On the corner of Nørregade and Stormgade in Hundested — a small coastal town in the north of Zealand, about an hour’s drive from Copenhagen — stands a villa. It is a classic Danish red-brick house, with large trees and a flagpole in the garden.
To the untrained eye, it might look like a perfectly ordinary home for a perfectly ordinary family.
But it is not.
It is a residential care home for young girls.
“When I first walked through the door, I immediately thought: ‘This is where I want to be,’” says Rikke Bruun.
“I could just feel the spirit of the house. So I quit my job and applied to become a substitute worker here.”
It has been four years since Rikke Bruun first stepped across the threshold of Home — a residential care facility for girls aged 12–23 who have had difficult upbringings and are placed in care as part of the Danish welfare system. Today, she works here as a special needs educator.
“It’s a very, very family-like place to enter. We are very present and close to the young people. And the house just radiates a sense of home,” she says.
But the house in Hundested is by no means representative of Danish residential care facilities. That is something Rachel Röst wants to change. That is why she has founded the organisation Room for Me (Danish: Rum Til Mig).
What kind of home do children grow up in?
For years, the discussion about children in care in Denmark has focused on staffing ratios, methods, supervision and finances. But one question has largely remained in the background:
What kind of physical environments are children actually placed in?
Or put differently: What kind of home do they grow up in?
At the age of 16, Rachel Röst was placed in a residential institution. She knows the environment from the inside.
“I remember there was a hanging plant. It was the only thing in the interior that felt like there was any surplus, so I was very fond of it,” she says.
With Room for Me, Rachel Röst wants to work concretely to change the physical environments in institutions for vulnerable children and young people.
Her ambition is to develop and test interior designs that better support safety, community and a sense of belonging — through lighting, colours, furnishings and by involving the young people themselves in shaping their surroundings.
When institutions feel like workplaces
In 2012, Rachel Röst founded the organisation Læs for Livet (“Read for Life”), which collects and donates books to institutions to stimulate a love of reading among children and young people placed outside the home.
In that capacity, she has visited around 100 institutions for children and young people in care. And the institutional character marks at least half of them, she explains.
“There is linoleum, fluorescent lighting, bare walls, a black sofa and municipal curtains. It’s very bare to be in,” she says.
She particularly remembers one girl who had lived in seven different places.
“She stayed in her room because the common areas looked like a school or an office. Her room was something she could do something with,” says Rachel Röst.
“But she wasn’t allowed to paint the walls.”
For Rachel Röst, this is not just a question of aesthetics.
It is about what the surroundings signal.
“If it looks like a workplace, you are reminded that you are a task. There are whiteboards with shifts and duties. It constantly points to the fact that you are something to be managed,” she says.
According to her, this has consequences — both for self-esteem and relationships.
“It does something to you if you feel that you haven’t earned a real home. And it also matters socially — whether you invite friends over or stay in your room.”
Stress, space and the nervous system
That point is recognised by David Adrian Pedersen, a psychologist and former chair of the association De Anbragtes Vilkår (an organisation advocating for the rights and conditions of children in care).
He points out that the physical environment is not just a backdrop — but part of the environment the children live in.
“If you don’t have a home that speaks to your sensory system and can bring arousal down, you get a place where nervous systems easily react to each other. That creates conflict and unrest,” he says.
According to him, residential care settings are, in their basic form, overstimulating.
“Eight children with difficult experiences under the same roof, changing adults and a high level of arousal. That is an environment we as a system have designed,” he says.
If one does not actively work to create calm and safety in the surroundings, it can have consequences.
“Then you get more conflicts, more physical interventions and more situations where children act out of helplessness.”
At the same time, it is also about something more fundamental:
“Do I experience it as my home? Are there pictures of me? Do I have influence? That is absolutely central to the feeling of belonging.”
What the research shows — and doesn’t
It seems logical that warm and safe surroundings have a positive impact on the people who live in them. But is there evidence for that perception?
A growing body of research within areas such as environmental psychology and so-called “healing architecture” suggests that physical surroundings affect people’s well-being, stress levels and social behaviour.
Studies show that factors such as light, acoustics, access to nature and spatial design can influence how we feel — especially in environments where people spend extended periods of time.
A recent study of housing for formerly homeless people suggests that environments supporting safety, privacy and social relations can have a positive impact on residents’ well-being and sense of security.
A brand-new report from VIVE (the Danish Center for Social Science Research) on residential facilities within the disability sector also points to the importance of physical surroundings for people’s living conditions.
But the research is far from clear-cut. Effects depend on context, target group and, not least, the social practices that take place within the setting.
Several researchers therefore stress that physical environments cannot stand alone, but must be understood in interaction with relationships and pedagogy.
At VIVE, senior researcher Thorben Simonsen has examined the role of physical environments in residential settings. And they do matter, he says.
“The short answer is yes — the built environment can make a difference.”
But he warns against isolating the effect.
“Overall, it matters less than social care. These elements have to work together. They are not independent of social practice — they are intertwined,” he says.
“You can design exceptionally good solutions that simply do not work if the practice wants something else.”
When space and practice align
Spaces and practice must work together — and this is something Home in Hundested is highly attentive to.
The house looks like a home, not an institution.
There is art on the walls, throws on the sofa, candles in the kitchen and glass cabinets with wine and champagne glasses. Not because alcohol is consumed at the care home, Rikke Bruun points out.
“We have the things that belong in a home. It is important that the place feels like a real home,” she says.
The young people can have friends over — for meals and overnight stays — and they are free to decorate their own rooms.
