Your dining table is now your office, your kitchen’s the roommate catch-up zone, and your bed? That’s your Netflix corner, nap spot, and lunch table—all rolled into one. Post-pandemic life has blurred the lines between home (what we are calling ‘first spaces’ in this article) and work (‘second spaces’, because it is what we seem to leave our homes most often for), leaving little room for anything else. Enter third spaces: physical spots for connection and community outside home and work.

With CEO’s demanding 90 hour work weeks and toxic workspace culture at an all time high, we need active and inclusive third spaces now more than ever. But here’s the catch—many of us are too drained from work, commuting, or juggling side hustles to even think about third spaces. Imagine you have a set routine where you spend 10 hours at work, 4 hours commuting to and fro, and in a bid to be health-conscious, you sleep for 8-9 hours a day. That leaves an average full-time in-office employee in a city like Mumbai (i.e., me) 3-4 hours a day to clean, eat, bathe and stare into the void while rethinking their life choices.

It’s important to reiterate that some of us don’t have safe spaces, which means navigating conflicts, dealing with issues as they come up, and processing these difficult matters – all of which take time and need a conducive space. Therefore, having a first place, a home, and a safe one at that, is a privilege. Many folx I know aren’t able to access safe homes or safe workspaces. For many it’s just an added stressor to think about the poor infrastructure of our world outside home and work.

Also read: A Gaysi Guide to the Workplace for Queer Folx

In this scenario, the very idea of prioritizing a third space can feel out of reach. Yet, these spaces are vital, especially for queer communities, offering belonging, safety, and joy where other spaces fail. So, why not imagine cities where third spaces are a right, not a privilege?

Should Third Spaces Be A Privilege?

To explore the queerness of third spaces, I reached out to Saurabh Sharma (they/them), a culture writer based in Delhi. They emphasized that queer folx navigate spaces in ways that often defy the expectations of heteronormativity. Even for those who can access these spaces, many queer individuals have to be selective about where and how they “be queer.” As Saurabh clarifies: “I know several people who are comfortable—or rather, attuned to—living or performing different identities in different spaces, and no one should judge them for that. If someone knows that their job is essential for supporting their family, to whom they are out, they may choose not to bring their queer politics into the workplace. Similarly, there are those who are out to everyone except their family…”

Also read: The Gaysi Guide to Coming Out (If You Need to!)

I would like to think that Mumbai’s local trains often act as a third space for me and my friends. Busy with our own hectic schedules and juggling multiple responsibilities, the train has become a solace where we interact twice a day. It’s a comfort thinking that even in a packed train and inconvenient station infrastructure––I’ll spot a familiar face and have some assurance.

Third spaces also serve as refuge spots for those navigating challenges. They’re where the community gathers—whether to rally around a shared cause, support one another, or simply escape everyday responsibilities and share a laugh. These spaces foster connection and resource-sharing, from recommending plumbers to helping a mutual find safe housing or forwarding their CVs to potential employers.

As Amarinder (he/they), an architect and service designer, explains, “Queering public spaces is rooted in mutual care—care for the individual, the collective, and the urban space. The goal is to create more welcoming environments for all identities, including those who don’t fit into traditional ‘categories.’”

Public spaces transform into third spaces when a community comes together to use them in meaningful ways. For instance, a queer book club hosting its monthly meetings in a public library not only utilizes the space but also brings marginalized literature into public discussion. This act amplifies queer voices and invites greater attention to their stories. Conversely, when certain groups are excluded—such as trans folx being denied entry to clubs or restaurants—it sends a harmful message that their presence somehow “violates” the intended image of the space, which often reflects a cis-heteronormative ideal.

Also read:Kerala High Court Recognizes Family Spaces as “Sites of Abuse” for LGBTQIA+ Folks

Making Queer Spaces Requires Imagination

Queer communities have historically thrived in “third spaces”—informal, hidden areas outside home and work where people can connect safely. In Southeast Asia, for instance, queer groups in Vietnam have used parks and discreet cafes as meeting points to avoid public scrutiny. In South Africa, Black queer women have turned to underground clubs, art spaces, and community centers as third spaces to forge networks of support and solidarity, despite societal challenges. These spaces have always been crucial for the community’s survival and growth, particularly in times of adversity. Refuge spaces, like LGBTQ+ shelters, also function as third spaces, providing environments where community members interact altruistically and offer mutual support.

When asked what makes a place, region, or space “queer,” Saurabh explains that spaces aren’t inherently queer; they become queer through a non-judgmental outlook toward everyone. Amarinder echoes this sentiment, emphasizing that queering spaces involves expanding accessibility across intersections like caste, class, and disability. It’s about cultivating, encouraging, and practicing radical love, empathy, and an anti-caste mindset.

This offers a thoughtful starting point for understanding queer third spaces—how they are formed and what ideas are essential for a space to truly be considered a safe queer space. Interestingly, as Saurabh points out, such spaces don’t fully exist. They argue that no space has been entirely “queer-friendly,” and even those labeled as such often operate with a “pre-understood” idea of queerness (ironic, isn’t it?). For instance, neurodivergent and introverted queer folx may enter these spaces seeking community, only to feel alienated by the dominant party culture. This “pre-understood” queerness, as Saurabh describes it, has often left them socially drained.

