Urban Designing for Dignity

In an age of rampant loneliness, rising mental health struggles, and civic mistrust, it can be easy to overthink solutions. We reach for new technologies, more digital connections, or sweeping policy interventions. But sometimes, the most powerful remedies are already right in front of us—built into our neighborhoods, parks, sidewalks, and streets.

A new study out of Stanford University, published in Nature Mental Health, offers compelling new evidence of just that. The research indicates that proximity to green spaces—not just natural beauty, but intentional design—brings about measurable improvements in mental health, particularly for low-income and urban residents. The implications are profound: if we want healthier, more connected, and more resilient communities, we must reimagine the very shape of our cities.

The Stanford study analyzed 449 peer-reviewed studies and conducted a meta-analysis of 78 field-based experiments to quantify the effects of various urban nature types on 12 mental health outcomes where residential location was cross-referenced with spatial proximity to nature. The findings were striking. Living within walking distance of parks and other green spaces significantly reduced the incidence of depression and anxiety. The study noted that even planting additional trees along streets and  “windows with views facing green spaces could be beneficial.” Simply put: greenery can heal.

This research aligns with a growing body of work at the American Enterprise Institute that highlights the civic and social significance of "place." In recent reports—including Public Places and Commercial Spaces: How Neighborhood Amenities Foster Trust and Connection in American Communities and The Importance of Place: Neighborhood Amenities as a Source of Social Connection and Trust—it has been demonstrated that libraries, parks, small shops, and schools are not just conveniences. They are civic infrastructure. They foster trust, social capital, intergenerational bonds, and even political engagement.

Our research has found that Americans who lived near a park, library, or café were far more likely to report knowing their neighbors, feeling a sense of belonging, and trusting local institutions. In other words, good neighborhoods are not just made—they are designed.

Unfortunately, many of our cities have failed to prioritize these investments. In too many communities, zoning rules, real estate speculation, or bureaucratic inertia have hollowed out the spaces where civic life happens. Green space has become a luxury, not a baseline. But it doesn't have to be this way.

The Proof Is in the Parks: From Crisis to Community

Just look at New York City. For all its density and chaos, New York's urban parks remain one of the city's greatest equalizers. Central Park, Prospect Park, Inwood Hill, Flushing Meadows—these are not elite amenities. They are civic commons. During the pandemic, they served as sanctuaries of sanity. Today, they remain some of the few places where New Yorkers of all backgrounds can gather, stroll, rest, and recover. They are proof that public space, well-stewarded, still has the power to anchor a metropolis.

And New York's commitment to reclaiming streets shows the same spirit. Times Square, once a traffic-choked corridor, was redesigned as a pedestrian plaza. According to the architectural firm Snøhetta, pedestrian injuries have decreased by 40 percent, vehicular accidents have declined by 15 percent, and overall crime in the area has reduced by 20 percent. The transformation turned one of New York's most notoriously congested spaces into a world-class civic space, with over 80 percent of visitors agreeing that the pedestrian plaza makes Times Square feel safer.

Beyond Manhattan, smaller neighborhoods tell powerful stories of transformation. In Queens, the 34th Avenue Open Street turned a dangerous stretch of asphalt into a safe, linear park. The data is compelling—crashes dropped by 77 percent and injuries by 89 percent during open street hours, compared to pre-pandemic levels. As documented in City Limits, Jim Burke, one of the Open Street's founders, can "hardly walk a few steps without someone saying hello to him in Spanish or English. Neighbors stopped their power walks to show him a picture they took of the moon setting over the street or a hawk they spotted in a nearby tree." Burke notes that the street is "first and foremost a micro-mobility corridor, but it's also a place to throw a ball, to run, to make noise, to scream, to do all the things you can't do in private courtyards."

Austin, Texas, offers a different but equally compelling example. Lake Austin, the Barton Creek Greenbelt, and the city's expansive hike-and-bike trails aren't just recreational assets—they are cultural infrastructure. They define the rhythm and identity of the city. Walk along Lady Bird Lake on a Saturday morning and you'll see a cross-section of the entire city: students, retirees, runners, artists, families. The space is open, inviting, and democratic.

