December always feels like a threshold. A month of transition, a liminal moment. A meaningful pause between two years, the moment when we slow down just enough to look back at what we experienced and look forward to what we hope will come next. It’s a time of reflection and anticipation. We intuitively understand the power of these in-between moments. In many ways, they teach us what good transitions do: they prepare our minds to shift states, clear space to reset, and open the door to what’s ahead.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about the threshold in the built environment, those liminal, often overlooked spaces that connect one environment to another. Even though people understand the emotional power of transitions in life, we rarely carry that understanding into the way we design buildings. This is especially true in the workplace, where our work modes and activities shift constantly throughout the day. It is one of the environments where thoughtful thresholds are needed most.
The Importance of the Liminal Moments
In the built environment, transition spaces — canopies, vestibules, lobbies, corridors, portals, staircases, circulation paths — are often treated as leftover square footage, reduced down to whatever remains after “real” spaces have been planned. But these in-between spaces hold extraordinary potential. They do more than simply move people from point A to point B. They influence how we enter an experience, prepare the mindset we carry into it, and shape the way we make sense of it afterward. In the workplace, they set the emotional tone for how we arrive every morning, how we move between tasks, how we shift between collaborative and focused modes, and how we decompress at the end of the day.
The power of liminal space, what architect Tye Farrow might describe as the generosity of architecture, lies in its ability to shift our mind. These spaces can create a moment of curiosity, surprise, or calm. They can ready the mind and body for what’s about to happen. Or they can bring closure and meaning as we leave a place. Without these liminal moments, experiences collide abruptly one after another, without giving us the pause our brains need to prepare, reset, and be present. They are, in many ways, the commas in our architectural sentences. And yet, we rarely design them with intention.
The Design of Transition
When we look closely, the design of a transitional space carries much more weight than its square footage suggests. The design of the liminal space influences our mindset. The shift from exterior to interior, such as a change in light, temperature, or sound, immediately influences how we feel. That shift can be abrupt, or it can be intentional. A threshold can feel like a blank canvas, white and minimal, clearing the mind. Or it can be dark and dramatic, full of anticipation. It can be warm and comforting, or it can catch your attention with a sliver of light or a subtle sound. It could be something that signals to the brain: “Pay attention. Something new is beginning.”
The physical form matters as well. Is the transition a narrow doorway or a widening corridor? A tall arch or a low, compressed passage? A quick crossing or a longer journey? Does it feel like something that heightens anticipation the way a ride queue at an amusement park prepares the body for what’s coming next? We can learn from the transitions in storybooks or movies: the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland, the light tunnel in Back to the Future, the spinning house in The Wizard of Oz. We don’t need to be that extreme, but those examples remind us how powerful transitions can be when they intentionally build anticipation, wonder, and even a little mystery.
And just as important as entering is the way we exit. The moment after an experience often determines how we remember it. Do we step directly back into the world, unprepared and overstimulated, or do we pass through a space that lets us reflect, so the memory settles into place? This pre- and post-experience is part of the experience. If a threshold is abrupt, confusing, or overwhelming, it can diminish what happens on either side of it. If it is crafted with intention, it can heighten everything that follows.
The Sensory Lens
From a sensory design and neuroaesthetics perspective, threshold spaces are rich territory. We can use light, color, temperature, sound, scent, texture, or scale to influence our spatial perception. These transitional spaces are powerful because they engage our senses at the very moment we are most perceptive. A temperature shift felt first on the skin can prepare the body before the mind catches up. A soft sound can draw attention and spark curiosity. A faint smell might bring back a memory. A warm glow of light can signal calm. A textured wall or soft floor finish can ground the body when stress levels are high. These are subtle cues, but they set the emotional stage and prepare our body and mind for the upcoming space.
Transitional and liminal spaces are the perfect canvas for layering and sequencing sensory elements, as our senses are already heightened when we cross from one state to another. A moment of awe or wonder can open us up, equalize our emotions, and help us receive what comes next. Curiosity and discovery give people agency, letting them feel like they’re choosing to enter into a new environment rather than being pushed into it.
Reclaiming Transitional Space
The challenge is that real estate constraints and budget concerns often eliminate these transitional spaces. In a per-square-foot mindset, thresholds are considered “non-functional,” and therefore expendable. But I would argue that they are some of the most functional spaces we can design. They give us time to adjust, create rhythm between moments, and help us recalibrate our nervous system.
What if we reclaimed these transitional spaces? What if we treated these spaces not as leftover square footage, but as essential architectural ingredients? What if we designed more commas into our floor plans: more pauses, more breaths, more opportunities to look up, notice the light, gather our thoughts, and be fully present? These spaces are where community naturally forms: a widened corridor where coworkers slow down and gather, a small plaza that invites lingering, a canopy that lets you straighten yourself before entering, or even a quiet doorway that gently returns you to the world. Transition spaces are places of potential energy. They are where we look back and where we look forward—the bridge between what was and what will be.
Imagine office environments with more intentional thresholds: a well-crafted elevator lobby that allows people to pause before stepping into the buzz of the floor; a quiet alcove between collaborative zones and focus areas; a transitional corridor that captures natural daylight and slows the pace just enough for the body to reset; a simple, uncluttered ante-room that clears the mind before people enter a meeting. These are not wasted spaces. In my view, these are essential spaces.
And this brings me to the heart of it: in experience design, nothing stands alone. Every experience has a before and an after. Every moment is shaped by what precedes it and what follows it. Transitional spaces are the connective tissue. They prepare the palette—just as a wine taster clears their palate before the next sip. Without that reset, we carry too much of the last thing into the next.
Perhaps that’s why December feels like the right moment to talk about the threshold. December is the threshold we all understand: a natural transition that prepares us to let go of what was and step into what will be. December reminds us that thresholds matter. They shape how we release the past and prepare for the future.
So let’s imagine: a series of intentional thresholds, pre- and post-experiences, woven into the narrative arc of a place. A story that acknowledges that the spaces in between are essential. We need more commas in our buildings. We need more thresholds in our lives, and in our spaces.