They elaborate further: “How can we cultivate safety? By being with people over and over again and understanding the way they function, because sometimes what you find welcoming, funny, or unproblematic might be something someone else struggles to overlook. And most queer people don’t understand that. Disagree with anything, and you risk being labeled a boring or straight-passing queer.”

Also read: Casteism in Queer Spaces

Amarinder pointed out that public spaces, like parks, are designed by keeping standard (hetero-patriarchal) architecture practices, protocols and framework in mind. These spaces are built keeping traditional family structures and retired old folx in mind. And no matter how carefully they are built, they are still inaccessible to some, for instance cis-women during evening hours. Safety and accessibility of many people is not thought of, while building public spaces.

So when Amarinder works on any of his projects, he makes sure to co-create with keeping queer ideas and priorities in mind. Along with queer-feminist and anti-capitalist frameworks that help him reimagine solutions to making not just spaces that are welcoming for all but also move away from the linearity of typical architecture.

Cultivating A-“Typical” Culture

I’ve noticed something interesting from watching videos about the lack of third spaces in America: their society doesn’t seem to prioritize community time as much as European nations do. This is also reflected in the way their cities are designed—reliant on private vehicles, discouraging public transport use, and even making walking less feasible.

A similar negligence is evident in Indian cities like Mumbai, where I live and work. While Mumbai boasts a relatively strong public transport network, it severely lacks infrastructure that encourages walking. On top of that, safety concerns are often unfairly blamed on migrants or overpopulation, yet no city ever feels “safe enough” to navigate unless you have some form of private transportation.

Which led me to the question, what makes any space inclusive, safer and accessible?

Queer third spaces are often characterized as flamboyant, which can feel unwelcoming or unexciting for introverted or shy queer individuals—or, as Saurabh puts it, “boring queers.” While partying and clubbing have played a significant role in shaping queer-friendly third spaces, these environments tend to prioritize nightlife, often overlooking essential aspects like safety, neurodivergent needs, and disability accessibility. This lack of diversity in the types of third spaces leaves other forms of connection and support underdeveloped.

Saurabh explains that third spaces are environments where individuals can authentically express themselves, free from societal expectations. However, these spaces don’t exist in isolation—they intersect naturally with other areas of life, such as family, workplaces, and broader communities, offering opportunities for influence and growth.

Also read: Online Dating: A More Accessible Option for Queer Disabled Folks

Saurabh notes, “A book club that focuses on queer narratives can serve as a third space. Regular participants might take away new perspectives that influence their worldview or spark meaningful conversations. Similarly, a thought-provoking film can create a third space by initiating discussions around important topics.”

Saurabh emphasizes that a third space doesn’t always have to be “physical”. It can also exist in moments of shared dialogue or virtual spaces, where ideas and identities find room to thrive. This interpretation highlights how third spaces can extend beyond physical venues, functioning as transformative environments for both individuals and their larger social circles.

This makes social media a defining third space for queer folx, allowing them to connect with like-minded individuals regardless of location. As an older Gen Z, I’ve witnessed the internet evolve—from a place where I could find pockets of comfort to the hostile takeover of platforms like Twitter (RIP) by conservative voices and ongoing privacy breaches. Queer folx now face just as much vulnerability to bullying online as they do offline.

Also read: Content Moderation on Social Media: A Queer-Trans Perspective

Amarinder reinforces this concern, highlighting the importance of physical third spaces and the essential role they play in reclaiming spaces for queer communities: “Reclaiming public spaces has to start at a grassroots level. Activities like regular meet-ups in parks and other public spaces go a long way in establishing a consistent queer presence. ‘Queering’ certain third spaces can serve as a catalyst for broader societal change, influencing how people behave and express themselves—not just in third spaces, but also at home and in the workplace.”

Pockets Of Comfort

Queer folx have learned to navigate the larger hetero-patriarchal system by identifying allies and creating spaces of refuge—whether as literal safe havens or places to momentarily escape their realities.

“Largely, queer people are supported by friends and chosen families. These are the spaces where they discover their capabilities. Despite their trauma, they find their natural rhythm and summon the courage to brave a world designed to exclude them,” Saurabh shares.

Amarinder echoes a similar sentiment, reflecting on their own journey: “In creating my own space, I felt my most queer self—a self where I wasn’t doing anything to please anyone but simply because I liked it. I felt the freedom one craves. Unfortunately for many of us, that’s not the reality.”

Also read: How Mainstream Media Makes a Spectacle of Queerness

I do believe some rules are necessary—just enough to establish common boundaries that respect everyone. Queer communities often serve as spaces where these conversations happen, making them safer than many other public spaces. I’m not saying all queer spaces are perfect, but they evolve with the community. The question remains: can we say the same for all other public spaces?