When people ask me why I became a landscape architect, I usually say something about my love for green space or how parks bring people together. But the truth is, I was chasing the ghost of Frederick Law Olmsted. The man behind Central Park, the Emerald Necklace in Boston, and countless other green spaces, Olmsted didn’t just design pretty places—he built parks with purpose.

Now, more than ever, I find myself asking: What would Olmsted do in the face of climate collapse?

We’re in a different world than the one he designed for. Rising seas, urban heat islands, species loss, and erratic weather patterns weren’t exactly on his drafting table. But the spirit of his work—his belief that landscape could heal both people and cities—feels more relevant than ever.

Parks as Infrastructure, Not Just Decoration

One of the biggest shifts happening in landscape architecture today is how we think about green space. It’s no longer just about aesthetics. A patch of lawn or a tree-lined walkway is nice, sure—but in the age of climate change, that same space has to do more. It has to capture stormwater, lower temperatures, support pollinators, clean the air, and give people room to breathe.

Olmsted understood this intuitively. He built parks to manage flooding, improve air circulation, and provide a public good. He just didn’t have the climate data we have now. Today, our parks can’t be afterthoughts or indulgences. They need to function like living infrastructure.

Green roofs, bioswales, rewilded medians—these aren’t design trends. They’re survival strategies. And we should treat them that way.

Designing for Resilience, Not Perfection

There’s a temptation, especially in urban design, to make everything tidy. Trimmed lawns. Symmetrical hedges. Neat little plantings. But nature doesn’t work like that, especially not under climate stress.

We’re entering a period where droughts will kill off delicate species, floods will reshape our coasts, and the only thing predictable is unpredictability. If our landscapes are going to last, they need to be messy. Adaptive. Resilient.

That means using native plants that can survive extremes. It means designing parks that can flood without falling apart. It means planning for transformation instead of control. Olmsted might not have used those words, but his belief in naturalistic design—the idea that landscapes should feel like they belong to the place—makes him surprisingly modern.

Social Equity Starts in the Soil

One thing Olmsted got very right was his understanding that parks were for everyone. In an era of extreme inequality, he fought to make green space public and accessible, especially for the working class. He saw landscape architecture as a tool for democracy.

That lesson is huge right now. Climate change doesn’t hit everyone equally. Low-income neighborhoods often have fewer trees, more concrete, and worse flood risks. They’re hotter, noisier, and more vulnerable. If we’re going to build climate-resilient cities, we have to start where the need is greatest.

Designing with justice in mind isn’t a bonus—it’s the baseline. Whether it’s cooling a neighborhood with shade trees or replacing a parking lot with a rain-absorbing park, these changes aren’t just ecological. They’re moral.

From Grand Vistas to Community Gardens

Olmsted worked at a grand scale. But today, some of the most powerful landscape interventions happen in small, local ways. A community garden that feeds neighbors and absorbs runoff. A converted alleyway that becomes a pollinator corridor. A vacant lot turned into a pocket park.

These projects don’t need million-dollar budgets or international acclaim. They need care. Commitment. People who are willing to show up and dig.

I think Olmsted would have appreciated these grassroots efforts. After all, his vision wasn’t just about scenery—it was about society. The idea that public landscapes could improve public life still holds true, whether you’re planting trees in a city plaza or turning your own yard into a native habitat.

So, What Would Olmsted Do?

I think about that question a lot. My guess? He’d probably be knee-deep in a wetland restoration somewhere, covered in mud and completely content. He’d be advocating for green access in every zip code. He’d be pushing cities to think beyond luxury development and toward climate resilience.

Olmsted wouldn’t be designing for permanence. He’d be designing for change.

And that’s what I try to do, too. As a landscape architect in 2025, I don’t get the luxury of pretending we’re not in a crisis. But I do get the responsibility—and the privilege—of helping shape how we respond.

A Future We Can Still Grow

We can’t landscape our way out of climate change. But we can use design to soften the blow, slow the damage, and create spaces that remind us what’s worth fighting for.

Parks can still be places of joy. Trees can still be symbols of hope. A rain garden, a green roof, a rewilded riverbank—these aren’t just features. They’re commitments.

So here’s to the vertical meadows, the community forests, the bioswales, the rooftop farms. Here’s to designing for the mess, the future, and the people who need nature the most.

And here’s to Olmsted, whose ideas still help us find our footing—even when the ground is shifting beneath us.