“The young people are not embarrassed to bring friends home. They do not feel different,” she says.
The interior reflects the spirit of the house.
“We are present and authentic adults when we are at work,” she says.
Home asks a fundamental question: If you yourself were young and placed in care, what should your home look like — and what should the adults be like?
“Is it okay that we throw ourselves on the sofa with a blanket and watch a terribly boring series on TV together with one of the young people? Yes, because that’s what you do in a family. We try to do what we ourselves would want if we were young and placed in care,” she says.
“We lend them our nervous system”
At the same time, Home works consciously with relationships and nervous systems.
“We work a lot within a neuro-pedagogical approach,” says Rikke Bruun.
If you are deeply traumatised as a child, your nervous system is in a constant state of activation, she explains.
It can be deep breaths when things become too much, a hand to squeeze, or simply a quiet moment wrapped in a weighted blanket.
“We lend them our nervous system so we can help them calm down,” she says.
And that, she believes, makes a difference.
“In the four years I have been here, we haven’t had a single use of force.”
It is not only the absence of coercion that stands out.
“We can also see that many of the young people make progress. They move on — into school, jobs and their own homes. We succeed with a great many of them.”
This has not been analysed systematically, she emphasises.
A clear gap in well-being
Rikke Bruun’s experiences stand in contrast to general patterns.
In a survey by VIVE among 15- and 17-year-olds in care, 82 percent of those in foster families say they feel very much at home. Among those in institutions, the figure is 41 percent.
At the same time, 92 percent in foster care feel safe, compared to 59 percent in institutions. And 89 percent experience sufficient privacy, compared to 60 percent in institutions.
The difference is also visible in relationships: 68 percent in foster care say they can always receive social support from adults, compared to 39 percent in institutions.
Rethinking care: Lessons from Scotland
In Scotland, a more fundamental rethinking has taken place.
In 2017, Fiona Duncan was appointed to lead a comprehensive review of the care system. After listening to more than 5,500 people, the work resulted in The Promise — a national ambition that all children should grow up safe, loved and respected.
“It’s about having a place that is completely safe — where someone is waiting for you, cares about you and wants to hear about your day,” she says.
“Where there is time for you. Where you know you are protected, feel safe and loved and can be yourself.”
“It is absolutely fundamental. Children cannot truly thrive in school or friendships if they do not have a place where they genuinely feel safe.”
She visited many institutions designed by adults who did not understand children’s needs.
“They often fell into two categories: sterile and clinical — or colourful and overstimulating.”
“Some looked like children’s TV from the 1970s with primary colours and exaggerated shapes. It’s rubbish — it simply doesn’t make sense for children.”
Children as experts in their own lives
Scotland is far from finished, she emphasises. But significant improvements have been made.
Children are no longer placed in youth detention centres. There is a stronger focus on prevention. Institutions have been redesigned, and young people receive more support when leaving care.
Design guidelines now emphasise smaller, more homelike units, privacy and the ability for children to shape their own spaces.
And crucially, children are now seen as experts.
“During our care review, it became clear that children are the real experts in residential care — especially those who have moved many times,” Fiona Duncan says.
“They have lived in so many different places that they can often provide a better analysis of what a home is than both authorities and adults.”
An emerging field
Research into environmental psychology, healing architecture and trauma-informed design is still developing.
“It is quite fragmented,” says Thorben Simonsen.
“There are researchers working in different places, but no strong unified field. What is missing is a perspective that looks across — and that requires significant translation work.”
He emphasises again:
“You can design exceptionally good solutions that simply do not work if the practice wants something else.”
That is why it is interesting that more actors are working at the intersection.
“Rachel Röst positions herself in a place where she is trying to hold both perspectives — the built and the social. And that is important. Even if it sounds simple, it is not.”
From idea to experiment
With Room for Me, Rachel Röst wants not only to highlight the problem, but to experiment with solutions.
The ambition is to work with institutions and young people to create more homelike environments — through art, lighting, colours and spaces that invite connection.
“They should be involved in shaping their surroundings. That is part of feeling ownership,” she says.
The organisation’s first grant of 50,000 Danish kroner from the Lauritzen Foundation is modest, but will help get the work started.
“I hope we can help create more attention — and, over time, more knowledge,” she says.
The feeling of not belonging
For David Adrian Pedersen, this work is crucial.
“If a place is grey and institutional, it can create a basic feeling of being rootless and alienated in your own home,” he says.
“A child growing up in an environment that is culturally understimulated and overstimulated through instability and conflict will find it harder to find their place in the world.”
Without exposure to culture, aesthetics and everyday human choices, children risk missing key reference points.
“Art, culture, ways of being together — these are part of social codes. And if you don’t encounter them, the world becomes harder to navigate.”
A question of priorities
Changing the physical environments in the care system is not as simple as it sounds. Institutions must comply with legislation, safety requirements, budgets and staff considerations.
But there is still room to act.
“You can do a lot,” as David Adrian Pedersen puts it.
At Home in Hundested, there is no doubt.
“Of course there are fire safety regulations — we’ve just had training, and everything is in order. It’s not a fire hazard. But it would definitely have been easier with linoleum everywhere,” says Rikke Bruun.
Still, Home has chosen a different path — with carpets, art, candles and personal belongings.
Because, as she puts it, there is a space between a home and an institution.
And within that space, decisive choices can be made.
“If you want to, you can.”
Every morning, the first task is to light a candle in the small kitchen of the red-brick villa.
A small act with great symbolic meaning.
“It’s a symbol that there is hope for all of us,” says Rikke Bruun.
