Dr Jenna Mikus is the Founder and Managing Partner of the Eudae Group—a design consultancy based in the US, UK, and Australia. As an advocate for balancing industry acumen with academic rigor, Dr Mikus blends art with science, quantitative analysis with qualitative exploration, and creativity with pragmatism.
She is recognized as an Honorary Fellow with the University of Melbourne’s Centre for Wellbeing Science, a Visiting Fellow with QUT’s Centre for Decent Work & Industry, a Senior Fellow with the Centre for Conscious Design, a Research Advisor for the International WELL Building Institute, and the Founder of the Harvard University-affiliated Human Flourishing Network’s Flourishing by Design special interest group.
Michal: One interesting thing about how you described yourself is that you started as an artsy engineer, right?
Jenna: Yes, I have always been what I call an artsy or artistic engineer. As an only child, I joke that my parents lived vicariously through me, immersing me in arts and sciences from a young age. I started playing classical piano, dancing, and singing seriously at the ages of three and four. I enjoyed it—it was all that I knew.
In school, I loved learning. I’ve always been curious and took to art, science, and math equally. I started understanding different career paths, and a neighbor who was an engineer suggested I explore engineering. I was about 10 at the time, and that idea stuck with me.
When it came time to choose colleges, I looked at engineering and architecture programs. The school I ultimately chose offered a scholarship but didn’t have an architecture program, so I pursued mechanical engineering. I saw it as a marketable foundation I could build on. While there, I explored art history and minored in business, curating an experience as close to architecture as I could.
Because I attended Johns Hopkins, much of the work and connections I had related to medicine and understanding how things worked. I worked on biomechanical projects alongside my mechanical engineering studies—in materials science lab environments, on crash test facilities and satellite design, and more. That curiosity about health and well-being and good quality design in a variety of contexts was planted then and has remained with me.
After school, I was recruited into strategy consulting because I loved cross-disciplinary problem-solving and the design process. My early career wasn’t related to architecture or engineering but focused on strategy consulting.
We were recruited for our ability to have depth and breadth of understanding to solve client problems, blending technical understanding with business acumen for effective transformational change. This was during the rise of organizational and service design with IT integration. We were essentially doing what is now known as digital transformation and human-centred design without knowing the terms.
In the Washington, DC area, I primarily worked on government projects. This led to my being assigned to a role with the Australian Tax Office in Canberra, Australia (the Australian equivalent to the US IRS). While there, I was struck by the building we worked in—filled with natural daylight, composting facilities, and task-specific areas. These concepts were innovative in 2008-2009, and I could feel the difference myself, working in such an environment.
While on holiday in Europe a few months later, I picked up a Financial Times article called “All in the Mind,” which touched on environmental psychology and neuroscience. I was intrigued by how spaces could be curated to support our best selves.
I’d always been influenced by the environments where I lived, worked, and played. Most notably the ATO office the year prior. It seemed like the simple act of picking up this publication—one I rarely read in the past—kicked off the redirection of my career trajectory. And, although unexpected, it was most welcome.
I didn’t want to lose the strategy background I’d built, but I wanted to shift focus to architecture—still problem-solving with people and technology, but applying that knowledge to the built environment. I pursued a master’s at the Architectural Association (AA) in London, choosing a pragmatic, scientific approach.
While my program focused on sustainable environmental design, understanding how to design and retrofit buildings to require less energy, I was particularly driven to take a deep dive into understanding these concepts from an occupant’s perspective.
One reason this happened was because of a visiting professor we had from Cambridge, named Nick Baker, who introduced me to adaptive comfort theory and the importance of human agency and choice in spatial interaction.
I saw the value in ensuring designers created buildings responsibly while also recognizing how to supply tools and information to occupants to empower them to optimize their environments on their own terms, once they understood the importance of their actions and how they could modify their day-to-day lives to utilize less energy and make better choices.
I eventually transitioned into strategy consulting focused on smart, sustainable buildings. I worked on human-building interaction, addressing people, buildings, and technology and did that across public and private entities, demographics, geographies, and typologies. This allowed me to fuse my strategy background with an architectural context.
Over time, as clients began focusing more on health and well-being, so did I. That path led me to discover eudaimonia and start a new chapter in my career.
Michal: You sound like a well-rounded person.
