There's a wall at Dayhouse Coworking's Schaumburg location that stops people in their tracks (and had the same effect on our CMO). It's a wall of books — college textbooks, mostly, from the 1970s and 90s, belonging to founder Jen Luby's mother. Biology. Mathematics. Business. A whole academic life.
It’s decor with a story. Installed with intention.
And that, more than anything else, is what Dayhouse is about.
Jen Luby opened the first Dayhouse in Highland Park, Illinois, about a decade ago. The second location followed in Schaumburg's historic Old Town district, a cozy enclave that most people don't even know exists within the enormous suburb. Luby knew it was there. She grew up in Schaumburg.
Dayhouse was built from the ground up, Luby explains, to function as a multi-location company. Then COVID happened, and things got delayed. But the vision held. And when the right space appeared at the right time, she went for it.
"I deliberately wanted the next Dayhouse to be in a place that was walkable and just had a really great vibe of life around it," she says. "Within Schaumburg, the only place I was interested in was the historic section. This building opened up, and I was like, yes. This is ideal for us."
Today, Luby runs both locations alongside Jessica Erickson, who manages Highland Park, and Bridget Bond, who manages Schaumburg. The three of them have created something that feels less like a coworking operation and more like a community with a membership program attached.
You won't see "women-centered" plastered across Dayhouse's advertising. But it shapes everything.
“When you design a space where women feel physically and emotionally comfortable, it tends to work beautifully for everyone. Historically, many workspaces have defaulted to a male point of view. I wanted to intentionally flip that, without excluding anyone.”
The staffed, welcoming, always-someone-here model isn't incidental to Dayhouse. It's foundational. And the amenities follow the same logic. Dayhouse offers services like free gift wrap. "Because who's running around buying presents 90% of the time?" Luby says.
The answer, she doesn't need to add, is obvious.
Bond describes a physical response she watches happen on tours. People step inside and something releases. "There's a sigh," she says. "A delight."
That reaction is partly by design. The interiors at both locations are layered with personal touches: antique typewriters, curated objects, the book wall that Luby was inspired by at a hotel in Glasgow, Scotland. She took lots of video and pictures. Thought: I need to do this someday, somewhere.
"Anytime you have something intentional and personal, people really respond to it," says Luby.
Erickson describes it this way on tours: "It puts a face to the space. It puts humanity in the space. And it immediately sets us apart from any other coworking with a hype image."
Highland Park and Schaumburg are different places with different rhythms. In Highland Park, members mostly stay hyper-local. They're in the same school districts. They know when sign-ups open for the same kids' programs. The community has a tightly woven, neighborhood-scale intimacy.
Schaumburg draws from a wider radius. People are more mobile, more accustomed to using the suburb as a hub. They'll drive from farther away to get what they need.
"In Highland Park, people tend to stay really close," says Bond. "Whereas in Schaumburg, we have people coming from so many different towns."
The common thread across both locations, she says, is the focus on member experience at every single touchpoint. "You know that if you've gone to one, you're going to find interesting pieces, extra warmth, thoughtful touches, an eclectic but really elevated style."
Erickson sums up the Highland Park membership in plain terms: "Majority busy working parents who need to be heads down, get their stuff done, and appreciate the community."
She tells the story of a member physical therapist who does home visits all over town. Constantly in motion. No HQ. "We're able to be her home base. She can take her meetings here instead of in the car."
And she describes a member who was so thrilled by one specific amenity.
"She could go to the bathroom without having to buy a cup of coffee first."
That's the pitch, sometimes. Not amenity packages or flexible pricing tiers. Just knowledge you don't have to buy a latte to use a restroom anymore.
Luby is a firm believer in programming that comes from the community, not from the top down. "If you have three really interested, engaged people," she says, "those three people have a wonderful time. And then next time you do it, you have seven. And that's great."
Dayhouse has hosted wellness talks from a member who's an empowerment coach. An event on the feminist economy that was co-sponsored with a member's own network — and brought in two new members. Both locations have paused their happy hours, not as a failure, but as an honest reading of what the community actually wanted at this moment.
"You've got to stay flexible," Luby says. "Sometimes things are going to change. It comes down to listening. And this is where having staff on site is so important, because the staff on site can hear what people are actually interested in."
From the beginning, Luby wanted Dayhouse to serve nonprofits that had outgrown the kitchen table. Two organizations now call the space home: The Dragonfly Foundation Chicago, in support of pediatric cancer, and Pickles, which supports children of parents dealing with cancer.
The Dragonfly Foundation of Chicago arrived through a member who knew their executive director, Jessica Merar, and thought the two communities needed to meet. "Immediately, we loved her, she loved us, and the Dragonfly/Dayhouse relationship blossomed.," says Luby. Merar now holds a dedicated desk and is deeply rooted in the community.
Pickles Group came through a meeting room rental. Their executive director was familiar with coworking, sought Dayhouse out for a specific need, and over time the relationship deepened into something more like a home base.
"What we found is that the most successful partnerships are where they have a presence in our community and are active,” says Erickson. From there, Dayhouse creates custom membership packages based on what each organization actually needs, rather than a fixed nonprofit rate applied uniformly.
When Luby opened the Highland Park location, she didn't just open a space. She introduced herself to the city business development manager. She had meetings and conversations. She built relationships before she needed them.
At the ribbon cutting, city officials showed up because they knew her. When COVID hit and the survival math got hard, a local bank manager — someone Luby had built a real relationship with — helped navigate every loan and grant application.
"Those relationships really paid off and flourished throughout," says Erickson. "It was key."
At the Schaumburg location, Bond is building the same kind of network. "Our community is built through a lot of personal introductions," she says, "and encouraging people to connect when they come in with a pain point or a grumble. (‘So-and-so went through the same thing, you should talk to them’) Right now, we’re laying those foundational building blocks.”
Luby adds that the Schaumburg area has an exceptional chamber of commerce, the Schaumburg Business Association. "They had a social event last night that probably had about 800 people at it. The town is incredibly supportive of small businesses.”
What Luby, Erickson, and Bond have built at Dayhouse isn't easily categorized. It's coworking, yes. But it's also a community, a nonprofit incubator, a local business network, a place where a physical therapist can check her email and use the restroom between appointments.
It's a place where, on a Friday afternoon, the founder is still talking about her mother's textbooks on the wall. Still thinking about intentionality. Still believing that when you design from a place of care, people can feel it.
"Anytime there's intentionality behind something," says Luby, "people really like that."
That's the whole philosophy. And it shows.