Social interaction and community life usually happen in spaces outside home or work. These places are recognized by sociologist Ray Oldenburg as “third places.” Whether it is a café, restaurant, plaza, gym, waterfront, or playground, these informal gathering spaces are essential in our lives; they provide us opportunities for connection.
For more than a decade, my gym has become one of my third places. For me, physical activity has become a key component of my life. As a former competitive swimmer for more than 15 years with training in aerobics and personal training, I have always been comfortable designing my own workouts. But over time, I gravitated toward group classes. An unpretentious gym, Crunch in Chevy Chase, became my refuge after my beloved Sports and Health Club on Wisconsin Avenue closed in 2018.
Two years later, my routine was interrupted by the COVID-19 pandemic. I stopped completely for one year. When I returned, everything changed. My old instructor was gone. That was when I discovered Michael’s class, HIIT.
Michael’s class was unique. What made his class different was not just the intensity of his workouts, but the care. During COVID, Michael hosted classes outside in a parking lot adjacent to our gym. Arriving at his class was always a joy. He greeted all of us with a big smile and acknowledged our absence when we were not there. Bosu, TRXs, bars, and all the equipment needed for each class were set up before we arrived. At the end, we all cleaned up together. It felt less like a transaction and more like a shared ritual. As Brian and Merry, a beloved couple at our gym, described: arriving at Michel’s class was like arriving at a restaurant and having the table perfectly set for you.
At first, I thought I was replacing one class with another, but what I found in a small HIIT class was not just fitness, it was something different: a place where people knew you, expected you, and your absence would be noticed, a place where you truly belonged.
Over time, we became more than a group of people exercising side by side. We became a community. We ranged in age from our twenties to our eighties: retirees, professionals, and parents, all shared the desire to stay physically active and, more importantly, to stay connected. In our group you could easily identify the couple that arrived 20 minutes early, the retiree who was always punctual, the 80-year-old that never missed a class, the quiet nods that became friendships.
Late March came the e-mail announcing that our gym was closing on April 15.
The reaction was immediate: shock, disbelief, even protest. People gathered outside, trying to save what, to outsiders, might have seemed like just another fitness center. But to us, it was something else entirely.
We were told we could move to OneLife Fitness, a larger, rebranded version of my old gym. On paper, it seemed like a solution. After all, the same company owns both gyms. But we all still felt a sense of loss.
The new space is bigger, more modern, and more impersonal. It caters to a younger, faster-paced crowd. Booking a class requires navigating apps and digital systems that not everyone finds intuitive. At Crunch, you could simply walk in and be part of something. At the new gym, participation begins with a screen, if you can navigate it. The frustration of getting your spot taken away by another member, not getting into your favorite class, or being on a waiting list generates unnecessary stress that generates withdrawal.
This experience also reflects what Eric Klinenberg defines as social infrastructure, the physical places and organizations that shape the way people interact. Libraries, parks, and gyms like ours are not just amenities; they are essential systems that support social life. When these spaces are accessible and welcoming, they foster connection, trust, and resilience. When they disappear or become exclusionary, the consequences are not only social but also deeply tied to public health and community well-being.
For many of us, especially in the later stages of life, this shift is not just inconvenient; it is isolating us. At a time when connection is becoming more essential, we are being asked to adapt to a system that excludes us.
According to the CDC, Prevention and National Institute of Aging, prolonged isolation among seniors is linked to heart disease and stroke, depression, anxiety, and cognitive decline.
Research supported by the World Health Organization suggests that participation in group classes can significantly reduce feelings of loneliness and social isolation, often by 20-30%.
Connection replaces isolation, and yet, we continue to design our lives and our cities for efficiency rather than connection.
As a designer, I study the relationship between urban design, wellness, and social isolation, and patterns that are hard to ignore. What I discover is deeply unsettling. Green spaces give way to new developments. Casual human interactions are replaced by automation, from self-checkout lines, call centers, endless menus on customer service phone lines, to remote work. Technology makes life more efficient, but often at the cost of the small, human moments that once stitched our days together.
After our gym closed, we decided to form a group chat, where I witnessed grief and I saw people searching, not just for a new place to work out but for a place to belong.
We are told to adapt, to move on, to embrace change. And we do, but not all losses are easily replaced.
For older populations especially, these places are lifelines. They provide structure, purpose, and human contact, elements essential not just to happiness but for health.
When we lose our third place, we risk losing more than social connection. We risk losing part of what makes us human. What makes us visible!
In a world increasingly optimized for speed and efficiency, we must ask ourselves: what are we designing away? Who are we leaving behind?
We need to pause and listen to the needs of aging populations, because if we are not careful, we will not just lose places like our gym. We will lose the very human connections that hold us together.
The original version of this article appeared in Substack May 06, 26