Flying into Seattle, Mount Rainier was impossibly clear.
I've been to Seattle half a dozen times, and I'd never seen the mountain like that. It towered above the clouds, perfectly visible against a bright blue sky. So much for Seattle's reputation. At some point, I started wondering if the city's bad weather was just an elaborate plot to keep apartment prices from climbing even higher.
I landed a little early, so I laced up my running shoes and headed toward the waterfront.
Seattle has a rhythm to it.
Ferries drift in and out of Elliott Bay with the consistency of a heartbeat. Pike Place Market buzzes with tourists trying to catch flying fish while office workers quietly slip around them, already used to the spectacle. The line for the original Starbucks wrapped around the block. Seagulls hovered overhead with the confidence of seasoned thieves, waiting for someone to look away from their lunch.
I found a bench overlooking the water.
There's something I love about sitting in a city where no one knows you.
Just watching people exist.
Couples shared ice cream. Friends leaned against the railing talking about nothing in particular. A father chased his daughter across the grass while she laughed at a speed he couldn't quite keep up with.
Everyone seemed to have somewhere they belonged.
I was in town to spend a day with more than thirty YMCA CEOs from across the country. Every YMCA camp, gym, youth program, and community center you've ever walked into exists because of people like them. They spend their careers thinking about something surprisingly simple:
How do you create places where people belong?
That evening we gathered at a restaurant overlooking Elliott Bay.
The sun was beginning to settle behind the Olympic Mountains, casting long reflections across the water. Ferry horns echoed every so often. Glasses clinked against long wooden tables while servers squeezed between conversations carrying trays of oysters and salmon. The room buzzed with the kind of energy you only get when people who genuinely enjoy what they do finally get to spend time with others who understand it.
I found an empty seat next to a man named Randy.
Before we'd talked for more than five minutes, three different people had stopped by our table just to say hello.
He knew every one of their names.
He was an older gentleman with an easy smile and a couple of Old Fashioneds in front of him. The kind of person who leans in when you ask a question, as if he's genuinely excited to answer it.
I asked him why he'd spent more than thirty years at the Y.
He paused for a moment, looking out over the bay as another ferry crossed the water.
"As a teenager," he said, "it was the first place I felt like I belonged."
He told me about mentors, basketball games, after-school programs, and the adults who gave him somewhere to be.
"I wanted to do that for someone else."
That answer stuck with me.
For years, researchers studying the world's Blue Zones - places where people consistently live the longest, healthiest lives - have noticed something interesting. Longevity isn't just about diet or exercise. The people living well into their nineties almost always belong to communities outside of work and home. They have regular places where they gather. Churches. Cafés. Gardens. Volunteer groups. Community centers. Places where they're known, where someone notices if they don't show up.
Sociologist Ray Oldenburg called them third places.
Home is the first.
Work is the second.
The third is where community happens.
I know what that feels like because, for a long time, I had one.
For all the complicated feelings I have about leaving the church, this is one thing it got undeniably right.
It gave people a place to belong.
Every Sunday there were familiar faces. People who noticed if you weren't there. Friends you'd grab lunch with afterward. Small groups during the week. Volunteers setting up chairs before anyone arrived and putting them away after everyone left.
You didn't have to wonder where your community was. It was already there.
Leaving meant losing more than a belief system.
It meant losing a place where I belonged.
I don't think I've fully replaced that.
I've built a wonderful life in New York. Friends I love. A city that's beginning to feel like home. Hobbies that genuinely excite me.
But belonging isn't something you accidentally recreate.
For the last six years, I've collected change.
Different cities.
Different jobs.
Different countries.
Different versions of myself.
Maybe the next chapter isn't about finding somewhere new.
Maybe it's about staying somewhere long enough to belong.
Maybe that means finally committing to volunteering somewhere every week instead of just saying I should.
Maybe it means showing up to run club when it's cold or I'm tired. Not just attending once or twice a month, but becoming one of the regulars. Learning names. Asking about people's weeks. Being noticed when I don't show up.
Because I don't think third places are places you find.
I think they're places you build.
One Tuesday.
One volunteer shift.
One familiar face at a time.
And maybe that's why I left Seattle thinking about Randy.
He has spent more than thirty years creating a place where other people can belong.
People like the teenager he once was.
People like me, who are still looking.
I'm grateful there are people like Randy who dedicate their lives to building third places. Places where someone can walk through the doors for the first time and slowly begin to feel at home.
Because everyone deserves a place where they're known.
Everyone deserves a place where someone notices when they don't show up.
Everyone deserves a place to belong.