Jenna: I try to be. I think I used the term “Renaissance woman” growing up, but that terminology sounds a bit cringy now. It’s really more about appreciating transdisciplinary approaches to thinking and doing, aligning with my formative arts and science-based upbringing I referenced earlier.
Michal: You mentioned well-being and eudaimonia earlier. What are they, how are they different, and how do they offer a new perspective for architects and designers?
Jenna: Health is a critical component in architectural design. Many of us have experienced the benefits of occupying spaces designed with health in mind. And, I would argue (albeit unfortunately) that even more of us have inhabited spaces where design is done poorly.
I attended the early kickoff for the WELL Building Standard as a casual lunch and learn back in DC back in 2013 or 2014 and immediately recognized its value. Designing spaces for physical, mental, and social health elements is essential.
Over time, though, I noticed these aspects were often addressed in silos—physical, mental, or social health separately. As I researched health and well-being, I realized the concept of well-being seemed to go beyond simple health, taking a more comprehensive meaning and therefore a more balanced approach, encompassing physical, mental, and social health together.
That led me to explore flourishing health and well-being more deeply, in the context of well-being science (formerly known as positive psychology) and a concept known as eudaimonia in particular. I chose to pursue a PhD and stood up a consulting firm focused on what I call eudaimonic design—that is, design done to realize eudaimonia or human flourishing.
Over time, I learned that well-being science might offer a means of designing for eudaimonia, and I based my work on that scholarship, considering it in the context of design futuring for flourishing well-being.
In my previous work on smart, sustainable building strategies, I helped clients envision their goals for one, five, or ten years into the future and then reverse-engineered the physical and digital infrastructure to achieve those goals. But I didn’t want to promote over-engineered solutions or technology as a catch-all solution.
When I came across eudaimonia, rooted in Aristotle’s concept of “being your best self,” I saw its potential—asking people to design spaces that would support their best selves today and into tomorrow.
As I delved deeper, I discovered the connection between eudaimonia and well-being—specifically eudaimonic well-being—and realized self-determination theory (a formative theory of well-being science) could guide this approach.
During this time of exploration, I poetically relocated to Australia—where much of my journey began. Since then, I have completed my PhD examining eudaimonic design, bridging well-being science and architectural engineering, and continue to advise on these topics today.
Michal: I recall us using the term “eudaimonia” in one of our publications about company environments. It encompassed culture, leadership, strategy, and more. Aristotle’s definition also emphasizes purpose—a purposeful life filled with meaningful activity. Could this idea apply to creating purposeful environments?
Jenna: Absolutely. Learning about eudaimonia as “being your best self” aligns with positive psychology, well-being science, and their subfields. Purpose and meaning are essential elements, and there are many psychological theories that underpin these concepts.
For me, it made perfect sense: helping people curate physical and organizational environments that support their best selves certainly empowered them but it also enabled me to be my best self as a designer.
If you think about it, the approach is inherently inclusive, helping people visualize where they want to go, providing them with the tools on how to get there, and fostering intrinsic motivation in the process.
During my PhD, we sought to define eudaimonic design as a guide for designers and occupants, enabling people to adapt their homes using principles from the study. However, the most impactful finding was the value of an inclusive design praxis.
Guided by self-determination theory, which emphasizes autonomy, competence, and relatedness, intrinsic motivation naturally emerged. Participants shared stories of newfound motivation—tackling long-procrastinated home projects, connecting more deeply with their children or friends, and even feeling mutual inspiration, experiencing a love of learning with their codesign collaborators and a wish to learn and do more.
I noticed positive changes in their personalities and emotions. This was especially meaningful during COVID lockdowns, particularly in Melbourne, where strict measures lasted over 200 days in one year. Despite the challenges, participants found motivation, meaning, and purpose by engaging with the study and thinking about architecture.
For me, this demonstrated how good design can profoundly impact lives. Architecture and the intentional praxis behind it has the power to make a real difference.
Michal: You mentioned the process of designing someone’s home. Not all architects get to work on large projects like hospitals or airports, but many help people design their homes or apartments—something very personal. From your research and experience, if an architect wants to add deeper meaning to their work with clients, where should they start? What can an architect do beyond asking about preferred colors or required rooms?
