Not another coworking space
This photo has nothing to do with this note. I just love finding mushrooms in the woods.
I love remote work. I really do. It offers a kind of quiet freedom, especially for families, for caregivers, for those of us trying to build a life that doesn’t revolve around fluorescent lights and 40-minute commutes. But for all its gifts, remote work can also sharpen loneliness. It can flatten collaboration into calendar invites and leave us longing for the small, accidental magic of being together.
Coworking was supposed to help. And for some, it does. But it often feels like a solution built for a different kind of worker. A different kind of life. Many spaces are expensive, overdesigned, and not built with caregiving in mind. If you’re a parent, especially one with younger children, you already know this: most coworking spaces are not for you.
I keep imagining a different kind of space. A warehouse or an old building full of light and texture, reimagined with three zones: a classic coworking area for solo focus; a parent-friendly wing for those with school-age kids, complete with connected playgrounds or quiet game rooms; and a cozy corner designed for new parents, with individual desks linked to soft playpens or bassinets. Somewhere you could work and care, not one or the other.
Not a daycare. Not a WeWork. Not a coffee shop with bad outlets. Something slower, warmer. Something built on trust and flexibility. Staffed lightly, maybe with rotating volunteers or member exchanges. Add in a garden—a rooftop or backyard plot for members to take breaks, reconnect with soil and sun. Maybe even a walking trail or an adult-sized slide. Because creativity comes not just from quiet, but from play.
In the summer, on snow days, after school—parents need somewhere to go. Kids need room to roam. And we all need community.
Of course, it would need to make money. But I think about this a lot: what if survivability, not limitless growth, was the measure of success? What if 15% profit was enough? Enough to pay fair wages, offer good coffee, keep the lights on, and still give a little back?
Business doesn’t have to mean extraction. It can mean nourishment. A business can survive—and even grow—without slicing off pieces of its soul to feed the bottom line. I have a business degree. I’ve worked in operations. I understand the spreadsheets. But I’m not building this life to chase margins. I’m building to leave something better behind. A place where work and care and creativity aren’t at odds.
Every Wyrdstead idea has something tucked into it that won’t make money. A free book wall. A coffee truck that supports animal adoption. A market that welcomes barter. Not because I don’t understand business. But because I do. And I believe it can be different.
What if workspaces made us feel more human? What if our best ideas grew in places that also made space for naps, for dirt under our nails, for the sound of children laughing down the hall?
Profit doesn’t have to come at the cost of people.
Let’s build something else.
