Sympatheia speaks to the interconnectedness and mutual interdependence of all things in the universe, suggesting that the universe is a single entity where nothing exists in isolation. With a new year and a new team, we are harnessing this feeling of connection.
All apart of a larger organism, this issue explores the different threads that bind us together. In a world characterized by polarization, conflict, digital overload, and increasing disconnection, the theme of Sympatheia acts as a point of return, gounding us in mutual connection.
Connection reveals itself in expected ways. In this issue, we examine how music creates a collective experience, how sequels and adaptions link audiences, and how films, group chats, popculture and nostalgia become shared languages. These cultural touchstones remind us that even our most personal attachments are often communal.
We hope readers discover pieces of themselves within these pages, findings moments of recognition, resonance and understanding, as connection has the power to collapse distance and create belonging.
– Ellie Misener
Editorial Team
Editor-in-Chief: Ellie Misener
Assistant Editor-in-Chief: Emma Walker
Writing Lead: Katherine Allan
Editors: Jess Ernst
Eryn Kertzman
Emma Walker
Resident Writers:
Eryn Kertzman
Samantha Edmunds
Noa Suroghon
Eva Laforteza-Recto
Sameer Hafeez
Skylar Thompson
Olivia Stone
Creative Team
Graphic Designers:
Shelly Ramos
Jackie Tseng
Shyantae Henry
Cameron Buyze
Hunter Thompson
Georgia Harris
Social Media Lead: Jess Ernst
Social Media Team:
Jacklyn Friedman-Marcus
Ariana Barandearan
Jordan Scarlett
Olivia Stone
Khayati Gupta
Sequels Adaptations & Franchise Films 2026
Why We Can’t
Stop Watching the Stories We Know
It’s a story we have seen before, with characters we know, yet somehow, it still feels new.
In the 21st century, the highest-grossing films aren't original stories, but sequels, adaptations, and franchise films.
If you have been to the theatres lately, then you know this trend is impossible to ignore.
Written by: Eryn Kertzman
Designed By: Shelly Ramos
Top 10 most anticipated sequels, adaptations, and franchise films of 2026:
1.Avengers: Doomsday (Dec. 18) Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures
2.The Odyssey (July 17)
Universal Pictures
3.Spider-Man: Brand New Day (July 31) Sony Pictures
4.Dune: Part Three (Dec. 18) Warner Bros.
5.Toy Story 5 (June 19)
Pixar Animation Studios
6.The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (April 3) Universal Pictures/ Illumination/ Nintendo
7.Moana 2 (July 10) Walt Disney Animation Studios
8.The Devil Wears Prada 2 (May 1) 20th Century Studios
9.Supergirl (June 26)
Warner Bros./ DC Studios
10.Scream 7 (Feb. 27)
Paramount Pictures
Heading into 2026, this trend continues. Based on franchise popularity, online fan anticipation, and early industry buzz.
So why do we keep returning to the same stories? Part of it is nostalgia and comfort. Revisiting characters we care about and worlds we have lost ourselves in before feels familiar. It's also about connecting with others.
We don’t just watch these films as individuals; they are shared experiences amongst fan bases. Before the movie even comes out in theatres, online communities dissect trailers and discuss casting announcements.
Every new poster, celebrity interview, or press tour becomes a part of a conversation, speculation, and excitement. When the movie finally arrives, audiences don’t experience it alone.
We watch alongside others, sometimes with the same friends or family we saw the original with, or later through discussions within established fan communities on social media.
These films become less about a single viewing and more about a collective experience, shared not only among audiences and communities, but with the characters and stories we return to again and again. As these release dates approach, one thing is clear: audiences aren’t just looking for new movies; they’re looking for connection. To stories, to characters, and to each other.
The appeal is clear: sequels and franchises offer familiarity, trust, nostalgia, and emotional investment. And for now, the stories we already know continue to deliver exactly that. The question remains, which films will be returning next?
new
2026 2016 is the
“Lush Life” by Zara Larsson plays from a laptop balanced on the dresser.
A flash from the newest iPhone 7 bounces off the bathroom mirror as a group of friends crowd into the frame, adjusting their millennial pink offthe-shoulder tops and velvet chokers. The lighting is harsh, the counter cluttered with Kylie Cosmetics lip kits and Starbucks Frappuccinos. The photo is slightly blurry, but no one checks it before moving on.
Moments like this feel unmistakably familiar to us; that’s because we lived through them, or better yet, watched eagerly as our favourite celebrities did — Ten years ago.