Jenna: I’ve been fortunate to work on large projects, which has been great. But for my PhD, I wanted to influence people in a way that helped them improve their own living spaces. What I found is that there are universal truths we can rely on, some of which are reflected in the nine principles I identified in my study.
I organized these principles into a matrix: three for physical health, three for mental health, and three for social health. I also associated them with self-determination theory’s three tenets of autonomy, competence, and relatedness.
The needs of individuals vary, so these principles exist on a continuum. For example, cleanliness versus organization is one principle, safety and security another, and flexibility and adaptability yet another. These are all similar constructs but expressed in different ways. Giving people a different language to describe their needs allows them to identify what resonates with them.
Recognizing that needs change is very Aristotelian—Aristotle saw eudaimonia as a flexible concept. This understanding was especially important when working with older adults for my study, where the continuum of aging in place was discussed frequently. Offering something less rigid for people who value flexibility was seen as practical and beneficial.
Michal: So, these nine principles could help structure conversations with clients?
Jenna: Exactly. My thesis is available online and the principles found in it can be used as a guide when starting from the beginning and co-designing with different groups. We understand that there are foundational truths and evidence to consider in projects, and there are proven methods. However, it’s crucial to gain a nuanced perspective.
That’s why I chose eudaimonic well-being over other forms of well-being that focus only on subjectivity. It considered both. If I had focused solely on subjective well-being, I would have missed the objective, quantitative, evidence-based side of things.
The most important thing is making sure the vision is identified and clear upfront, and that time is allocated to explore what that looks like.
It was important to me that I include both the objective, scientific side and the subjective, intuitive experience. I believe capturing both perspectives was and continues to be essential, yet I still see many people doing only one at a time—either evidence or experience.
Co-design is important because it addresses the qualitative side while being guided by scientific principles. This approach often leads to something that is not only beautiful but also functional and helpful.
Michal: You mentioned working on larger projects. Given the need for balance between the general, evidence-based approach and subjective, co-creative work, can you describe the process you follow on a project to ensure that both perspectives are incorporated into the final design?
Jenna: The most important thing is making sure the vision is identified and clear upfront, and that time is allocated to explore what that looks like. The way built environment work is organized and done on a daily basis often doesn’t allow for that.
Decisionmakers rarely set aside the time, money, or resources (people, tools, etc.) needed to do design futuring well up front to clarify what an end goal environment might look and feel like. As someone who is multidisciplinary—trained as an engineer, architect, and health strategist—it’s not easy to fit into a traditional job description.
I need to work closely with architecture and engineering firms, owners, and operators so they understand what I do and how I can help guide the visualization process to result in a better result and often save money in the long run.
To date, it’s been slow to catch on, but over the past few years, it’s gained appreciation. More professionals are elevating this perspective because they see not only the value from a financial standpoint—delivering projects on time and on budget—but also post-occupancy evaluations demonstrating occupants, owners, and operators being more satisfied with the buildings that result from these explorations.
Some of my favorite projects are commercial office buildings, which I’ve worked on the most. It’s always helpful to see them come to fruition and talk to people afterward. I’ve found it particularly intriguing to observe how COVID has impacted office spaces in Australia and elsewhere.
It’s really shone a light on the work we were doing prior to the pandemic, underscoring its importance in disease prevention and health promotion as well as day-to-day benefits of social connection, enhanced productivity, and renewed vitality.
Workplace wellness continues to intrigue me. It accounts for various personalities, and I find working through workplace dynamics and culture rewarding, whether considering those workplaces as military bases, government offices, higher education or younger schools, or even healthcare.
That said, I have been intentionally shifting my work to include environments that relate more directly to health as of late. This includes inclusive environments within education, such as neurodivergent design projects, and healthcare projects that benefit patients as well as workers.
This shift is partly due to my own experiences with health challenges and being a patient and caretaker in a variety of hospitals across the US, UK, and Australia over the years. This means I have a personal perspective and inner drive to make these situations better.
I enjoy working on projects that prioritize patients and medical staff, particularly with the growing focus of putting medical staff first, given the amount of time they spend in these facilities. It’s time their voices are included in the design process, and I’ve enjoyed seeing this transition occur.
Michal: What you’re saying highlights the importance of instilling long-term thinking in clients. It’s difficult to convince clients—whether hospitals, companies, or real estate developers—that investing time and money in a better process is worth it.
