Neighborhoods and cities are only as good as those who Love them.
If there’s one key takeaway from my urbanism travels thus far in 2025, it’s this: the best neighborhoods and cities are shaped – and sustained – by those who love them. With love comes pride: pride in where you’re from, pride in where you live, and pride in what your community stands for.
Some places cultivate this pride intentionally. Gold Hill Mesa, here in Colorado Springs, is one of them. It’s been a large part of my own life—my family has lived there for the past decade, and our firm has worked closely with the neighborhood since the early days of Urban Landscapes. From the beginning, founder Bob Willard envisioned Gold Hill Mesa not just as a development, but as a community. He brought on Stephanie Edwards to bring that vision to life through programming that brought people together. She’s been at it for nearly twenty years, and her work remains central to the neighborhood’s identity.
One program in particular, Music on the Mesa, has become a tradition. Its 2025 season kicked off July 12, drawing not just residents but the broader city. Its success has sparked other developments to do the same—concerts and neighborhood programming are now popping up across Colorado Springs, especially in newer developments that see the value of this “low-hanging fruit” for building identity and connection.
This idea of place-based pride isn’t limited to one neighborhood—or even one city. I was reminded of it on a recent trip to St. Louis, a city that has long intrigued me. In my college years, I knew several St. Louis natives who carried an almost unshakable pride in their hometown. I didn’t quite understand it then, but I admired it. That same pride was on full display at a Cardinals game I attended, where a billboard in the foreground of the Arch boldly declared: “From the Lou and We’re Proud.”
Big cities like New York and Los Angeles radiate this kind of love too, but what sparks it? What sustains it?
Programming is one answer. But not the only one.
This year’s Magical Mystery Tour reinforced the lesson. Traveling from New York City to Cape Cod to Boston, we saw neighborhoods built with intention—walkable streets, a mix of uses, diverse housing types, and all the lessons of New Urbanism. We also saw places where the original spirit had faded. When the developer moved on, so did the energy. Two such places that earned their pride are Forest Hills Gardens or Sunnyside Gardens in Queens—places developed over a century ago where pride still permeates the community fabric.
A recent Public Square article made a similar point about The Villages in Florida. It isn’t a New Urbanist dream—it’s car-dependent, golf-cart heavy, and architecturally mundane and repetitive. Yet it’s undeniably vibrant, buzzing with activity, and beloved by residents. Why? Because its developers leaned hard into community programming, and residents carried it forward. They manufactured pride through rhythm, engagement, and continuity.
That brings me back to the lesson.
Neighborhoods and cities are only as good as those who love them. And love—real, sustaining love for a place—is either earned or manufactured.
Earned love grows from the ground up. It comes from thoughtful design, walkable streets, vibrant public spaces, and that intangible feeling that you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I started writing this from the front porch of a home in New Town St. Charles, where we enjoyed dinner one block away on our trip to STL. Built with walkability and connection in mind, New Town is the kind of place designed to be loved for generations.
Manufactured love can be powerful too. It comes through programming, branding, and early placemaking. But it’s fragile. Without care and evolution, it fades.
The best places do both. They build for the long term while curating the short term. They earn love—and manufacture it—until one becomes the other.
