Sonder; Wonder

Sometimes when I walk through a crowd, I wonder what life every person I pass is living. I look at strangers and instantly start writing their stories in my head. The woman tapping her foot at the crosswalk—was she rushing to work, or was she late to meet someone she’s secretly in love with? The guy in a wrinkled shirt—what did he eat for breakfast? Did he laugh at something silly on his way out, or is he carrying a heaviness he can’t talk about? The little kid holding his mom’s hand—what will he remember from today, years from now? It’s called sonder, that quiet realization that every single person is living a life as rich and layered as my own. And the more I think about it, the more comforting it feels. Because it means I’m not alone in my chaos. Everyone else is out here carrying invisible weights too. Everyone is loving, longing, worrying, hoping—just like me. And somehow, that thought softens me. It makes me gentler. More patient. Less sharp with the world. Because maybe the stranger who bumps into me is distracted by heartbreak. Maybe the cashier who looks tired has dreams bigger than the building she’s standing in. Maybe the jeepney driver humming to himself is singing a song that reminds him of home. We’re all just trying, all just surviving, all just searching for our own versions of sweetness. And remembering that makes the world feel smaller. Kinder. Like I belong to something bigger than myself.

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