They may not realize that this approach will not only yield better results for users but also make the design phase simpler and require fewer iterations because the brief and vision are clearer and more specific. I think, as more people experience the process, they’ll understand the benefits. Thanks to people like you who guide others through this process, more will be convinced of its value.
Jenna: I try to uphold the business and strategy approach I started my career with, but I’ve intentionally incorporated different creative practices and methods along the way. I started incorporating tactile activities in my workshops in the 2010s, but this interest was heightened and buttressed with theory during my PhD when researching and teaching design exploration and innovation in schools of design, engineering, and business.
I still conduct workshops that involve tactile methods where participants aren’t just talking about what they want in a building; they are actively depicting or characterizing what it might look like. This process incorporates multisensory elements, such as textures, the flavor of air, and the coloration and brightness of a space.
We can’t collectively achieve the desired future unless we distribute knowledge.
Organizations like the WELL Building Standard, Fitwel, and the International Living Future Institute have made remarkable progress in presenting evidence on the importance of these approaches.
They’ve provided compelling data on why it’s essential to incorporate health and well-being into design. However, the sensory aspects of the science are now also being discussed, thanks to neuroarchitecture and neuroarts communities, which build on the health and well-being work.
Clients and colleagues often come to me asking how to make a business case for this kind of work. While it might be more lucrative for me to individually advise, we can’t collectively achieve the desired future unless we distribute knowledge. I share as much as I can so we can work together toward that next step.
We must all learn how to “fish” so we can be better and do better together. By sharing knowledge and pointing to successful case studies, we as a collective can learn from what worked and apply it to new projects. With post-occupancy evaluations and a focus on iterative learning, we can continue improving.
This process reminds me of my Six Sigma background from mechanical engineering—deeply asking the five “Why” questions in design and working through iterations. That’s where I see real possibilities for the architecture industry—folding in wisdom from other disciplines. I sincerely hope that knowledge interweaving and multidisciplinary appreciation-building will continue to occur. Time will tell.
Michal: You mentioned post-occupancy evaluation, which is really important for showing the difference in results. People like numbers, quotes, and social proof. How do you convince your clients to actually conduct a post-occupancy evaluation?
Sometimes it’s possible to convince them to follow the process, but there might be concerns—both from the facilitator’s side and the client’s side—about the risk of finding that people haven’t reacted as expected or that the project results don’t align with the improved process.
Jenna: You’re right. POEs are important but don’t happen often. We have to advocate for them, emphasizing that we can improve the building even after it goes live. We don’t want to view it as the end of the project; rather, it’s an opportunity to make it better by understanding how people are using the space, identifying what’s working and what isn’t. From there, we can fine-tune conditions to meet occupant needs.
Presenting it as an opportunity for learning for future projects can be compelling, especially if we hope to work with the client again. Some clients really resonate with the idea of “best self” design, particularly if they appreciate the philosophy behind it.
When I think of neuroscience, I think of the brain; when I think of psychology, I think of the mind. It’s really a matter of language.
If we position it as a pro-social effort to improve architecture and the built environment, it can be persuasive. It’s about finding the right rationale, whether it’s for their benefit or something they simply feel good about doing. The approach depends on what resonates with them.
Michal: You also mentioned neuroarchitecture and neuroscience, which is something I get asked about often. Everyone is talking about the neuroscience of architecture, design, sleep, well-being, productivity, and so on. What’s the difference between neuroscience and psychology? Why do you think everyone is focused on neuroscience now, and what are the risks of overemphasizing one over the other?
Jenna: That’s an important distinction. I’m not a specialist in either field, but I’ll do my best to explain it in my terms. When I think of neuroscience, I think of the brain; when I think of psychology, I think of the mind. It’s really a matter of language.
Designing for neuroscience often focuses on the brain, which governs mental, social, and physical health, so it makes sense to assume that brain-focused design would address those needs. But that approach doesn’t capture everything, especially when neuroscientific exploration tends to be more quantitative and evidence-based.
To me, psychology captures the more nuanced, ineffable aspects of human experience—things people struggle to articulate. Creative methods can help bring those feelings out. For example, during the 2019 Milan Design Week, Google showcased the disconnect between how people’s bodies responded to spaces versus rooms they preferred.
