Ketevan Roinishvili
When people hear I’m a young architect, they usually picture me buried in blueprints and math. And they aren’t completely wrong-I spend late nights in the studio calculating the permanent weight of a building’s walls and roofs (dead loads) and the shifting weight of people and furniture (live loads). We have to understand physics and structural mechanics just to make sure a building is safe. But beneath all the math, I’ve realized that architecture isn’t just about creating a stable shelter. It is about designing the invisible choreography of our daily lives.
We don’t necessarily design our daily routines; we inherit them from the walls, thresholds, shadows, and views of the places we live. Architecture rarely shouts its influence; it whispers it. Think about a narrow apartment kitchen: if a countertop is placed right beside a window overlooking a patch of sky, that specific view becomes part of someone’s daily reset. It might gently encourage them to pause and make tea every morning, not just out of habit, but because the space makes it feel right. These seemingly small spatial offerings create our rituals, and over time, those rituals become our identity. As a young designer, I’m learning that my job isn’t just to draw an impressive floor plan, but to ask: “What kind of day will this building allow someone to have?”.
This subtle influence isn’t just poetic, it is deeply rooted in our biology. There is an entire field called “neuroarchitecture” dedicated to understanding how the built environment directly impacts our brains, our emotions, and our physical health. For instance, when I sketch a room with large windows, I’m not just making an aesthetic choice to let the sun in. I’m tapping into “biophilic design,” which actively seeks to connect humans with nature in the built environment. Studies show that maximizing natural daylight actually helps regulate our circadian rhythms, improves our sleep, and drastically reduces stress and anxiety. I am literally deciding how relaxed or energized a person will feel when they stand in that room.
The spaces we build also completely dictate how we connect with one another. When designing a public seating area, I have to consciously choose whether to make the layout “sociopetal”-meaning the space encourages people to face each other, gather, and communicate-or “sociofugal,” which physically separates people and discourages interaction. The way I arrange a simple cluster of benches can mean the difference between a lonely pedestrian and a vibrant moment of community connection. Everything we build whispers instructions to the people who use it, guiding how they feel and how they treat one another.
At the end of the day, architecture is so much more than arranging steel, glass, and concrete. It is a profound responsibility. Whether I’m calculating the structural load of a cantilevered roof, choosing between a sociopetal or sociofugal seating layout, or ensuring a space meets the psychological needs of its users through natural light, my goal is to design buildings that don’t just stand up, but actually elevate the human condition.
One of the most fascinating concepts I am exploring right now is neuroarchitecture. Simply put, it is an emerging, interdisciplinary field where neuroscience meets architecture to study exactly how our built environments directly impact our brains, behaviors, and emotional well-being. It proves scientifically that the physical spaces we inhabit are not just neutral, empty backdrops; they actively serve as extensions of our mental lives and act as mediators between human consciousness and the outside world
So, how exactly does a building dictate our emotions? It all comes down to hardwired biology. When we navigate a space, specific regions of our brain immediately light up to process what we are experiencing.
What I find most incredible as an architect is the role of “mirror neurons” in our brains. These neurons allow us to physically empathize with our surroundings. When we look at architectural forms, our brain actually simulates the “feeling” of the space, allowing us to instinctively sense the delicate fragility of a glass wall versus the heavy, grounding stability of a stone partition.
Our emotional state is also heavily dictated by the sensory stimul an architect chooses to include, such as lighting, textures, and color. These design choices trigger actual, measurable physiological responses in our bodies. For instance, exposure to the color blue in a room stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system, inducing feelings of calm, tranquility, and relaxation. On the other hand, vibrant colors like red activate the sympathetic nervous system, boosting blood flow to our muscles, quickening our heart rate, and increasing our overall energy.
Understanding neuroarchitecture reinforces the core philosophy I want to carry into my career: architecture is a profound responsibility. Because our design choices trigger instinctive and unconscious emotional responses, we aren’t just arranging materials we are actively designing how people will feel, heal, and thrive in their everyday lives.
Ultimately, I am realizing that architecture is not merely the passive backdrop to our lives; it is a silent storyteller that actively choreographs our daily routines. As my generation of architects steps into the industry, we are faced with a profound choice: we can either perpetuate environments of exclusion and isolation, or we can champion salutogenic designs that actively support human health, resilience, and community. For me, the true measure of a successful project won’t be found in its sheer height or the architectural awards it might win. It will be found in whether a stranger feels welcome on a public bench, whether a resident finds peace in a sunlit room, and whether a neighborhood can truly come together. We are not just drafting blueprints for buildings; we are designing the very framework for how humanity connects, heals, and thrives