The Front Yard Is Making a Comeback

Front yards. They used to be the most controlled part of a home—or not. They could be tidy with manicured lawns, have raised vegetable beds with food for sharing, or act as an overflow of things that didn’t quite make it inside. Thank you, capitalism, and the American habit of endless consumption. In Lemon Grove, where I live, it’s not uncommon to see a mechanic running a business from his front yard or a family selling birria on Saturdays from theirs. The front-yard genre is broad.

But in communities across San Diego County, the most exposed part of a house—the strip between public and private life—is being turned into something eminently usable, visible, and hang-outable. At first glance, this may seem decorative, but in creating an intentional space, particularly one that’s visible to neighbors and passersby, it’s also the release of a pressure valve.

Let’s not gloss it over: American life has taken a hard right at high speed; two wheels have lifted off the pavement as we careen toward who-knows-what, and our nervous systems are making a sound best described as zoinks!

People are trying to (re)build connection in an increasingly isolated culture, (re)find beauty in the midst of endless anxiety, and (re)create a system friendly for critters. Many of us are remembering that, Oh yeah—we’re biological creatures.

San Diego as a “Biodiversity Hotspot”

Landscape designer Andrea Doonan, of Andrea Doonan Horticulture + Design, is a certified arborist with more than 20 years of experience collaborating with homeowners and renters. She rejects sterile, white picket fence designs and places a strong emphasis on edible gardens and usable outdoor spaces. When we speak, she mentions the unusually wide range of plant and animal life in the relatively small size of our region, making us a “biodiversity hotspot.” (San Diego is the most biodiverse county in the Lower 48.) Because of this, we have a unique system of endangered species that rely on plants to survive.

“More and more, people are introducing native landscapes to connect to nature and support birds, butterflies, and bees,” Doonan says. “I’m very passionate about getting people to unplug and ground.”

Whether it’s for a love of all creatures, our climate, or water conservation, Doonan describes a broader shift toward habitat-driven spaces that are both aesthetic and ecological. For her clients, this can mean replacing turf with native planting, adding seating areas, or even rethinking the front walk as an active, planted threshold rather than just a green lawn. “There’s this idea that people want to make a difference,” she says. “But they also want a place to entertain, recreate, and ground.”

At the center of this is a simple but increasingly urgent question: How can small design choices ripple outward into community life?

For Doonan’s client Lee Miller, that shift is fully expressed. After remodeling the interior of his Pacific Beach home, Miller focused on the backyard, thinking that would be the place for his soon-to-be-born daughter to eventually play. The front yard of his corner property was the last detail to be completed.

Miller said he wanted “a very full, very natural look versus having everything measured.” He knew what he liked when he saw it, but it was Doonan who translated his ideas and guided the creation of a wildlife-friendly space with full-grown orange, plum, and pluot trees. “We have lots of birds, lots of bees, lots of lizards,” Miller says. “There’s nothing better than walking outside and eating fruit off a tree.”

The front yard has become where Miller’s family spends time—often more than the backyard. He and his daughter, who’s now 5, explore the space together, checking what’s growing, learning about their little ecosystem, and chasing lizards. It’s where his daughter plays, where she’s built her own fairy garden, and where neighborhood parents and kids tend to gather at the end of the day.

Building Community by Being Out There

For her own Normal Heights home, Doonan designed a front yard that includes a seed library, raised beds, native plants, and a sitting area where she and her husband spend time. “I’m meeting my neighbors because I put two chairs and some plants in the front yard,” she says. “I’m sharing produce with them.”

That exchange has become part of the landscape itself, and she points to small systems (like seed libraries) as ways of circulating plant material and knowledge directly between people. In real life. Person to person.

More and more, Doonan says, when we’re talking about solving the big problems, it’s important to remember that everything starts local. Even “guerilla gardening”—small acts of informal planting and care in overlooked sections of land, such as parking strips—makes a difference. Tossing some seeds and adding a bench to the sidewalk strip out front can create a “pocket park” or “a mini-mini park.” In that framing, the front yard stops being an ornamental backdrop and starts becoming an infrastructure for connection.