This illustrates the imbalance between a body-brain focus and what I call a “mind-full” perspective. I believe the best approach is to bridge both, considering both the measured brain-body responses and the mind’s voiced preferences to meet an individual’s unique (and likely changing over time) needs.
So no, I don’t believe focusing only on neuroscience is the answer, just like I don’t believe any one approach is the end-all be-all answer. We as humans are complex creatures. Therefore, a depth and breadth of understanding should be applied when seeking to understand humans and how we each experience the world.
Michal: You gave a great answer. There’s an increasing number of people like you—some refer to them as “bridges”—who connect theory and research with practice. From the perspective of an architect, designer, or urban designer, how should they engage with people like you, and why should they?
Many architects we’ve spoken to find it challenging to work with people from different disciplines. Architects are trained to do everything themselves, even though they must work with technical professionals to make things happen on the physical level.
More people from different fields—like sustainability, accessibility, and well-being—are giving input into the process, which can be challenging for architects. They may feel like they’re losing control, especially since architectural education isn’t yet fully geared toward multidisciplinary collaboration. How can this collaboration become more natural or easier, and why should architects want to work with people from fields like psychology, neuroscience, and well-being?
Jenna: I love this question, and I feel like we could spend an hour on it alone. I’ll try to keep my thoughts organized. As you may have seen on LinkedIn, I just attended a two-day symposium focused on well-being for architects in Melbourne, which resulted in five guides on how to approach this better and more intentionally. The first day focused on academia, and the second on industry. I attended the industry side, and this is something I took away that I think might help answer your question.
There was a discussion about the ambition to be an architect with a capital “A”—a role that encompassed doing everything on your own, having your vision come to life, and seeing your project through to perfect fruition. But with that comes stress and a lack of well-being. Plus, it’s not realistic. Many people in architecture, whether they’re students or professionals, haven’t been willing to relinquish control.
Collaborating more and being willing to share responsibilities could reduce some of that burden, especially for tasks architects don’t enjoy or feel skilled at. That could help alleviate some of the well-being issues in the industry. There was research in Australia showing that health and well-being in architecture are significantly worse than the national average, so collaboration (a.k.a. burden sharing) could offer one way to address this.
Another reason to collaborate is to gain clarity and different perspectives. Even the most brilliant person won’t have the perfect solution on their own. To satisfy a variety of users, you need a variety of inputs. Lately, I’ve been focusing on inclusive design, presenting it as a strategic way to foster health equity in the form of inclusive environments.
Transitioning toward this inclusive approach is a logical follow-on to the emphasis on sustainability in the 2010s and the focus on health and well-being in the early 2020s. Some of the interest in inclusivity manifests as a superficial box-ticking exercise, but much of it when done right comes from a deep desire to do better. To achieve that, you need different perspectives in the design process, and one way to do that in architecture is by bringing diverse people to the table.
Sometimes this means contributing to the design itself; other times, it’s about facilitating better collaboration within teams. I’ve been brought in to help architects, engineers, and other built-environment professionals collaborate toward a unified goal.
If we position collaboration as beneficial, it can help architects, engineers, and clients see its value. And hopefully, those who benefit will recognize the importance of inviting diverse perspectives and continue to collaborate in the future.
Michal: You make a great point about how clarity could be one of the biggest benefits. From conversations I’ve had with architects, a common frustration is how unclear things can be. They often complain that clients don’t know what they want, keep changing their minds, or that it’s unclear how to meet their needs. I think engaging in this process could help address that.
I remember in my first job, we worked on workplace consultancy projects. The architects used to do five to ten space plan iterations with each client because of constant changes. But after we implemented this process, we reduced the iterations to a maximum of three because things were much clearer from the start. That helped reduce the architects’ workload and likely contributed to preventing burnout.
I recently came across a study, not related to architecture, but showing that the leading factor in premature death related to work was working more than 55 hours a week—not accidents or other hazards. Many architects likely experience working conditions like this. So, we’re seeing that clarity helps reduce frustration, which can prevent burnout.
However, architects might fear that increasing clarity could limit their creative freedom. The question is: does increasing clarity reduce creative freedom, or does it actually increase it?
Jenna: It’s a difficult balance. I’ve found that teaching design in recent years has helped me answer this more clearly, especially when working with students from various backgrounds—design, engineering, and business. It was interesting to see how different groups responded to constraints.
