Nature Already Got It Right: Why the Best Materials Aren’t Man-Made

This morning, toothbrush in hand, I found myself staring at a plastic tube of toothpaste and thinking about asbestos.

Bear with me.

There’s a curious irony in the materials we trust. Wool, timber, stone — nature’s offerings — are time-tested, healthy, and often beautiful. Meanwhile, many of the materials causing us harm — plastics leaching microtoxins, asbestos silently lurking in ceilings — are human inventions. Somewhere along the line, we became convinced we could improve on four billion years of evolution. And more often than not, we’ve failed.

The Wisdom of Natural Materials

Nature doesn’t cut corners. It optimises through iteration. A tree doesn’t rush its form. It responds to light, wind, water — and in doing so, develops strength, flexibility, and beauty. Timber is the result of this quiet, generational intelligence. It stores carbon, regulates humidity, ages gracefully, and returns to the earth when its time is done.

Stone, likewise, forms over millennia. It is inert, non-toxic, and deeply connected to place. In New Zealand, volcanic basalt, limestone, and schist all tell geological stories — and unlike many synthetic alternatives, they ask little of us in return.

And wool. Ah, wool. Nature’s thermal regulator. Fire resistant, biodegradable, moisture-wicking. While we spend billions developing lab-based insulations and flame retardants, sheep wear theirs year-round without complaint.

These materials work because they belong. They are part of a cycle — regenerative, not extractive. When used with care and respect, they don’t pollute. They don’t degrade our health. They simply are.

The Trouble with Inventing Our Own

In contrast, much of what we create as humans starts with disconnection. Petrochemicals, high-temperature manufacturing, complex supply chains — these are the hallmarks of industrial materials. Often, the focus is on cost, convenience, or a narrow kind of durability (resistance to rot, weather, pests), but rarely on harmony.

Take plastic: cheap, flexible, and now found in every corner of the Earth — from deep-sea trenches to human placentas. Its durability is its curse. It doesn’t break down, and when it does, it breaks into something worse.

Or asbestos — once hailed as a miracle material: fireproof, insulating, lightweight. Its legacy? Lung cancer, mesothelioma, and billions spent on remediation.

Even something as ubiquitous as vinyl flooring, standard in New Zealand schools and hospitals, is often made from PVC — a plastic that releases dioxins during manufacture and can off-gas for years. Yet we persist because it’s “practical.”

Practical, but not wise.

Between the Extremes: Is There a Middle Ground

Not all innovation is bad. Humans have made incredible advances — especially when working in tandem with nature. Some bio-based composites, mushroom mycelium insulation, or natural rubber products show promise. Even engineered timber, like cross-laminated timber (CLT), amplifies the strength of wood while keeping its carbon story intact.

The key isn’t to reject technology, but to reframe it. Instead of asking, “What can we make?” perhaps we should be asking, “What would nature make, if it had our tools?”

That subtle shift in mindset changes everything.

A Philosophy of Harm Reduction — and Beauty

When we specify materials at Daedal, we’re not just thinking in terms of budget and performance. We’re thinking in terms of soul. How does this material feel under bare feet? How does it smell when the sun hits it? Will it still be beautiful in 20 years? Will it help or hinder the health of those who inhabit the space?

A biophilic approach demands more than just a green roof or a potted plant. It asks us to listen — really listen — to the land, to the climate, to the materials themselves. And more often than not, it leads us right back to what nature already offers.

That doesn’t mean rejecting progress, but it does mean treading carefully. Working with materials that are part of a larger story — not just of buildings, but of ecosystems, cultures, and time.

What We Choose to Build With, Builds Us

Ultimately, every material tells a story. Some tell stories of destruction, of distant factories and pollution. Others tell stories of place, care, and continuity.

It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being intentional.

The buildings we create — and what we build them from — should not be monuments to short-term gain. They should be spaces that age with dignity, that breathe with us, and that leave the land no worse than they found it.

Nature already figured this out.

Our job now is to listen.