Landscape architect Bret Belyea frames this front-yard movement (my term, not his) as social repair. “It’s a handshake to your neighbors and passersby,” he says. “It says something about who you are.”

Of course, plant choices matter, but not only for ecological reasons. Native and climate-appropriate plantings become part of how neighborhoods re-establish contact with each other, even without formal planning. What he describes is an aesthetic, but it’s also relational in the way a yard can signal openness rather than withdrawal, invitation rather than separation, and connection rather than, “Get off my lawn, ya damn kids!”

Hanging out in the front yard rather than sequestering in the back is a signal to outsiders that they’re really not outsiders at all. Or, at least, they don’t have to remain so.

The Front Yard as Memory

Not every front yard in this shift toward social spaces has a professional’s influence. Some are created through labor, trial and error, and nostalgia. For Grace Wanjiru, the memory of her childhood in Gitaru, Kenya, led her to beautifully DIY the hell out of the front part of her half-acre Encanto property. When she bought her home nearly two decades ago, it was essentially just a little house plunked down on a giant plot of dirt. She had a blank slate and plenty of memories from which to create something that would imbue the space with peace and hospitality.

The designer-led yards are often framed through an academic understanding of ecology, structure, and intentional planting strategies, and Wanjiru did much of the same thing through instinct. When she’d visit her mother, who lives just outside of Nairobi, she was reminded of the abundant beauty and vibrancy of a childhood spent running free, climbing trees, and being connected to nature. It was important to Wanjiru that her then-young daughters, both now in their early 20s, have that experience.

Wanjiru’s goal was to create the feeling of home, not as replication but as translation. “When you throw a seed in Kenya, something grows,” Wanjiru tells me. “Here, the dirt is horrible for plants. I still wanted green and color. I wanted nature—birds and insects. I grew up with nature, but here: No.”

With an understanding of what would and wouldn’t grow in San Diego, Wanjiru was able to achieve a sense of home with succulents and native plants she purchased at Walmart. She created a large courtyard with a fence built of wood and corrugated metal. Inside, she added a hammock and a bird bath, which Wanjiru settled on after gophers ate through seven different plants; a table with an open cookbook, a bottle of wine, three glasses; a weathered dresser—once in her daughter’s room—that now sits opposite the table and contains Wanjiru’s many seeds. And, of course, strung lights.

The space feels rustic, comforting, personal, emotional, and magical. It feels like love.

Wanjiru likes to host small groups of her friends and family, keeping it intimate but accessible. “This is the kind of house you just call: ‘What are you doing? Are you making your African tea? Can we just come over?’ Because this is what they do [in Kenya],” she tells me. “And so I always want to have that, because I think for foreigners living in America, that’s one of the things we struggle with. We don’t have that kind of community.”

Craving a communal feeling, Wanjiru built it herself. And her kids grew up climbing the jacaranda tree and playing in the garden.

“We still gather out there,” she says. “We read in the hammock, talk, connect.”

Gardens as Points of Connection

Perhaps the most important part of a front yard is a garden, whether it’s a space for entertaining and gathering, retreating and grounding, discovering and playing, resting and people-watching. The science backs up what gardeners have long known: Spending time around plants can be profoundly restorative. A 2024 review of dozens of studies found that gardening is consistently associated with better mental health, greater well-being, and improved quality of life, also linking interaction with plants and green spaces to better nervous system regulation.

For Doonan, this is part of why the conversation around gardens is bigger than aesthetics. “Gardens are for everyone,” she says. “I think it’s a right for all of us to have access to gardens.” “All of us” means homeowners and renters, people with sprawling yards and people with apartment balconies, people with large budgets and people growing herbs in containers from the discount rack at Home Depot.

In my conversation with Belyea, I tell him about a little house I passed in Oceanside this past spring. The owners set out free avocado clippings from their tree for anyone to take. “This is people’s way of putting an olive branch out,” he says. “And it just happens to be an avocado branch.” Maybe that’s what this front-yard shift is really about. Maybe it’s about trying to remember how to live alongside one another again. A hammock beneath string lights. Kids chasing lizards through native plants. Someone slowing to ask what’s growing. A neighbor stopping by and staying longer than they planned to. All of it, a pocket of softness in a culture that’s trying its damndest to make us harden.

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