Why Third Spaces Matter (And Why We Built House of Joy)

Before opening House of Joy, I don’t think I had ever heard the term third space.

Or at least, if I had, I’d forgotten it.

Now I think about it almost every day.

For those unfamiliar, a third space is a place outside of home (your first space) and work (your second). Somewhere you exist without obligation. Somewhere communal. Somewhere you can just be.

Traditionally, these spaces were pubs, cafés, libraries, youth centres, churches, barber shops, community halls or local clubs. Places where relationships formed naturally and repeatedly. Places where you might unexpectedly bump into somebody, have a conversation, feel known.

Places where community happened accidentally.

Increasingly, though, it feels like those spaces are disappearing.

Or becoming transactional.

Or expensive.

Or designed around getting you in and out as quickly as possible.

And I think that loss is felt more deeply than we sometimes realise.

I don’t think we’re lonely simply because we spend more time online. I think we’re lonely because we increasingly lack places to physically exist alongside other people without needing a reason.

Sometimes I look around House of Joy and realise very few adults now have spaces where they can simply sit, talk and exist.

That feels strange to me.

Sad, even.

We often talk about loneliness like it’s this deeply personal failing. Like people just need to “put themselves out there more.” But where exactly are people supposed to go?

Especially if you don’t drink.

Especially if you don’t feel comfortable in loud environments.

Especially if you’re a parent.

Especially if money is tight.

Especially if you just want somewhere that feels calm.

I think many of us are quietly craving spaces where we can exist without pressure.

And I think that craving is part of what brought House of Joy into existence.

When people ask what House of Joy is, I still struggle to answer.

It’s a bookshop, obviously.

But it was never just meant to be a bookshop.

If I’m honest, I don’t think opening a traditional retail space would have interested me all that much.

I didn’t dream of opening somewhere where people came in, picked something up, tapped their card and left.

What interested me was creating somewhere people lingered.

A place where conversations happened.

A place where people accidentally met.

A place where children sat reading on the floor.

Where parents felt comfortable.

Where someone could come in for ten minutes and stay for an hour because they got talking to somebody.

Where someone might arrive feeling lonely and leave feeling a tiny bit lighter.

That was always the dream.

And sometimes, if I’m being honest, I worry whether that dream is commercially sensible.

Because third spaces are awkward things to sustain.

People can’t necessarily afford to spend lots of money every time they visit. Nor should they have to. Yet rent still exists. Bills still exist. Payroll still exists. Coffee machines mysteriously decide to stop working at the worst possible moments.

Creating spaces centred around community in a world built around efficiency feels, at times, slightly irrational.

But then moments happen that remind me exactly why it matters.

The Little Readers Club is probably the best example.

Watching children excitedly gather for stories, seeing parents chat after sessions, noticing familiar faces become regular faces — those moments feel meaningful in ways I struggle to fully articulate.

Or the moments where somebody comes in saying:

“I’ve just moved here.”

Or:

“I’ve been meaning to pop in for ages.”

Or:

“I didn’t know somewhere like this existed.”

There’s something quietly beautiful about people finding spaces they didn’t realise they needed.

One thing I’ve noticed since opening House of Joy is how hungry people are for connection.

Not in some grand, dramatic way.

Just ordinary connection.

Someone remembering their name.

Someone recommending them a book.

A quick chat while their coffee cools.

A familiar face behind the till.

Children waving as they walk past the window.

Tiny moments.

But tiny moments repeated become belonging.

And belonging matters.

Particularly to me.

Because growing up, I think I often felt slightly between worlds.

Too Black in some spaces. Not Black enough in others. Creative but practical. Ambitious but uncertain. Loud in some settings, quiet in others.

And perhaps because of that, I’ve always been drawn to spaces where difference feels welcomed rather than tolerated.

House of Joy was always meant to feel open.

Not performatively inclusive.

Not diversity as branding.

But genuinely open.

A place where queer families feel comfortable. Black families feel represented. Disabled people see themselves reflected. Parents feel welcome. Introverts don’t feel awkward. Young creatives feel inspired. Older people feel invited in.

A place where nobody feels like they’ve accidentally walked into the wrong room.

Representation matters for this reason too.

Because books are often how we understand ourselves and others.

And when someone sees themselves reflected positively in a story — whether through race, disability, queerness, culture or simply experience — something quietly important happens.

You feel visible.

You feel less alone.

I’ve watched this happen in real time at House of Joy.

A child recognising themselves in a story.

An adult relieved to find books they hadn’t seen elsewhere.

Someone discovering a particular Black British author for the first time.

Those moments feel small from the outside.

But they aren’t.

At least not to me.

Of course, I’m not naïve.

I know a small independent bookshop in Colchester is not going to solve loneliness.

We’re not going to magically fix fractured communities or suddenly rebuild every disappearing third space.

But maybe we can be one small part of something.

One room.

One coffee.

One conversation.

One story at a time.

And perhaps that’s enough.

Or at least, a start.

There are days at House of Joy where things feel stressful. Quiet days. Financially worrying days. Days where I wonder if this was all wildly optimistic.

Then there are other days.

Days where children sit cross-legged listening to stories.

Days where strangers talk to one another.

Days where somebody says:

“This place feels lovely.”

Or simply:

“I’m glad this exists.”

And on those days, I remember that House of Joy was never only about selling books.

It was about making space.

And maybe that’s what third spaces really are.

Permission to slow down.

Permission to connect.

Permission to belong.

And in a world increasingly built around speed, productivity and algorithms, I think places that allow us to simply be with one another matter more than ever.