The Importance of Finding Third Places: A Personal Journey as a Military Spouse

Written by Latosha Walker
Founder & CEO, Wondering.Waves
15 June 2026

Home Was a Person, But I Still Needed a Place

March 2020 changed my life in more ways than one.

I packed my life into a few suitcases and boarded a plane bound for Hawaii to begin a new chapter with my best friend of fourteen years. Matthew and I had known each other since high school. Life had taken us in different directions over the years—college, careers, marriages, heartbreak, and growth—but somehow we had always remained connected. When my marriage ended in 2019, he was one of the first people I turned to. By the following spring, I was moving across the Pacific Ocean to join him on Oahu.

Three days later, the world shut down.

COVID-19 changed everything.

The island I had dreamed of exploring suddenly felt very small. Libraries closed. Community events disappeared. Restaurants adapted to a new reality. The excitement of building a life together became intertwined with uncertainty, isolation, and learning how to navigate a global pandemic.

Even so, one thing felt certain.

Home was wherever Matthew was.

Long before he became my husband, he had been one of my safest places. Simply being together made Hawaii feel less intimidating.

But over the months that followed, I realized something I hadn't expected.

As much as home was the person I loved, I still needed a place that belonged to me.

Not because anything was missing.

But because every person needs somewhere they can simply exist—somewhere to think, create, learn, and breathe.

At the time, I didn't know I was looking for anything special.

I was just trying to find my rhythm in a world that had suddenly stopped.

The Little Coffee Farm That Became My Classroom

I don't remember how I found it.

Maybe someone recommended it.

Maybe I stumbled across it while exploring.

Maybe curiosity simply led me there.

However it happened, I found myself returning again and again to a small coffee farm tucked away in the middle of Oahu.

It wasn't the kind of place tourists rushed through with cameras.

It felt slower than that.

More intentional.

They grew their own coffee there, roasting the beans on-site. The smell greeted you before you even reached the door. Rich, warm, earthy notes drifted through the air, blending with the tropical breeze in a way that made you instinctively slow your pace.

Matthew would drop me off on his way to work.

I'd settle into one of the picnic tables outside with my laptop, notebooks, and whatever college assignment was due that week.

Some days I'd order coffee.

Other days I'd order my favorite hibiscus lemonade.

Hours would pass without me noticing.

Behind me, green mountains rose into the Hawaiian sky.

In front of me, beyond the trees, I could catch glimpses of the Pacific Ocean shimmering in the distance.

It became my classroom.

My office.

My thinking place.

Without realizing it, it was quietly becoming something much more important.

The Moment I Stopped Being Just Another Customer

At first, I was simply another face walking through the door.

Someone studying.

Someone ordering a drink.

Someone passing through.

Then one afternoon, before I had even made it to the counter, someone looked up with a smile and called across the shop,

"Hey, sister! How's school going?"

I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.

They remembered.

Not my drink.

Not my usual table.

Me.

From that moment on, every visit felt different.

They asked how classes were going.

They celebrated good grades.

They encouraged me when assignments felt overwhelming.

When Matthew proposed later that summer, they celebrated with me.

When we got married that December, they celebrated again.

Somehow, in the middle of a global pandemic, this little coffee farm had become part of one of the biggest years of my life.

Looking back, it amazes me how something so ordinary became so meaningful.

Nothing extraordinary happened there.

I wasn't saving the world.

I was simply showing up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

There's something quietly powerful about becoming a regular.

Not because people know your order.

Because they begin to know your story.

Saying Goodbye

Military life teaches you to say goodbye.

Sometimes sooner than you'd like.

In June 2021, it was time for another move.

This time, I boarded the plane alone.

Matthew would join me in Norfolk months later, but military life doesn't always move according to our own timelines.

Before I left the island, I stopped by the coffee farm one last time.

I hugged the people who had welcomed me through one of the most uncertain seasons of my life.

I cried.

Not because I was leaving Hawaii.

