The Regulars

There’s something comforting about returning to the same places again and again. The routine might change a little depending on the season, but the appeal doesn’t. My favorite morning routine includes coffee from my favorite spot, a walk along the path, popping into the bookstore to see what’s new and, if I’m lucky, running into someone I know along the way.

Sometimes it’s a neighbor. Sometimes it’s someone I’ve worked with. Sometimes it’s simply a familiar face I’ve seen often enough that I almost feel like we know each other.

Those are the moments I’ve come to love most about living here. They’re completely ordinary, which is precisely what makes them meaningful.

Years ago, when I lived in Des Moines, there was a neighborhood coffee shop that gave me that same feeling. I still stop in whenever I’m back. The faces behind the counter have changed over the years, and most of the regulars I remember have been replaced by new ones. The coffee shop kept going, just without me. Oddly enough, that’s become one of my favorite things about it.

It reminds me that belonging isn’t something we own. It’s something we’re invited into.

When I moved to Boulder for the second time nearly sixteen years ago, I knew almost no one. I had some ideas about where the locals went for brunch, which trails were worth getting up early for, and where to find the best place to sit outside with a cup of coffee and watch the world go by. Still, I spent those first months trying to figure out the rhythm of the place—my rhythm. Eventually, without really noticing, I found it.

Some restaurants became favorites. Certain trails called me back over and over again. The cashiers, bartenders, booksellers, and baristas who were strangers gradually became familiar faces. I don’t know all of their names, and they probably don’t know much about me, but that’s never really been the point. There’s something reassuring about walking into a place where someone smiles in recognition before you’ve even said a word.

It’s easy to underestimate those interactions because they’re so ordinary. They don’t make headlines, and they certainly don’t seem important in the moment. But when you stack enough of them together, they become the foundation of community. Cities don’t start feeling like home because you’ve memorized every street. They start feeling like home because your life begins to intersect with other people’s in small, almost invisible ways.

I think that’s one of the reasons Boulder County feels different from so many places.

Despite all its growth over the years, each town has somehow managed to hold on to the feeling of a place where people still linger. We browse in bookstores without checking the time. We stand in line at the farmers markets and end up in conversations that last longer than our shopping lists. We run into friends on Pearl Street, Main Street, or South Public when we weren’t expecting to see anyone at all. Even on our busiest days, BoCo seems to encourage us to slow down just enough to notice one another.

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about that because we’re about to welcome a lot of new faces.

When the 2027 Sundance Film Festival arrives, thousands of people will experience BoCo for the first time. They’ll wander into the same coffee shops where we’ve settled into our routines. They’ll discover favorite restaurants we stopped thinking of as discoveries years ago. They’ll ask where to hike, where to eat, and where the locals go after the crowds thin out.

Some will be here for only a few days. Others will come back. A handful may even decide that Boulder feels like a place where they’d like to build a life.

It’s tempting to think of our favorite places as ours. Our coffee shop. Our bookstore. Our trail. But the truth is, every one of those places became meaningful because they kept welcoming new people. Every regular was once the person standing in the doorway for the first time, wondering if they’d found somewhere they might return to.

I wasn’t born in Boulder, but after 16 years, it has become home in all the ways that matter. Not because I’ve lived here longer than someone else, but because this community quietly made room for me until one day I realized I wasn’t new anymore.

Maybe that’s what I’ve always loved about being a regular. It’s not about having a place that’s reserved for you. It’s about becoming part of the everyday life of a community—and letting that community become part of yours.

And if a few people visiting Boulder this fall leave with that same feeling, even if they don’t realize it until years later, I’d say we welcomed them exactly the way this community once welcomed me.