Pop Culture Nostalgia Across Fashion, Filters, and Music
Written by: Noa Suroghon
In 2026, pop culture is expressing nostalgia for 2016, not just through the clothes people wear or the music they listen to, but also in how they document their lives. Across fashion, social media, and music, the aesthetics of this specific era are resurfacing. However, the trends being revived go far beyond how we present ourselves to others; they reflect a longing for an online lifestyle that feels authentic and spontaneous.
Fashion is one of the clearest signs of this shift. After years of prioritizing "the clean girl aesthetic" with muted tones, slicked-back hair, natural makeup, and outfits that appear cool and effortless, society is becoming fatigued with minimalism and desires fashion that feels bold and expressive.
Skinny jeans, long forgotten in favour of oversized denim, are slowly re-entering closets and fashion magazines. Slip and bandage-style dresses, associated with mid-2010s party culture, are resurfacing in clothing stores alongside millennial pink, a dusty blush tone considered a classically "girly" shade, signalling a more playful approach to femininity.
Together, these fashion revivals symbolize a return to a time when getting dressed felt like an act of fun and unapologetic self-expression rather than a careful performance to fit online expectations.
But the return to 2016 doesn't stop at how people dress. The same desire for visibility without restraint is appearing in how social media users document their lives. From casual photo dumps to filters and from Polaroid to digital cameras, the way moments are captured and shared online is increasingly resembling an era before posting became strategic.
Celebrities from Hailey Bieber and Kylie Jenner to Ed Sheeran and Alix Earle are taking part in the online trend of posting photo carousels of what their lives looked like in 2016 with captions such as "you just had to be there."
These images feel lighthearted and imperfect; they document everyday moments and relationships in a way that feels natural and genuine. In contrast to today's carefully managed online personas, where posts are timed and crafted to perform well within algorithmic systems that reward with likes, comments, and views, these posts feel refreshingly ordinary. They reinforce nostalgia not just for 2016's chaotic celebrity culture, but for an internet that once felt more human.
In revisiting the online behaviour of 2016, users aren't asking to undo history. Instead, they are longing for a way to exist online without constant monitoring, where a post's worth isn't measured by the engagement it receives but by how it makes you feel.
This request for less measured social media platforms doesn't just shape how users post; it also shapes where individuals turn to for comfort, as music acts as a pathway to an earlier era.
In a post shared on Instagram, Spotify reported that "since January 1, 2026, user-generated '2016' themed playlists increased more than 790%."
The appeal of these playlists lies less in the songs' meanings than in the memories they evoke. In 2016, songs like One Dance by Drake, Wizkid & Kyla and Sorry by Justin Bieber were the soundtracks of parties, car rides, and social media feeds.
In contrast to current highly personalized listening habits, these songs represent a time when music was more collectively experienced; revisiting them reconnects us with moments that felt simpler, more shared, and more emotionally grounded.
Of course, this nostalgia isn't entirely innocent. The internet of 2016 wasn't simpler for everyone, and the memories people focus on are often filtered through rosecoloured glasses. However, the fact that these trends continue to resurface suggests that something meaningful is missing, and that, in whatever ways we can, we should try to seek out even the smallest corners of the internet that still feel like this idealized version of 2016: comforting, connected, and, most importantly, real.
Online Dating and the Online Dating and the Online Dating and the Illusion Illusion of Connection of Connection of Connection
Written By: Eva Laforteza-Recto Written By: Eva Laforteza-Recto Written By: Eva Laforteza-Recto
Graphics By: Shyantae Henry
Graphics By: Shyantae Henry
I like to believe thatthe people we meet on dating apps are people we were never meantto encounter in the first place. Nothing good has ever come from these kinds of things. I know from my own experience, from asking my friends, and so on, and I only have the algorithm to blame. All dating apps start with an algorithm, and before you are even matched with anyone, or even become a little bit interested, the system has already decided who might be right for you. I couldn’t help butwonder: when chemistry is calculated, does it still count?
Dating apps create the illusion of intimacy. There is nothing truly bringing two people together, other than an automated system. It’s strange how we let an app decide who gets access to our profiles. Apps like Hinge, encourage us to swipe people away to study our preferences, compare them to another user and call us a match. At first, it feels flattering to be chosen by the algorithm and to be set up with others you find attractive. Sometimes it can even be validating. But when has true connection ever really worked in this way?