Not because I was leaving the mountains.

Not because I was leaving the ocean.

I cried because I felt like I was leaving family.

I had only been there for a year and three months.

I wasn't there every day.

I wasn't even there every week.

But I was there enough to matter.

Years have passed since then.

If I'm being honest, I don't remember the name of the coffee farm anymore.

I wish I did.

I wish I remembered the names of every person who greeted me with a smile and asked how school was going.

Memory has a funny way of working.

It quietly holds onto the feeling while allowing the details to slip away.

Maybe that's one of the reasons I started writing.

Not because I want to remember every fact.

But because I never want to forget how people made me feel.

Looking Back

Years later, I learned there was actually a name for places like that coffee farm.

Sociologist Ray Oldenburg called them third places—the spaces outside of home and work where people gather, relationships naturally grow, and community quietly takes root.

For some people, it's a neighborhood coffee shop.

For others, it's a library.

A bookstore.

A local diner.

A park.

A volunteer organization.

At the time, I had no idea I was searching for one.

I just knew I kept going back.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn't returning because of the coffee.

Or even the hibiscus lemonade.

I was returning because every visit reminded me that I belonged.

At the time, I thought I was saying goodbye to a coffee shop.

Now I know I was saying goodbye to one of the first places that taught me what belonging could feel like—even thousands of miles from everything I'd ever known.

I didn't know it then, but that little coffee farm wouldn't be the last place to shape me.

It was simply the first chapter in a much larger story about learning that home isn't just where you live.

Sometimes...

it's something you build, one familiar face at a time.

Sometimes a Third Place Isn't a Place at All

When I left Hawaii in June 2021, I wasn't just leaving behind an island.

I was leaving people who had become part of my everyday life.

Military life has a way of teaching you that chapters rarely end when you're ready for them to. Sometimes you leave because orders say it's time, even when your heart wishes for just a little longer.

I flew to Norfolk, Virginia, ahead of Matthew, who wouldn't join me until November. For several months, I found myself navigating another unfamiliar place on my own.

By then, I had started to recognize a pattern.

Every move came with the same questions.

Where will I grocery shop?

Where's the nearest library?

What coffee shop will become my favorite?

But underneath those practical questions was another one I hadn't learned how to say out loud yet.

Where will I belong?

Unlike Hawaii, I didn't find the answer in one particular place.

I found it in people.

One friendship began through a shared love of creating.

She wasn't connected to the military at all, and I loved that. Our conversations rarely revolved around deployments or PCS moves. Instead, we talked about craft projects, ideas, and the joy of making something with our hands.

In a season where military life often felt all-consuming, she reminded me that I was more than a military spouse.

I was still curious.

Still creative.

Still growing.

Still myself.

Another friendship came through the military community.

She had experienced nearly every season military life could throw at a family. Deployments. Moves. Long nights. Unexpected changes. The emotional roller coaster that comes with loving someone who serves.

There was something comforting about never having to explain.

She simply understood.

When Matthew was underway, she knew the silence that filled the house.

She understood why a text message could brighten an entire day.

She knew that military life could be both incredibly rewarding and incredibly lonely.

She became the person I could call when I didn't know what I needed—only that I needed someone who understood.

Looking back, I realize neither of those friendships fit the traditional definition of a third place.

They weren't coffee shops.

They weren't libraries.

They weren't bookstores or community centers.

They were people.

And maybe that's the point.

Sometimes belonging has an address.

Sometimes it has a face.

Both matter.

Both become part of the places we carry with us.

A New Chapter in Texas

When military orders brought us to San Angelo, Texas, I arrived with something I didn't have when I first moved to Hawaii.

Experience.

I knew starting over would feel uncomfortable.

I knew friendships would take time.

I knew I wouldn't feel at home overnight.

But I also knew something else.

Home wasn't something I had to wait for.

It was something I could begin building.

Just a few days after arriving, I walked into the downtown library and signed up for a library card.

