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Comment
Community
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3 min read

Third Space: the gym that offers belonging, but at a cost

The real third spaces are not about cost and exclusivity.

Jessica is a Formation Tutor at St Mellitus College, and completing a PhD in Pauline anthropology, 

An exercise class underway in a smart gym.
Third Place.

In the past 25 years, London has been overrun by a new luxury health club chain called Third Space. There are now thirteen sites across the city - and one just opened down the road from where I live. You can probably guess what happened next. 

I was in the market for a new gym, so I enquired. And I must admit, it was stunning. There’s a beautiful reformer Pilates studio, a state-of-the-art gym floor, spin classes, even a spa. All of which made sense of the monthly fee. But there is also a two-month waiting list to join. 

Living in London, where waiting more than five minutes for a tube feels outrageous, this was baffling. When I asked about it, I was told the list was to prevent overcrowding, as spots were “limited.” But when I visited, the gym was nearly empty. 

This wasn’t about capacity—it was about exclusivity; a classic case of the scarcity principle: the idea that things become more desirable when they’re harder to access. It’s a tactic brands like Crocs and Stanley have famously used—make something hard to get and everyone wants it. 

In its recent report, The Quiet Revival, the Bible Society noted how society has recently lost community “third places” such as pubs, libraries, and local clubs. Home is the first space; places of work are the second space.  The loss of traditional third places—those informal, accessible gathering spots—has left a vacuum; we are becoming increasingly fragmented. Changes in work patterns and costly financial barriers to recreation mean fewer people feel rooted in their communities.   

As humans, we are wired for connection. Research confirms what we intuitively know: deep community strengthens mental health, reduces loneliness, and brings a sense of purpose. With traditional third places in stark decline, many will now look to curated, branded “third spaces” like exclusive gyms, co-working lounges, or members-only clubs. These new spaces offer belonging—but at a cost. They are often expensive, exclusive, and subtly suggest that you need to be someone to gain entry. There is a bitter irony in Third Space’s success, built as it is on the exact opposite principles of what its namesake was all about.  

The Church, by contrast, is radically different. It is not about earning access but receiving grace. There’s no waitlist to get in. No premium fee. No scarcity model. In fact, the more disqualified you feel, the more welcome you are. Grace doesn’t limit access—it throws the doors wide open. 

While I have kept my Third Space membership (it really is incredible), I have tried to step more into community life in other ways. I take part in my weekly Parkrun and recently joined my local library. These things have been a gift to me in allowing me to connect with people in my local area in ways that everyone can access.  

And I am a big fan of Church, too. Where Third Space focuses on my endeavour to be better, fitter, or stronger, it – and the Parkrun, and the library – encourage community, connection, and mutual care for other people. They are a reminder that grace isn’t scarce, community isn’t earned, and you don’t need a membership card to be welcomed. The doors are wide open—everyone is invited.  

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Article
Culture
Film & TV
Romance
5 min read

The summer we turned romantic

Belly, the other Taylor, and the defiant desire to get married

Belle is the staff writer at Seen & Unseen and co-host of its Re-enchanting podcast.

The cast of The Summer I Turned Pretty pose on a wedding set.
Netflix.

A new communal rhythm has been unearthed over the hazy summer months, a fresh ritual has made its home among us. Every Wednesday, twenty-five million people are tuning into Amazon Prime’s The Summer I Turned Pretty. This show, an adaptation of Jenny Han’s novel of the same name, tells the story of ‘Belly’ – a young-ish girl who spends her summers staying with family friends at their beach house in the fictional yet notably Hamptons-esque town of Cousins Beach.   

It has all the ingredients of a wistful watch:  

A summer that we can vicariously bask in – tick.  

An absurdly chic beach house – tick. 

Two love interests who happen to be brothers and also happen to be tremendously easy on the eye – tick and tick.  

It’s time for me to lay my cards on the table, if it wasn’t already obvious, I am one of those 25 million people tuning in.  

Every darn Wednesday.  

I find the pull that this (OK, I’m going to say it… don’t hate me…) undeniably silly show has on us fascinating. I’m acutely aware that it’s been crafted to hit all the right notes, it is a masterclass in escapism. The show’s writers’ room probably had a tick-list of binge-ability traits plastered on the wall, the writers adhering to each one thoroughly. But there’s also something about our insatiable appetite for romance that shouldn’t be dismissed with an eyeroll. We are romantically-inclined beings, to a notable degree. And, what’s more, we feast on the presumption that romantic love is something that happens to us - some kind of cosmic inevitability, sitting just beyond our control, making fools of our will.  