Hiding behind a screen and waiting for an automated system to set you up with the
supposed love of your life is saddening. Real connections live outside of the screen, meeting through mutual friends,through classes, or even clubs. Our generation is becoming increasingly isolated, living under the illusion of being social through online mediums. Maybe it just comes
when you least expect it. But, if Gen Z is supposed to be “the most connected generation,” why does genuine connection feel so hard to come by? \
Online dating apps give us profiles and a reason to doomscroll. We are given curated personas, not real people. We are given posed and performative photos, and we display what we want to attract.
It's easyto get lost in the profiles we see. We leave a message, swipe, then match, mistaking this for a true connection. We’re left with an illusion of connection, matched by a machine, if this is the present of online dating,who can imagine whatthe future holds.
Heated Rivalry:
From a show on our screens to real social change.
We have all heard of the sensational love story, which is Heated Rivalry. A steamy, heated story based on the hit novel by Rachel Reid is a romance between two hockey players, Canada’s Shane Hollander and Russia's Illya Rozanov. The story is filled with heartache, passion, vulnerability, and undeniable chemistry. When most people hear this title, they think lust, romance, and, quite frankly, sex. Reducing it to lust alone misses the deeper cultural impact it has
This show offers immense social influence on our world, opening discussion for 2SLGBTQI+ players in sports such as hockey. Heated Rivalry allowed people to feel seen and accepted. It has challenged stereotypes about who belongs in hockey, encouraged visibility for 2SLGBTQI+ athletes, and offered representation that many viewers had never seen before. For countless fans, the show did not just entertain; it made them feel recognized, validated, and included in a world that has historically excluded them.
Prime Minister Mark Carney's acknowledgement and praise of the show at an event in Ottawa showcases the vast impact the show has made. He discussed how the show shared values Canadians hold dearly: be whoever you want to be and love whoever you love. Later, the Prime Minister joked about being in season 2, stating that he can’t wait to welcome the cast back for more. This TV show is more than just entertainment and has created a real change. Carney’s comments signalled that the show has moved beyond the realm of entertainment into the national conversation about identity and inclusion.
This show has even encouraged individuals to come out. An example is Jesse Kortuem from Cutting Edges Hockey in Vancouver, a 2SLGBTQI+ hockey association. While Jesse was out to friends, family, and teammates, the show’s release inspired him to come out worldwide. The ripple effects of Heated Rivalry extend far beyond single stories like Jesse’s.
Stories have always had the power to shift culture, and Heated Rivalry is a reminder of just how transformative that power can be. When a show portrays love in ways that challenge old norms, it opens space for audiences to imagine a different world where acceptance is the standard, not the exception. Representation on screen becomes courage off-screen, and visibility becomes validation. Shows like Heated Rivalry help reshape society, proving that meaningful change often begins with the stories we choose to see and the people who choose to share them.
Stories on screen build communities, create change, and inspire.
Written by Olivia Stone
Graphics by Georgia Harris
Why We Love Being in the Crowd
From stadiums to bars, the comfort of feeling something together.
Written by: Noa Suroghon
Designed By: Shelly Ramos
nticipation hangs in the air as the first note rings out. The sound doesn’t hit all at once; it builds, voices layering over one another until the room feels like it’s vibrating.
Flashlights flicker on as phones sway overhead, the crowd glowing in soft white light. You look around and feel it immediately: that rush of elation, the kind you wish you could freeze in time. If there were a single moment to hold onto, this would be it.In experiences like this, you’re no longer just an individual. In fact, no one is really looking at you at all. You’re part of something bigger: one feeling shared by thousands of people at the same time.
This feeling has a name. Sociologist Émile Durkheim called it collective effervescence: the sense of unity and comfort that comes from experiencing emotion alongside others. In a crowd, emotions don’t feel exposed; they feel shared. Joy, excitement, and even sadness become easier to experience when you see and feel them mirrored in the people around you.
Concerts are one of the clearest examples of collective effervescence. Singing along to the same lyrics or dancing in rhythm with others removes the pressure of selfconsciousness. Voices blend together, individual reactions dissolve, and emotion becomes collective. Many people return to these songs later to revisit the emotional intensity of the crowd. In this way, music becomes more than a collection of instruments and lyrics; it becomes a vessel for memory, carrying the feeling of togetherness long after the moment has passed.