Cities Are Catching On: Measurable Impact and Community Pride

Other cities are demonstrating what's possible through ambitious green space projects. Chicago's 606 trail transformed an old rail line into a vibrant greenway serving 80,000 residents within a 10-minute walk. Ten years on, the Friends of the Bloomingdale Trail say simply: "people love it and use it." The trail has raised the bar for what's possible in Chicago's outdoor public infrastructure, though community groups acknowledge the need for anti-displacement measures alongside such investments.

Atlanta's BeltLine tells perhaps the most ambitious story. What was once a disused rail corridor is becoming one of the most transformative civic projects in the nation. As one assessment noted, the BeltLine has "changed the way we live, work and play" in Atlanta. The project has redefined the city's geography, with proximity to the corridor now a key factor in determining where residents and businesses want to locate. A health impact assessment found that decision makers were receptive to recommendations that would increase the BeltLine's benefit to Atlanta residents, including prioritizing trails and greenspace construction.

Even car-dominated Houston has demonstrated a remarkable transformation. Buffalo Bayou Park—once a neglected drainage ditch—was reborn in 2015 as a 160-acre civic destination. The $58 million transformation turned what SWA Group described as a "derelict drainage basin hidden beneath a tangle of highway infrastructure" into a treasured parkland. Today, approximately 44,000 households can access the park within a 10-minute walk. Even after Hurricane Harvey, the park proved its resilience. As Guy Hagstette, the park's project manager, noted: "Sure enough, just days later, joggers were back on the trails"—even as the park's restaurant reopened before the rains broke, donating proceeds to relief efforts.

In Los Angeles, Grand Park has become a downtown anchor. Opened in 2012, the 12-acre park transformed former parking lots into "the park for everyone," with fountains, lawns, play areas, and cultural programming. Residents immediately embraced the transformation. As reported by the Daily News, 10-year-old Fernando Diaz said at the opening: "Instead of playing video games and stuff, this is good." Another resident, Ben Ramirez, 28, gushed: "I'm most likely going to be here a lot. It has a lot of potential for outings, just relaxing and being laid-back here in L.A." County Supervisor Gloria Molina, who led the effort, declared: "I have long dreamed of seeing a great park in this location and, today, my dream is a reality."

These efforts, although wonderful, remain the exception and, sadly, not the norm. Green space is still too often treated as an afterthought—or worse, a budgetary indulgence. That's a mistake. The Stanford research confirms what planners, sociologists, and community advocates have long known: the built environment is a form of public health. And it's a form of moral vision.

Because here's the truth: when we design cities for connection, we get connection. When we prioritize beauty, walkability, and access, we invite people to linger, talk, and trust. But when we design for speed, efficiency, and extraction, we get isolation. Asphalt sprawl. Air-conditioned loneliness. A nation of commuters, not neighbors.

We can choose differently.

Imagine if every city prioritized access to parks and public amenities as core infrastructure—right alongside roads and sewers. Imagine if mayors treated loneliness the way they treat potholes: as a civic problem to be fixed, not a personal failing to be ignored. Imagine if housing policy included not just the units built, but also the communities shaped. This is not utopian thinking. It is policy, design, and leadership.

At a time when trust in institutions is at historic lows, when fewer young people believe in the nation or in each other, our built environment can either widen that chasm—or help bridge it. We know from our research that neighborhoods with strong public amenities foster higher trust, deeper belonging, and more social cohesion. We now know, thanks to the Stanford researchers, that those same features also reduce mental illness.

That's not just urban planning. That's public virtue.

Ultimately, our cities reflect our values. Do we believe that every person—regardless of income, zip code, or background—deserves access to beauty, belonging, and care? If so, we must build for it, not just through screens and services, but through sidewalks and shade.

Design is moral. And it's time we designed with dignity in mind.

Samuel J. Abrams is a professor of politics at Sarah Lawrence College, a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute, and a scholar with the Sutherland Institute.