The design and engineering students wanted to jump straight to answers, while business students were more inclined to follow a structured process, like the double diamond model. They were more willing to brainstorm and iterate, exploring various possibilities before narrowing down ideas.
Involving someone with a business perspective can be valuable, especially if they have a creative inclination. They can bridge the conversation between design and business, making the process more effective. But this requires both sides to be open to collaboration, putting their egos aside.
It can be an advantage to have people with different perspectives working together, but I’m still figuring out what the ideal solution looks like. Regardless, I do see the potential for business and design professionals to complement each other, even though they sometimes butt heads.
Michal: Increasing the number of quality conversations and experiences might bring people from different disciplines closer together. One last question we ask everyone: Could you give us examples of projects, places, or spaces that you would highlight as positive examples—either meeting the criteria we’ve discussed, or created using these processes? Or even if the creators didn’t know about psychology, neuroscience, and these processes, the places are still beneficial for people and create a positive experience.
Jenna: There are a few examples I always reference. Maggie’s Centres are one because they are exquisitely designed. I particularly like the Leeds one, but each is beautiful in its own way. I appreciate that they are often portrayed as natural environments that soothe people. I believe this was mentioned in The Guardian, and I thought it was a lovely way to put it.
I also value Japanese architecture and typologies. We can learn a lot from Japan’s appreciation for sensory design and doing things right. This includes Shinrin-yoku, the concept of forest bathing; ryokan inns that uphold the art of hospitality or omotenashi; and onsen baths, where the sound of water and the materiality of surfaces create a calm, sensory experience.
However, if you’d like to hear some of the examples that have influenced me most over this past year, I’d say the following:
Alvar Aalto-related Architecture
I adore Alvar Aalto’s buildings. I had the opportunity to present my Eudaemonic Design guiding principles at the ARCH24 (Architecture, Research, Care, and Health) conference in Helsinki in June. It was so poetic to be among Aalto’s life work and at Aalto University when sharing my doctoral work. I of course loved his Paimio Sanitarium–a spectacular reference to healthy building design, especially from the contexts of air quality, visual comfort with respect to natural views, social connection via the lunchroom, etc.
University of Melbourne’s Student Pavilion
As an Honorary Fellow of the University of Melbourne’s Centre for Wellbeing Science, I have had the opportunity to guest lecture about wellbeing science applied in the context of architecture and engineering. One way I do that is by reflecting on historical places and spaces as well as current environments–some of which are on campus and visitable. The Student Pavilion on UofM’s campus is a great example of indoor/outdoor design that develops a sense of belonging.
Sydney Opera House
This building represents a turning point in my career–when I decided back in 2009 to transition my career toward built environment strategy work. The Opera House, although iconic, represents how something can be simple yet complex, appreciated by all yet fraught with historical drama, aesthetically breathtaking and also exquisitely engineered.
Every time I visit Sydney, I make sure to visit it from a variety of angles, always from the land and on a ferry from the water. I love how the building represents the city–who can forget Finding Nemo!–while also interacting with it. There is an interactive lights and arts festival in May of each year during which the Opera House often has images projected onto it. People queue up to see the show, and it brings a whole new experience to engaging with the Opera House.
It houses stages upon which acts can perform, but it also serves as a facade upon which art can be displayed and seen by all (even those who can’t afford tickets). This to me is a stunning work of architecture that speaks to and benefits the masses.
Apart from these, I also seek inspiration from the past for insights on improving present day and future practice. Just as Aristotle’s eudaimonia-considering philosophy informs my work, ancient architecture particularly the Ancient Greek healing centers known as Asklepia (plural of the singular Asclepion) influence my healthy buildings approach.
These Asklepia were more than an ancient getaway spa equivalent. They truly were some of the original healthy buildings, as each Asklepion could be found in a tranquil setting, protected from the elements, outside of residential areas, with flower-filled gardens, dense forests, trickling streams, and herb-scented spaces.
It makes sense why these buildings are said to be for the god of health and healing, Asclepius—a god whose name is included in the Hippocratic Oath today (as Hippocrates represents diagnosis and treatment, Asclepius symbolizes healing and recovery). That’s the kind of environment I’d like to inhabit myself and curate for in my work, one that facilitates optimal health, enhancing experience, and true transformation.
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