That same emotional alignment is just as powerful in sports stadiums, where thousands of people move, react, and feel in unison. Sports fans rarely use singular language when referring to their favourite team, framing victories and losses as 'we' rather than 'they,' reinforcing a sense of shared identity among supporters in the stadium.
Chants echo through arenas, team colours and jerseys flood the stands, and familiar songs cue collective reactions. In basketball, a buzzer-beater sends everyone leaping to their feet at once; in baseball, a home run sparks synchronized celebrations; in football and hockey, goals are met with roars that ripple through the crowd almost instantly.
Each sport carries its own rules and traditions,but they all create the same effect: a space where individual emotion becomes shared feeling. In these moments, fans feel connected only to one another but to the team itself, as though they are part of the performance rather than just spectators. On a much smaller scale, the same phenomenon unfolds in crowded bars on weekend nights. For many university stud ents, setting aside time to go out offers a break from the isolation that can quietly settle in during the week, shaped by class schedules, work, and routines. Inside these crowds, people arrive with friends, dressed in similar outfits, recognizing familiar faces or striking up conversations with strangers. The environment feels immediately connected and informal, making interaction easier and socializing more natural.
No matter the worries that exist outside the bar, those concerns seem to loosen, and your attention shifts away from what’s waiting tomorrow. As you order drinks with your friends, a sense of comfort comes from that shared intention: a collective agreement to have fun and be carefree, which makes it easier to live in the present moment. This yearning for togetherness is especially strong in modern-day society. In a culture shaped by screens, individual ized feeds, and constant self-awareness, opportunities to exper ience shared emotions have become increasingly rare.
Much of our daily life is experienced alone through our phones, headphones and personalized online spheres. Crowds, by contrast,offer something physical and real. They represent spaces where feeling is not only allowed, but expected, reminding us that emotion doesn’t have to be performed online to be valid. In moments of collective effervescence, connection feels more impactful because it fills a gap created by an increasingly fragmented social media world. Eventually, the night comes to an end. The final song fades out, and the lights come up. A signed jersey hangs for all to see. The digital camera photos are downloaded and saved, and plans for the following weekend begin to take shape. And still, the desire remains to be part of something shared, to feel collectively and vulnerably alongside others. Maybe that’s why we keep coming back to the crowd.
Keep Your Skeletons In The Closet
Written by: KatieAllan
Despite the fact that our existence only required one Big Bang, sex remains one of the most fundamental aspects of humankind. Unlike the purely physical encounter shared between two strangers, this one-night stand comes with strings attached.
Sexuality can be strategically controlled because of its visibility, discretion, and centrality. These qualities allow it to function as a linchpin for almost anything power wants to attach it to.
From a young age, we are preconditioned to talk about sex at almost any given time. From a first kiss, to losing your virginity, to succumbing to the pressures of feeling like you need to announce your sexuality, sex remains at the forefront of one’s personal development.
These “confessions” exist within a social structure that functions as a rich tapestry woven from multiple threads, and it is power embedded in this fabric that uses sexuality to advance almost any agenda, since people are already conditioned to pay attention to it, monitor it, and feel regulated by it.
Michel Foucault and Jeremy Bentham operationalize my lacklustre textile analogy in the concept of the panopticon.
Much like the cameras that may or may not be watching you at a self-checkout, the regulatory regimes embedded in our consciousness dictate how sex, or even a pack of gum, should be consumed.
Whether you feel like stealing or kissing a partner in public, we engage in a constant level of self-surveillance and awareness of visibility. Sexuality becomes a site where the panoptic gaze is constantly felt, determining how our actions are received.As a result, we regulate our behaviour because we assume we are seen, even when we are not.
So granted that power is everywhere, so is sex, and it is our ghosts that continue to haunt us.
THE GROUP CHAT ISTyping...
Written By; Samantha Edmunds
The three dots appear, and everything slows down.
You were mid-sip, mid-step, mid-scroll. Half a second ago, the world was moving normally. Now it pauses, like it knows something is about to happen. The message hasn’t arrived yet, but it will. Someone is typing.
You stare at the screen longer than you’d like to admit. The time in the corner feels louder now— 9:47PM. You reread the old messages, even though you already know them. It could mean anything. It could mean nothing. That’s the problem. Why is my heart racing? you think to yourself.