In his essay, ‘Love and Need’, Thomas Merton wrote ‘the expression ‘to fall in love’ reflects a peculiar attitude toward love and life itself – a mixture of fear, awe, fascination and confusion. It implies suspicion, doubt, hesitation in the presence of something unavoidable yet not fully reliable’. While C.S. Lewis similarly speaks of its ‘strength, sweetness, terror and high port.’   

Thus, our obsession with romantic love takes a hammer to one of our most ingrained lies: that we want, above all else, to be in control. To be the most powerful force in any room. Immovable. Unshakable. It’s hard to keep up the façade that we want to be steady on our feet when we’re endlessly nurturing the idea of being swept off them.  

I could, as I have done before, suggest that this is an inherently spiritual matter. It’s a symptom of not believing in God, but craving him nonetheless.  

But, alas, my attention has wandered elsewhere.  

The Summer I Turned Pretty is currently running through its third series – so, we’re familiar with the love-triangle at this point, the internet has already decided which brother they’re routing for, we’re chomping down our third helping of Belly’s story. And so, what is the extra ingredient added to this third and final series? What’s keeping us on our toes? What’s ensuring that the stakes stay high enough to captivate 25 million of us? Well, interestingly, it’s the prospect of marriage. 

Belly getting engaged to one of the brothers truly upped the ante. At the tender age of 21, the show’s supporting characters are less than elated at Belly’s engagement, with whole episodes dedicated to her mother’s desperate - can’t you just live together?! – pleas. Marriage is too huge. Too weighty. Too significant. Nevertheless, Belly and her fiancé defiantly plan a wedding, determined to dedicate themselves to each other in the most consequential way they know how.  

And that interests me. the role that marriage still plays in our collective imagination interests me.  

This is a way we still imbue our love (even the fictional kind) with the utmost meaning. 

All of the data suggests that we are falling rapidly out of love with the very concept of marriage. In 2022, the UK’s Office for National Statistics told us that – for the first time ever – less than 50 per cent of people in the UK (above the age of 16) were married. And, of course, the minority who are married famously have a fifty-fifty percent chance of staying that way. You could make a robust argument that our society is pretty disenchanted with the whole institution.  

And yet, we seem to keep suspending that disenchantment. The Summer I Turned Pretty’s popularity is exhibit A. Exhibit B is Taylor Swift’s obscenely newsworthy engagement announcement. This August, she posted a collection of photos of her and her new fiancé, Travis Kelce, quaintly captioned ‘your English teacher and your gym teacher are getting married’. Her words alluding to her songwriting and Kelce’s football career. Journalist, Helen Lewis, notes the ‘defiant conventionality’ of it all. A defiant conventionality that is also woven into Belly’s rebellion – her audacity to rebel against her parents’ wishes and… get married.  

It's all just left me wondering, as old-fashioned as it sounds – is there anything more romantic than marriage? Is it ever fully dis-enchant-able? I guess I’m just struck by how it’s still something we do, you know? We are meaning-making creatures, and this is a way we still imbue our love (even the fictional kind) with the utmost meaning.  

We bind ourselves to someone else; perhaps defying our survival instincts in the process (it’s certainly the case that unmarried women live longer). It’s costly, it’s hard, it has a certain prodigality about it. Henna Cundill thoughtfully studies marriage as a ‘much slower kind of martyrdom, a decision made not once but daily, in a society where such decisions are frequently undone’. We lay our lives down for something that is bigger than us. It’s a weird human idea, if you think about it. So odd, in fact, that I’m confident in my inkling that it isn’t a human idea at all. It’s dripping with sacrality.  

This really has been the summer we turned romantic. Well, 25 million of us, at least.

Support Seen & Unseen

Since Spring 2023, our readers have enjoyed over 1,500 articles. All for free. 
This is made possible through the generosity of our amazing community of supporters.

If you enjoy Seen & Unseen, would you consider making a gift towards our work?
 
Do so by joining Behind The Seen. Alongside other benefits, you’ll receive an extra fortnightly email from me sharing my reading and reflections on the ideas that are shaping our times.

Graham Tomlin
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