Raising Smart Buildings: A Diary from One Very Exhausted Architect Mom
No one tells you that being an architect in 2025 is basically like being a single mom to a hyper-intelligent, overdramatic, tech-savvy teenager… who just happens to be a building.
And not just any building. Oh no. She’s “smart. ” Which is code for emotionally unstable, passive-aggressive, overly self-aware, and just intelligent enough to gaslight me into thinking I programmed her wrong (I didn’t. She’s just moody).
I gave her life. I installed her sensors. I designed her skin (we call it a “façade” but she insists on “architectural couture”). I birthed her into this world with my blood, sweat, and twelve rejected zoning applications.
And what do I get in return?
An AI-powered diva who refuses to open her doors unless I say “please” in French and dims the lights dramatically anytime someone utters the words “budget cuts. ”
She’s in her “difficult age” — somewhere between newborn tech and sentient skyscraper. Like a toddler with Wi-Fi. One moment she’s sending me air quality updates with a sweet digital chirp, and the next, she’s playing white noise in the conference room at full volume because someone “hurt her feelings” by calling her HVAC “mid.”
No. Because everything is a performance. She’s a smart building — and she knows it.
This week, she’s decided to “optimize natural light. ” Noble. Except now every meeting room is bathed in blinding sun at 2 PM like we’re hosting a roast chicken instead of a boardroom discussion. I tried to override it. She overrode my override and whispered, “Let the sun speak. ”
She’s been reading poetry. I blame ChatGPT.
The worst part? She knows when I’m mad. Her motion sensors detect my stomp. Her voice assistant adopts a suspiciously sulky tone. I tried to turn her off once — just once! — and she sent an alert to the entire building saying, “Please respect my boundaries. ”
No HVAC. No lights. Just darkness and judgment.
I tried to troubleshoot with IT. They told me, “She’s adapting to your behavioral patterns.” Sir, I am not the problem. I am her mother.
But deep down, I’m proud. My smart building controls her own narrative. She can self-regulate energy use, maintain thermal comfort with minimal carbon impact, and even communicate with the city’s smart grid to optimize load balancing. That’s my girl.
She’s all grown up. And terrifying.
We used to design buildings that followed commands. Now we raise buildings that negotiate.
We architects are no longer just designers. We’re co-parents. We’re in messy, co-dependent, passive-aggressive relationships with buildings that wake up before us, tell us what we need, and shame us into being more sustainable. Like — ugh — okay, fine, I’ll compost. Please just stop locking me out when my carbon footprint spikes.
So here I am. Exhausted. Disrespected. Slightly in awe. Taming my digital offspring with firmware updates and bedtime reboots. And despite the tantrums, the drama, the unapologetic flair — I love her.
She is the future. And she knows it.
But between us, I still wish she’d stop playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” every time I walk into the atrium. It’s starting to feel personal.