The dots pulse. One. Two. Three. Over and over. A rhythm that starts to sync with your breathing. You imagine them on the other end, their thumbs hovering, sentences being written and rewritten. Backspace. Pause. Rewrite. Maybe they’re choosing their words carefully. Maybe they’re not sure how honest to be. Maybe they’re just fixing a typo. You don’t know, but your body reacts anyway. Shoulders tense. Jaw tightens. You sit up straighter, as if posture might prepare you for whatever comes next. Other people are watching too. Somewhere, someone else in the chat has also stopped what they’re doing. We are scattered across rooms and cities, but for this brief moment, time folds inward. We’re all waiting for the same thing.
The dots disappear.
Your heart jumps too fast for how small this moment should be. Nothing arrives. A second passes. Then another. Was it an accident? Did they change their mind? You wonder if everyone else felt that tiny drop in their stomach, too, that shared exhale that never quite finishes. Should I send “???”
The dots come back.
This time, it feels more serious. You tell yourself not to care. You care anyway.
You recheck the timestamp at 9:49 PM. Two minutes have passed, but it feels longer, like waiting outside a room you’re not sure you’re allowed to enter. The chat is quiet except for that small, animated promise that something is coming.
You think about all the things this message could be. An apology. A joke. A screenshot. Bad news wrapped in casual language. Good news, pretending not to be a big deal. You rehearse reactions in advance, what you’ll say if it’s heavy, what emoji you’ll use if it’s light. You don’t want to be the first to respond. You also don’t want to be last.
The dots stop again.
Nothing.
Someone else sends a message “?” and you feel weirdly grateful for them, for breaking the tension you didn’t know how to touch on. The dots return almost immediately, like the system itself is reassuring you: yes, this is still happening.
Finally, the message arrives.
It’s shorter than you expected. Casual. Almost boring. A sentence that, on its own, shouldn’t have carried this much power. You read it twice, then a third time, looking for something hidden between the lines. Was this what all that typing was for?
“Wait, what time are we meeting next week again?”
That’s it.
You stare at it longer than you should. All that typing. All that suspense. For this. Texts roll in immediately. “Noon.” Someone says, “Yes.” Another person sends a . Everyone responds differently, but we’re all responding to the same thing at the same time. Anchored to this extremely unserious moment we somehow shared. And then it’s over. Life resumes.
You finish your drink. You stand up. You scroll past it. The dots don’t come back. But for a few minutes, time bent around a small three-dot bubble, and all of you lived inside it together, waiting, imagining, maybe feeling more than you needed to. A shared pause in the middle of otherwise separate days.
The group chat goes quiet.
No one is typing… For now.
I attribute this to our hunter-gatherer ancestors, who could not break away from their tribes because that would quite literally be a matter of life and death. Every member was responsible for something based on skill, so naturally they depended on one another, and if you could not contribute, you'd be on your own. This trickles down into modern-day humans as societal expectations—you are taught from a young age to get a credible education, get a stable job, get married, raise a family, and retire old to reflect on your accomplishments.
Travelling is seen as escaping routine, taking a break, and relaxing; if you manage to visit a country a year, it means you have something to talk about (I can't stop talking about gelato, “I'm obsessed!”). But for some reason, people associate travelling with a reward for working hard.
I'm not saying travelling is merely for aesthetic purposes, but I want to emphasize that people often equate it with that. Travelling gives you new perspectives; it makes you focus on the primal aspects of life—where do I sleep, what do I eat, who will I meet, and what will I see? These are primal experiences. Humans were meant to survive on this planet by spending most of their time finding food, making shelter, and staying safe from danger. Travelling restores that experience temporarily. However, my issue stems from people who travel to impress others rather than allowing themselves to live out this primal experience.
I am also guilty of this, and it didn't ruin my trip, but looking back, the most prominent parts of my trip were when I wasn't too focused on what I was documenting, but instead on what was in front of me. And in the end, I enjoyed the small moments— eating gelato for the first time, walking up the Spanish Steps, and standing on a crowded train with locals kind enough to give me their seat. Needless to say, I loved Italy and although I still impressed my crush, I wanted to talk about this.
Graphics by Georgia Harris
Artists take inspiration from everything. Relationships, the state of the world, and the random conversations they hear from people in public. The best music comes from lived experiences, narrating inner thoughts over 808s or the playful pluckings of a guitar. As all humans do, artists tend to reminisce on their past works. Typically, it’s to condemn them in the press or laugh at their younger self’s lyricism.
