The other morning, I had a very energising conversation with a good friend inStockholm, a psychotherapist whose work mission I greatly admire.

We’d connected briefly before around the topic, but today was the first time we really talked.

Face to face, screen to screen.

Amsterdam to Stockholm, coffee mugs in hand.

Naturally, we dove straight into the deep end: loneliness, connection, community.

The things that make or break a life.

He had so many sharp insights, generous, grounded, and clear.

But one thing in particular stuck with me.

He described a common part of the daily commute for many Stockholmers: the tunnel at T-Centralen, between the red and green lines and the blue line.

He called it “stresstunneln” (The Tunnel of Stress).

And I couldn’t agree more.

If you’ve lived in Stockholm, you know it.

Long. Grey. No windows. No benches.

Just bodies moving, fast, shoulder to shoulder.

It’s the exact opposite of a gathering place; it’s a get-through-it space.

It’s designed to be purely functional.

But in doing so, it actually adds to the stress load.

It accelerates the sense of separation, not connection.

And that conversation stayed with me. Because lately, I’ve been thinking about something I don’t hear talked about enough: the cost of connection.

As someone who designs spaces for people to use and talks a lot a bout the importance of connection and belonging, you’d think I’d always be ready to engage.

But even I have days when I feel too depleted to interact.

Because connection isn’t effortless, it’s not free.

It asks something of us.

Let’s talk about it.

The Invisible Price Tag

There’s a quiet myth baked into our conversations around community.

That connection is spontaneous, organic, and always energising.

That if we just show up, the magic will happen.

But real connection takes work.

It draws on emotional capacity, self-awareness, and regulation.

And sometimes, even when everything around you is designed for interaction, you just don’t have the bandwidth.

It’s beautiful, yes. But let’s not pretend it’s passive.

It’s a practice.

Alone Isn’t Always Lonely

Sometimes, it’s easier to just stay home alone.

No negotiation, no performance, no social decoding.

Just you, your own pace, and your own emotional landscape.

Solitude can feel clean. Controlled. Efficient.

Connection? Messy. Unpredictable.

Full of variables you can’t control, like your friend’s strong opinions on oat milk, or someone else’s idea of a reasonable group chat reply window.

And when your nervous system is already juggling stress, noise, deadlines, and overstimulation, even a low-stakes interaction can feel like one task too many.

So if you’ve ever needed a break from people, even ones you love, you’re not broken.

You’re just budgeting your energy.

And that’s allowed.

When Design Pays the Entry Fee

If connection takes effort, then design can help reduce the toll.

Enter: neurodesign.

I see it as a way of creating spaces that respect how our brains andbodies work. Because the built environment doesn’t just shape how we move, it shapes how we feel.

How we interact.

How we can connect.

Here’s one way to put it:

A city that removes benches removes places for cortisol to fall.

A workplace with only transactional Zoom calls starves employees of oxytocin.

A society that prizes independence at all costs raises generations fluent in efficiency but deficient in synchrony.

Neurodesign supports co-regulation.

It creates cues that say: You’re safe here. You can rest here. You can connect here.

Even when you’re tired.

Even when your battery is low.

That might look like:

– Lighting that shifts with the circadian rhythm, cool and bright to energise in the morning, warm and soft to soothe in the evening.

– Visual rhythm, soft transitions in colour or texture to reduce cognitive load

– Sound scaping, neutralising echo and crowd noise with ambient tones

– Biophilic elements, organic shapes and materials, even subtle or stylised, to help the nervous system downshift

– Way finding that flows, so you’re not constantly correcting yourself in motion

The more energy the environment gives, the lower the energy connection costs.

Could We Redesign the Stresstunnel?

Which brings me back to that tunnel of stress at T-Centralen.

It’s not broken. It works. It gets people where they’re going.

But it does so at a price.

Not just in footsteps, but in friction.

And the tricky part? It’s a narrow, high-traffic corridor.

There’s no space for lounge chairs or poetry installations.

So the real question is: how do we stop it from draining people before they even arrive?

That’s where neuro design offers something valuable, not by adding more, but by understanding better.

We’re not talking about grand gestures.

We’re talking about subtle shifts grounded in neuroscience.

How light affects cortisol. How predictable visual rhythm helps the brain feel oriented. How echoes heighten stress, and how material choices or flow design can offer micro-moments of regulation, without taking up space.

It’s not about making the tunnel beautiful.

It’s about making it human.

Because even within tight constraints, care is possible.

And when we understand what the nervous system needs, even apassageway can feel less punishing.

That difference matters.

Let’s Wrap This Up

Belonging is beautiful. But it’s not effortless.

Connection takes energy.

It draws on the same reserves we use to get through the day.

And if we don’t recognise that, we risk making belonging sound like a luxury, something for the well-rested, the extroverted, the emotionally available.

But here’s the truth:

We can design for connection.

We can build environments that support regulation, not depletion.

And even in the narrowest of spaces, we can create room for the nervous system to breathe.

Because connection isn’t free.

But with the right design, it doesn’t have to cost so much.

Lots of love,

Stina

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