It has become one of my favorite traditions after every move.

Long before I know the best restaurants or the quickest way across town, I want to know where the books are.

Libraries have always felt familiar to me.

Every one is different.

Every one reflects its community.

Yet they all carry the same quiet invitation:

"Come in. Stay awhile. You're welcome here."

Before long, I was teaching beginner crochet classes at the library.

Watching someone pick up a crochet hook for the very first time reminded me of how communities are built.

Not through grand gestures.

Through simple invitations.

"Would you like to learn?"

As I became more involved in San Angelo, that invitation continued to grow.

At the base library, I started a Fiber Arts Club and later a Crafting Club.

Those gatherings weren't really about yarn.

Or crochet hooks.

Or unfinished projects.

They were about creating space for conversation.

For laughter.

For connection.

Sometimes people came because they wanted to learn a new hobby.

Sometimes they came because they simply didn't want to spend another evening alone.

Either reason was enough.

Somewhere between Hawaii and Texas, something shifted inside me.

When I first moved, I spent so much energy wondering where I would find community.

Now I found myself asking a different question.

How can I help create it?

That question eventually led me to become an Ombudsman.

It changed the way I thought about volunteering.

I no longer wanted to simply help.

I wanted to help organizations grow.

I wanted to create systems that lasted beyond my time there.

I wanted the communities I joined to be stronger because I had been part of them.

Looking back now, I realize every third place I had found along the way had quietly been preparing me for this.

The coffee shop in Hawaii taught me how meaningful it feels when someone remembers your name.

My friendships in Norfolk reminded me that belonging sometimes arrives in the form of another person.

The libraries in San Angelo taught me that one invitation can change someone's entire experience of a new place.

And without realizing it, I had gone from searching for belonging...

...to helping build it.

The People Who Quietly Shape Our Lives

There's one thing I keep coming back to.

Years have passed since I left Hawaii.

I don't remember the name of that little coffee farm anymore.

I wish I did.

I wish I remembered every barista who asked about school.

Every conversation.

Every laugh.

Every goodbye.

The details fade.

The feeling doesn't.

Maybe that's why I write.

Not because I want to preserve every fact.

But because I want to remember the people who quietly shaped my life.

The librarian who welcomed me into a new town.

The friend who reminded me who I was.

The volunteer who made room at the table.

The barista who greeted me with, "Hey, sister!"

Those moments rarely make headlines.

They don't seem extraordinary while we're living them.

But somehow, years later, they're the moments we remember.

Or at least...

They're the moments we remember how they made us feel.

Maybe that's the real gift of a third place.

It isn't the building.

It isn't even the coffee.

It's the reminder that we were known.

That we mattered.

That for one chapter of our lives, someone was genuinely happy to see us walk through the door.

Life has taught me that every chapter eventually comes to an end.

Not because it wasn't important.

But because another chapter is waiting to begin.

There will be another library.

Another coffee shop.

Another volunteer opportunity.

Another familiar face.

Another place where someone learns your name.

Another chance to become part of a community.

And maybe, if we're intentional, another opportunity to help someone else feel like they belong.

As I look back on each move, I realize the places I remember most aren't always the famous landmarks or the attractions people recommend.

They're the ordinary places where ordinary people quietly changed my life.

So this week, I hope you'll take a moment to notice the people who already know your name.

The librarian who always has a recommendation waiting for you.

The barista who asks how your week has been.

The volunteer who saves you a seat.

The friend who checks in without being asked.

Don't let those moments pass unnoticed.

One day, the details may fade.

But the way they made you feel never will.

Life comes in waves.

Some carry us somewhere unexpected.

Some ask us to begin again.

Some bring us people who become part of our story for only a season.

Every one of those waves matters.

So keep wondering.

Keep exploring.

Keep building community wherever life carries you next.

Because home isn't always a place.

Sometimes it's the people who make a place feel like home.

And no matter what wave comes next...

You've got this.