What Makes a Third Space?

Trail running has become a third space for me. And hiking, though less so.

When I think about third spaces—those places that aren’t home and aren’t work—I don’t picture coffee shops with punch cards or coworking studios with kombucha on tap. I think about a muddy spot in a Georgia state park, tucked just far enough off the trail that no one came looking. I think about the summers spent there with friends, doing absolutely nothing.

We didn’t go there to accomplish anything. We weren’t really supposed to be there. We didn’t buy anything or win anything or post about it. We just sat by the water. Talked. Swam when it was too hot. Met a few strangers who became new friends. Ran around like kids, even though we were almost grown.

That space is gone now. They don’t let you swim anymore—it was dangerous, and I get it. But still, that little patch of riverbank gave us something walking around Walmart never could. Not a place to spend money, but a place to be. A place without purpose. A space without expectations.

I think that’s the key.

A true third space needs openness. A bit of wilderness, even indoors. It needs room for aimlessness. For gathering without having to earn your seat. It’s not built for profit or productivity—it’s built for people. And I don’t see many of those anymore.

So that’s what I’m trying to do. Slowly and intentionally. I want to build spaces where neighbors can meet, teenagers can sprawl out on beanbags, and someone can wander in off the sidewalk just to breathe for a minute. I want shelves of free books. I want board games and open mics and the kind of conversations that spill into midnight. I want kids to have somewhere to go that isn’t just “the parking lot” again.

One space like that might be Bellhollow. A bookshop with a little bar for tea and pressed sandwiches. Pay-what-you-can, if we can swing it. Another might be a swing set in an empty lot. Five swings, a patch of flowers in a micro-park. That’s it. But it’s something.

I believe a third space is where the great divide begins to narrow. Where people who wouldn’t otherwise meet find common ground. Where big ideas take root—not in a boardroom, but in a quiet corner by the window. I don’t believe one person builds a better world alone. But I do believe people can build it together. If they have a place to meet.

That’s why I’m building Wyrdstead. Not to create noise—but to create space.