison. They fragment our attention and hijack our emotions.

And when presence disappears, so does our ability to experience the world deeply — including the architecture we inhabit.

Zakaria Djebbara, Associate Professor at Aalborg University, studies how the built environment affects cognitive function. Recently, I have noticed his research about the lateral thalamus — a part of the brain responsible for integrating multisensory input and guiding natural behaviours.

The thalamus helps us make sense of the world through light, sound, touch — the very elements shaped by architecture. But if we're not engaged with our environment — if we're looking down at a screen instead of being in space — can the brain even receive or process these signals?

This raises important questions:

• If we aren’t present, can our brain integrate sensory input properly?

• What kind of behaviours are shaped by absent engagement with physical space?

• Can architecture — through sensory stimulation, coherence, and emotional

resonance — pull us back into the moment?

In an overstimulated world, it’s tempting to simplify everything — reduce noise, reduce form, reduce input. But over-simplification can also flatten our experience.

Certain modern buildings show how monotonous or minimalist design can hinder presence. Studies using eye-tracking technology reveal that people simply ignore environments with little sensory variation. Their brains don't register them as meaningful.

This is critical: architecture that doesn't invite attention also can't strengthen presence.

Rich sensory environments — with varied textures, natural light, plants, multisensory cues, and meaningful details — do the opposite. They ground us. They call to our senses. They invite our attention back into the real world.

We build emotional attachment to places that make us feel something. The more a space engages us and makes us present, the more emotionally connected we become to it — and the more likely we are to return, reflect about it, or care for it.

Jan Golembiewski, drawing on Aaron Antonovsky’s salutogenic theory, writes:

“With a strong sense of meaningfulness, the salutogenic resource of affect (emotion) provides the capacity to turn one’s attention away from the uncertainties, negatives and difficulties of life and instead to focus on positive desires and what is otherwise good and purposeful.”

This is a reminder that presence isn’t just internal — it’s supported externally, by spaces that offer meaning, sensory richness, and emotional safety.

This reflection brings up another uncomfortable question:
What kind of architecture is created by absent architects and developers?
Those driven by deadlines, dopamine hits, and digital validation — who spend more time on Pinterest than in actual places?

The answer is architecture that prioritizes speed over depth and image over atmosphere. It may look good on paper or in a photo, but it fails to support connection, or presence in everyday life.

I recently visited a newly built residential building and left feeling unsettled. It lacked daylight, greenery, variation, and human scale. The ceilings were low, the details cold. It didn’t invite interaction. It felt uninhabited — and maybe uninhabitable.

These kinds of buildings contribute to stress, loneliness, burnout, and even depression — not because they are ugly, but because they are absent of emotional and sensory meaning. The cost of absence, both individual and societal, is high.

Despite this, I believe architecture has the power to restore presence — to become an antidote to the screen, the rush and the fragmentation.

There are buildings and places that make us forget our phones. Places that invite stillness, connection, deep interaction with others or with ourselves. Spaces that restore coherence between our bodies and our thoughts.

To create such architecture, we must go beyond surface-level aesthetics or cost-driven compromises. We must ask:

• What public health problems — like the crisis of attention — are we designing for?

• How does design interact with the mechanisms of the brain and body, not just

abstract trends?

• How can we restore meaning to the everyday?

By defining presence as a design priority, architects and developers can start to build environments that support attention, recovery, and emotional attachment — not just efficient movement or visual novelty.

In the end, it is simple:
What happens here and now is the true richness in our lives.Designing for presence isn’t a luxury. It’s not vague or optional. It’s a form of care — for the individual, for the community, and for the attention that underpins both.