July 2025: Third spaces - finding refuge & moments of joy

I often think about the importance of so-called “third spaces”--i.e. social spaces we congregate in that are neither work nor home.

Lately I’ve been paying close attention to how thriving third spaces are cultivated, given that we are in the thick of building one of our own right now.

As a very anxious being, I have spent so many sleepless nights ruminating over whether the space I’ve spent over 10 years shaping does more harm than good. I know that might sound exaggerated, but welcome to my brain. I know that from the outside looking in, the bakery is a beautiful, bustling place, but I see every single one of its sharp edges and splintered fibers. The ones that leave people mad or sad, or despondent and looking for a career change. 

But sometimes I catch glimpses of something really special that makes me want to keep toiling. One of those times was November 6th 2024. 

On the day after Donald Trump was elected for a second term, it was easy to wake up and feel a sense that the world was collapsing around us. Like we don’t know who is safe and who is not, who has our back and who doesn’t. But walking through the bakery doors at 7am, I knew I could breathe a bit. Though no space is perfect, I know the bakery is a kind space. It is an overall welcoming space. It is a space full of people doing their very best to make the corners of their world a little better and brighter.

The sound of the coffee grinder filled the air, and the aroma of the freshly ground beans hit my nostrils as it always does. “Whassap homies?!” One of my coworkers asked us, as he always does, his voice a little more mellow than usual. I responded with a wave and gave him a warm glance.

Before walking in, I texted my mom as I sat in the parking lot behind the bakery, knowing she would be stewing in grief and anger by herself that morning. I am grateful to have you. I know things are so hard. Try to focus on the things you have control over. I hit send, hoping to bring a small comfort to my deeply-feeling mother. I was grateful to have a place to go that day. I couldn’t bear the thought of being at home, eyes glued to a screen, as hers surely would be. 

I pulled off my jacket and hung it on my faux-leather office chair, then walked towards the wooden baking table where two of my colleagues were dividing baguette dough. “Guys, how is everyone holding up?” 

For the first time in a very long time, I knew for sure that it was better to acknowledge the collective anxiety out loud than to act as though it wasn’t there. I am never sure how to navigate the macro-level traumas that are going on around us all the time.

In our yeast-scented bubble, we can at least be distracted by how busy we are. We can fixate on the next task or write a new to-do list. We can pretend to exist only in this little place, until we can’t.

“I feel like I’m gonna puke,” one of my colleagues told me, her face dead serious.

“I’ve had a shit couple of days, even before this stupid election,” another colleague admitted, her eyes somber. I pulled her aside a few minutes later because I could see in her body language that she was folding under the weight of something. She told me she can’t bear this world anymore. I gave her a hug, a rare gesture from me. She put her spatula down and we spoke for a few minutes about the weight of it all. She was filled with so much grief. I struggled to say much more than “I’m so sorry.” 

I walked up to my colleague who was serving customers on his own, and I was struck by how many people seemed to be taking solace in his presence. I witnessed a chorus of complaints and gripes about the election results, one after the other, and I saw how my colleague held people’s grief. 

“I can’t understand how people have so little compassion for each other,” one man said. He is a regular, though he rarely pays for his food or drinks. He relies mostly on our Pay-it-Forward initiative. He often takes solace in the presence of our kind baristas, but that morning he leaned on them a little more than usual. He needed support and solidarity, like the rest of us. I was struck by how raw his emotions were and how comfortable he felt sharing them. I was struck by how my colleague leaned against the counter and gave this person his full attention and words of support. Line-up be damned. I jumped in to help so my colleague could keep holding space.

I was struck by how person after person knew that this was a space where collective grief could breathe that day. I felt a sense of pride take hold of me, and I didn’t realize how badly I needed the space too. Through all the difficult lessons, I have been trying to plant seeds here for years, and cultivate something generous. That day I saw some of the fruits of those labours, and the chorus of self-doubt faded into the background. I realized that this place has grown into something much bigger than me–I don’t think any single personal failure or mistake can take it out at the knees anymore. It’s a resilient space held together by all the caring people that take care of it. That day, I felt unmistakably proud and grateful.

My hope for the future is that our new space–which will be open sometime in September–is a space that can hold you (and us) through the highs and lows of living. Sometimes holding each other looks like “here, enjoy this treat” and other times it looks like “tell me about your grief.” 

When I walked into 126 Smirle Avenue almost a year ago now to visit, I could see the vision and the potential that the space holds. I am reminded of Maggie Smith’s poem “Good Bones” when she says:

“Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: 

This place could be beautiful, right? 

You could make this place beautiful.”

So here we are, dreaming and building something we hope will be beautiful. I drive by the new space every day to try and catch a glimpse of the magic that’s being built into it right now, and it fills me with excitement. Thanks for being in it with us. I can’t wait to invite you in. 

I will let you know here or via Instagram as soon as we have an opening date. In the meantime, we will be operating at 1065 Wellington Street West until at least August 31st 2025. 

Finally, if you’d like to purchase a loaf of bread for a neighbour in need, you can purchase one here.

With love,

Jess Carpinone