I’m returning to one of the topics I’m most passionate about when I think about the concept of “aging in society.” To begin this post, the first question would be to define what “attachment to space” means. But before that, I’d like to invite you to reflect on something: why does the place where we live matter?
It may seem like an abstract question, but in reality, it touches on something very every day. The place we inhabit is not just a dot on the map: it’s often an important part of our identity. Many times, we mention it almost like a business card: “I’m from my lifelong neighborhood,” “I grew up in (such a place).” We feel proud (or not) of the place we live in, but that feeling shapes our relationships, our way of life, and even our aspirations. We believe that the place we are from knows us as well as we know it.
But even when we don’t like it, that place is part of our biography. It’s the backdrop of our experiences, of the memories of those who are no longer with us, of the good days and the bad. Space is not neutral: it’s emotional, symbolic, supported by daily practices. Space is built and, at least in part —I would say in large part—, it builds us.
We understand this intuitively from a young age: we know that Shakira is from Barranquilla or Messi from Rosario, and we assume —rightly— that those places shaped who they are, that even if only a little, they had something to do with it. The environment influences how we see the world, how we relate to others, and how we interpret life. Not always in a positive way, perhaps.
From a more structural perspective, the place where we live also has concrete effects on how we age. Neighborhoods, towns, cities: none are “innocent” when it comes to the inequality of aging well (or poorly). Some territories take care, support —and others exclude or abandon. Aging in one place or another is not the same, and it will greatly affect the quality of our aging.
This is where the concept of place attachment comes in, which refers to the deep emotional bond that people develop with the spaces they inhabit —especially the neighborhood (a subjective space that doesn’t necessarily align with map boundaries or administrative borders). This concept is key to understanding the desire of many older adults to age in their usual environment, a phenomenon known as aging in place.
In a couple of articles we published (my dearest Mavi and I) a few years ago (this one and this one), we analyzed this topic through interviews with older people in Madrid. In our analyses, we showed that attachment to the neighborhood is not just about habit, but about an emotional connection, full of meaning and memory. As one of the interviewees said: “The stones know me,” which I truly find to be one of the most beautiful ways to express the relationship between people and the environment in which they grow —as if the environment knows us as well as we know it. We summed it up this way: “Place attachment implies an intimate relationship with the physical and social environment, an embodied experience that goes far beyond usefulness or proximity. It is a bond full of history, emotion, and a sense of belonging” (Lebrusán & Gómez, 2022).
This type of attachment is especially strong in contexts like Spain, where neighborhood and family networks play a significant role in daily life. It’s not just about being close to services or living in a familiar house (or setting). It’s about belonging. Being part of a web of relationships, being greeted as you pass by, knowing who lives in each doorway, having a bench to sit on —your bench. Only then does the phrase “see you at the usual spot” make sense.
But this desire to remain in the neighborhood —and the ability to do so— cannot be taken for granted. Aging in place depends on many factors: accessibility, safety, availability of local services (and shops), transportation, support networks, and also public policies that recognize the value of these bonds and make their existence possible.
In the interviews that formed the basis of our analysis, many older adults expressed fear of having to leave their neighborhood if conditions changed —if services disappeared, if rents went up, if the neighborhood changed so much that they no longer recognized themselves in it. And that loss is not just physical: it is emotional, it’s a form of uprooting. You become a stranger in the land that saw you grow up (or grow old). When I write “if,” read “when.” Because the truth is that this has become a (oppressive, terrible, exclusionary) reality that defines our cities —cities that seem to betray their residents while trying to embrace tourists who won’t maintain their interest for more than a few days (so many other cities to visit, to check off a list). Sure, not everyone will share this view, but to me, it weighs heavier every day.
From my perspective, talking about attachment to the neighborhood in old age is not romantic nostalgia: it’s a matter of social justice. It’s about thinking how to ensure people can age with dignity —not just in their homes, but in their places, in their familiar, meaningful environments— and that those environments are friendly to the changing needs that will come with aging. I find it deeply unjust that certain neighborhoods seem to be ageist, classist —pushing some out to attract others.
Possibly, and to the extent of my knowledge as an urban sociologist, this kind of attachment is not built in the same way across all cultures. In Southern Europe and Latin America (though certainly not exclusively), this bond tends to be deeper, more dense. Because daily life —relationships, caregiving, affection— is lived (built) more in public space: at the corner café, at the market, at the building entrance.
In these contexts, the neighborhood is more than a physical environment: it’s a web of meaning. It is community. It is shared history.
For all these reasons, I want to stress that when we think about active or healthy aging (those debatable concepts), we need to reflect on what it means to have cities and neighborhoods that are capable of caring for the people who live in them. Neighborhoods, environments, that recognize the value of rootedness and enable its development, first, and its preservation, later. That foster continuity for long-time residents while also encouraging inclusion of newcomers (intergenerationality, you’re most welcome). Because attachment to a neighborhood and the desire to remain shouldn’t be a privilege —they should be a right. And for that to happen, it must be possible to keep living there —through proper maintenance of streets and urban furniture, true accessibility, shared spaces, and by preventing price hikes (in rent, in shops) that allow us not only to belong —but to stay.
