The paradox of loneliness in modernity is encapsulated in the image of the subway at rush hour: commuters standing shoulder to shoulder in a jampacked, eerily quiet subway car, absorbed by their phones, earbuds in, avoiding eye contact.

Despite being more tethered, today we feel more alone. We have lost touch, literally. Exacerbated by the pandemic, we have kept six feet wide apart, socially distancing ourselves through a culture and politics of othering and canceling that has taught us to judge fast, mistake feeling with thinking, and thinking with assuming. We live on our separate little islands that keep us safe enough from the world—at least, that’s the promise we tell ourselves. So, we choose not to leave them, and the algorithmic echo chambers keep showing us what we want to see, what we already know, and what we already agree with.

The spike in cross-generational mental health issues of the past years is a symptom of a deeper crisis of connection, on both an individual and collective level. So too is the rise in authoritarian and populist regimes globally, whose politics offer a sense of belonging and community based on a nostalgic return to stability and order, weaponize sensitive topics like immigration, and perpetrate a dangerous kind of groupthink. Along with it, we’ve neglected the depth and quality of relationships for the superficiality and quantity of connections. Giving in to the false promise of digital abundance, our realities have blurred with the performative filters of social media, and now, increasingly, the toxically positive nature of AI companions. While digital culture isn’t to be categorically blamed or demonized, the way that we have exposed ourselves to artificial, reductionist, like-and-clickbait content has altered our expectations of what real human intimacy and connection are.

Remote work and endless Zoom meetings have equally contributed to this effect—adding to the culture of busyness. Interestingly, the word ‘business’ originally meant ‘being busy or occupied,’ sharing roots with the concept of anxiety. Our habits of numbing, scrolling, and staying busy often stem from a fear of being alone. Paradoxically, these behaviors have only made us feel lonelier.

In this context, how might we be in each other’s presence again? What could heal our crisis of connection? How might we see, feel, and touch again?

The revival of third places may hold the answer. The term “third places” was coined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg, who emphasized them as levelers by nature—open, accessible spaces where social siloes are broken down. They are places to gather, share time, and be together. Formerly, this would have been a church, a local community center, or perhaps the farmer’s market. However, with increasing secularization, many of these places have found themselves homeless, replaced by spaces of convenience, consumption, and efficiency.

Most recently, a new generation of third places has emerged in response to the rift between us, the longing to be seen and understood in community with others. While some of them follow a closed-community structure with a membership-based business model that deviates from Oldenburg’s original definition, amid inflation, limited space, and competing offerings they in many ways represent a financially sustainable, modern third place.

In New York City, the convergence of empty office space and a new work-from-home culture has led to a new wave of spaces like Verci. Verci nurtures “lifelong learners and soulful creators”, arguably filling the social void many are feeling. With a monthly membership fee starting from $100 USD, people can choose between access to the community via connecting and participating, hosting events, or using it as a workspace with 24/7 access. They also offer a select number of scholarships for aspiring creatives who lack financial resources. As quoted in The New York Times, a survey conducted by GGA Partners (a consulting firm for private clubs), found that over 60 percent of clubs reported an increase in membership for 2022. “The remote work environment fueled by Covid has created these executives who are working from home but still craving that social interaction,” said Zack Bates, founder of Private Club Marketing. Other recently opened clubs, like Groundfloor, follow a similar approach in creating a members-only space focused on social connections.

In a different approach, third places for offline activities are creating newfound buzz. In Amsterdam, The Offline Club was met with almost overnight hype around the world when it first opened. Their offer is simple: a face-to-face refuge from the digital world in the form of local gatherings lasting from a few hours to multiple-day retreats. Ironically, their success has accumulated millions of views on Instagram, with people reading, knitting, chatting, writing, or simply reconnecting with themselves—not a phone in sight. Wowza Club in New York and San Francisco, Unplugged’s digital detox retreats, Reading Rhythms not-a-book-club parties, Timeleft dinners, and listening bars are responses to a similar need.

These modern third places speak to the universal needs of companionship and connection and the novelty of meeting new people, in a setting that aligns with their principles. Technology here is at most the facilitator for real-life interactions, as people crave connection and seek an excuse to meet, talk, and hang out.

Despite their popularity, what worries me about some of these approaches is the capitalization on the underlying issue of loneliness. Meeting a few strangers for dinner once or becoming a member of an exclusive club to socialize is, of course, a great business model—but I wonder whether these companies are truly interested in helping to heal the deeper fragmentation of people. Just like the co-living spaces that have become real estate models that benefit from the housing crisis in big cities worldwide, this approach risks further commodifying community.

Moreover, these offerings neglect that the antidote to loneliness (if there is one) isn’t not being alone. Being social doesn’t protect us from loneliness—it often makes it worse when we return home, when the world falls silent for a moment.

The kind of third places we need more of are the ones created with intentionality, care, and compassion; those that emerge from the community itself, rather than those developed and offered as a product or service to consume.

Food, arguably, remains one of the universal bridge-builders, which explains the success of places like The Long Table, a pay-what-you-can restaurant in Stroud, UK. There every meal offers an opportunity for a meaningful connection with the community. Embodying the original spirit of a third place, it exemplifies how a truly community-driven business model can work within a capitalist system. In Paris, Hyper Voisins, a simple, neighbor-led initiative, gathers community members together over food and conversation, reclaiming citizen engagement on a hyper-local level.

Cities, too, have an opportunity to proactively reimagine third places as a contribution to the overall social wellbeing and health of their residents, as well as attracting visitors and tourism and sustaining climate-resilient built environments. The nonprofit Better Block plans public space transformations in cities and towns worldwide. Its executive director, Krista Nightengale says: “Valuing the community’s input and not only listening but watching what they do and how they respond to a space is a huge thing.” After transforming the parking lot outside Better Block’s office into a small basketball court, she further shares: “Our parking lot has now become a third place for many of those students where they’ll bring their basketballs, they’ll play after school, or they’ll just simply sit in the patio furniture that we’ve put out there and hang out.”

Finally, there are still the third places that have always existed and will hopefully never cease to exist. They are the cafés where laptop work isn’t allowed, where people end up talking to each other or simply enjoying each other’s company in silence. They are the bookstores where the owner handpicks their favorite reads and curates the shelves with meticulous chaos. They are the bars and restaurants that haven’t been shared on TikTok and yet still manage to hold a delicate balance between regulars and first-timers. They are the hair and beauty salons where people of all ages and backgrounds are welcome to get a little treatment for their body and soul. They are the public parks that invite children (and adults) to play, lose their sense of time, and, in rare moments, sink into a sense of shared humanity.