I first came across the idea of a Third Place at university.

Back then, I didn’t have the words for why it moved me. But it stayed. Tucked somewhere between theory and instinct, between something I recognised and something I longed for.

I’ve been talking about it ever since, sometimes quietly, sometimes insistently. Friends smiled politely. Some were curious. Others weren’t quite sure what I was on about. (My husband may well have had enough of hearing about it!)

But over time - especially since 2020 - something’s shifted. People I spoke to years ago have started circling back. Remembering old conversations. Asking me to say more.

It’s like a seed that lay dormant for years. Waiting for the right conditions. Now, slowly, it’s pushing through the surface - not because it’s new, but because more of us are ready to see it.

It’s only recently, while exploring what this concept might mean today - through the work I do, the spaces I hold, and the invitations I’ve been shaping - that I’ve gone back to the source. To see what’s been said since 1989, when sociologist Ray Oldenburg first gave language to something many of us had felt.

And it turns out… it’s not all warm nostalgia.

The messy legacy of a good idea

In some corners, particularly in urban planning and American policy discourse, “third place” has become a loaded term. Co-opted, misunderstood, and at times politicised. It’s been lumped in with progressive planning ideals, used as a regulatory checkbox in housing developments, and equated with the mere existence of cafés and co-working spaces - as though a decent flat white was the answer to societal isolation.

I get it. When an idea gets popularised without being understood, it loses its weight. It becomes branding.

But the original idea still holds something important.

Not because we should recreate what once was, but because we can feel (deep down) that something vital has been eroded. And we’re craving a way back.

A seed, not a script

Oldenburg planted a seed. A way of describing the informal spaces where people gather, not out of duty or transaction, but out of desire. Where conversation flows, social roles soften, and people are simply with each other. He called these places vital to democracy, community, and wellbeing. And he wasn’t wrong.

But times have changed. And while the seed was sound, what’s grown around it hasn’t always honoured the roots.

Because a third place isn’t a venue. It isn’t something you can build into a blueprint or legislate into existence. And it doesn’t belong to one political worldview or another.

It’s not left or right to want to feel connected. It’s human.

Call it soft if you like. Your nervous system knows better.

Let’s address it head-on.

The kind of connection we’re talking about often gets dismissed as indulgent. As something vague or overly emotional. The kind of thing you might file under “nice to have,” if only there were time.

But this isn’t vague emotionality. It’s biology.

We are wired for co-regulation. For rhythm. For attuned presence and shared breath. When we gather in spaces that feel psychologically safe - not performative or pressured, but real - our nervous systems shift. Heart rates synchronise. Cortisol levels drop. Our ability to think clearly, listen deeply, and engage meaningfully improves.

You don’t need to be a scientist to feel it. But it helps to know the science backs it up.

This isn’t just a nice-to-have. It’s how we’re built. And the longer we ignore that, the more frayed we become.

So what are we calling for?

Not a throwback. Not a template. But something truer.

Many of us are quietly reaching for spaces where we can breathe. Gather. Be with others without performance. Reflect. Remember what actually matters.

Sometimes that looks like a walk through the woods. Sometimes it’s a circle of chairs. Sometimes it’s a long pause over coffee with someone who just gets it.

And yes, it needs to be intentionally small. Intentionally spacious. Because that’s where depth begins.

This isn’t a model for mass production. It’s a posture. A presence. A quiet reclaiming of the relational spaces that help us thrive.

Not just a brand. A remembering.

In a world where even slowness can be sold back to us as aesthetic, and connection turned into content, it’s easy to become cynical.

But this isn’t performance. And it’s not about polish.

We’re not inventing something new. We’re remembering something ancient. A way of gathering that asks less of us, but gives more. A way of being together that’s less polished, more true.

Oldenburg gave it a name. But the need? The ache? That was always there.

And still is.

Some are already calling this feeling The Rooted Way. And for those who sense something stirring beneath all this — there’s more to come.