Unfamiliar Places

Turning the In-Between into Connection

Have you ever moved somewhere new? You barely know anyone, you feel out of place, and everything seems unfamiliar. There are no reliable anchors, no trusted faces, and even the smallest daily tasks — buying groceries, finding your way around, asking for help — can feel oddly intimidating.

It’s a strange space to be in, this in-between — between the place you came from and the one you’re trying to make your own. It’s hard to trust anything or anyone in that situation. And if you’ve ever been there, you know how lonely it can feel.

When you walk through a new city, a new neighbourhood, maybe even a new country, the question arises: Do these spaces make you feel connected automatically?

You pass beautiful squares, cafés buzzing with conversation, well-designed parks and benches — all the places that architects and urban planners design to make connection possible. As an architect myself, I know how much thought goes into creating spaces where people can meet, interact, and feel both safe and open. The goal is always balance: enough distance so people don’t get on each other’s nerves, yet enough closeness that connection is possible, if wanted.

And yet — there’s something else that happens.

Sometimes these very spaces can make you feel even more alone. You see people laughing, greeting each other warmly, sharing food. You watch them and realize, once again, that you are not part of it. You would love to join in, but doing so feels artificial — as if you’d be intruding on something private. So you walk away.

You might wander into a shop. There’s soft background music — maybe a waterfall, maybe some smooth jazz — the kind of sound architects and designers often use to create atmosphere. But instead of feeling soothed, you find yourself flooded with emotion. That same song you’ve heard in countless hotel lobbies suddenly brings back memories of long layovers, of being far from home, of missing someone you love.

One day feels like that — heavy, disconnected, a reminder of absence. But another day, something shifts.

You walk through the same streets, still knowing nobody. You sit down on a wooden bench and simply watch. People chat, eat, gesture, laugh. Their energy fills the air. Someone asks if they can sit next to you. “Sure,” you say. You exchange a few friendly words — a small, almost insignificant moment, but somehow it changes the texture of your day.

Later, you wander into a tiny candle shop. The smell of fresh lemon fills the air. It reminds you of a funny story, and you smile without thinking. The shop assistant catches your expression and smiles back, asking if you need help. That tiny, human exchange — a smile, a shared presence — suddenly feels like connection.

Public and semi-public spaces are designed for this. They invite it. But still, we are the ones who make it happen.

The physical environment — its shape, light, and sound — influences how we move, feel, and connect. But we are the ones who choose how to move through it.

• Do we rush, eyes fixed on the ground?

• Do we slow down and sit on that bench?

• Do we notice how the light hits the walls, how people interact, how sounds echo between buildings?

Ultimately, we are the ones who shape our relationship to space — and through that, our relationship to ourselves and others.

Let me share a little insight from an architect’s perspective.

When I walk through a city I don’t know, I observe. I watch how people behave — how families eat together, how they move through streets, what textures and colours surround them. I look at roofs, windows, water pipes, the details of plaster or wood. I notice the materials and their dialogue with light.

It’s my way of connecting. First, with my surroundings — then, with the people who live in them.

Every building tells a story. Every street has a rhythm. Every bench holds traces of moments shared. When I notice these things, I begin to feel less like a stranger. I start to belong, not because anyone invites me in, but because I allow myself to see and feel.

This is what presence does. Presence transforms unfamiliar space into lived space. It grounds you, gives you a container for new memories, and helps you settle — not just physically, but emotionally.

So next time you find yourself in a new environment — maybe after a move, maybe after a big life change — try this: slow down. Look around. Notice the shapes, the sounds, the air between buildings. Feel your feet on the ground, your body in space.

The space you’re in right now can become your ally. It can hold you, support you, and help you connect. Because connection doesn’t always start with another person. Sometimes, it starts with the ground beneath your feet — and the willingness to simply be in the space between.