But occasionally, inspiration is drawn from their past work and is used in the newer song or album. If the reference is non-lyrical, such as reused chords, then it is considered a musical motif or a leitmotif. If a reference is lyrical, it is called a self-reference. Selfreferences are fun and clever, which help paint a larger picture of an artist’s universe. It highlights the interconnectedness of creation and the idea that the best person to learn from is the self. David Bowie, the Beatles, and Taylor Swift are all popular musicians who utilize self-reference within their music. Below are a few artists who use self-reference to connect their work and tell a larger story.
Djo, “Delete Ya” & “Chateau (Feel Alright)”
“And now I'm back on your couch, frozen peas to my head.”
“I could feel the pain/ Of my head, seeing stars.”
Within the two songs, spanning over three albums, Djo reflects on the story in a continuation of “Chateau (Feel Alright)” from his album, ironically titled Twenty Twenty, released in 2019. When the song was written in 2019, Djo was writing about nostalgia and the yearning to relive a cherished memory centred on his long-term partner. With the release of his newest album, The Crux (2025), Djo reflects on that same failed relationship, the bittersweet nostalgia of moving on, and the experience of returning to a formative place he once left behind. He speaks about his old LA apartment and wishes he could erase the memories of his past relationship as he reflects on his life in the City of Angels. The callback, or self -reference, is tongue-in-cheek. Something that requires a long-term knowledge of Djo’s discography, and the few glimpses into his personal life that the musician gives. But it is undeniably clever and reminds fans of Djo’s ability to tell a vulnerable story.
Role Model, “Deeply Still in Love”, “Slut Era Interlude”
“I try and bury it 'til I called her by your name.”
“And let me call you by somebody that I used to know.”
Role Model’s first album was written about everyone’s favourite topic: love. He had been so in love with Emma Chamberlain, he wrote a whole album about her in 2022. She had discreetly been soft-launched in music videos, and (I can very strongly argue) has lent her vocals in the background of a single he dropped in 2023. In 2024, he wrote another album about Emma Chamberlain, Kansas Anymore. The break-up album of all break-up albums.
The S-tier of male yearning as he uses the album to explore and reflect on his feelings throughout a tumultuous time. “Deeply Still in Love” speaks to exactly what the title says: Role Model was still in love but wished her the best as she entered a new relationship (Peter McPoland). He speaks about coping, briefly mentioning using a rebound to distract himself from his pain, only to slip up and call the “other woman” by the wrong nameher name. In the latter half of the album, he uses “Slut Era Interlude” to explore deeper into the temporary solace that comes with the “rebound stage” of a break-up. The cyclical battle of using physical intimacy to connect while avoiding commitment. The callback to the previous track reinforces the album’s larger themes and emotional arc. “Slut Era”, as fans commonly refer to it, is a simplistic and honest track, providing a brief break into the deeper journey of getting through a break-up. Which one could only assume was the intention to mirror the real-life experience and purpose of a rebound. Something short, simplistic, and emotionally raw that has a “love-it-or-hateit” reputation with fans.
In many ways, any form of artistic collaboration is the pinnacle of team sport. Finding an artist who has not been inspired by someone in some way would be equivalent to finding a needle in a haystack. But when inspiration comes from their past songs and lyrics, it becomes a conversation only the artist and dedicated fans can understand. To have my own moment of selfreference, Taylor Swift uses a phrase that describes the importance of this coded communication in “illicit affairs”: “you taught me a secret language I can't speak with anyone else”. Many would say an artist’s job is to sing and perform, I would argue that an artist’s career is cultivate connections through their work. Connection to their fans and the shared lived experiences, the sacred connection with their muses, and most importantly, the everlasting connection with themselves.
Relief In Relatability
Written By: Eva Laforteza-Recto
One night, my roommates and I sat around the dining table in our dusty university house. Letting the conversation ow, branching o into di erent directions. At that moment, I was aware of how nice it felt to share space with people whose lives di ered from mine yet were similar enough to overlap.
ere is a certain comfort that comes from being understood without having to explain yourself. It comes from realizing that this feeling exists between people, not just within you.
I loved how our feelings aligned so e ortlessly, even in our di erences. Beneath it was the same tension, uncertainty, and worry we had been holding alone. Nothing was resolved, and no advice was o ered. Still, the weight of our individual experiences and our isolated feelings didn’t sit the same as it did before.
It is unfortunate that to feel any semblance of solace about a misfortune, most often, someone else must also experience it. But it helps to know that there is mutual understanding. It’s relieving.
I used to think of connection as something intentional. Having a heart-to-heart with someone, a planned conversation. But simple moments make
me think otherwise. I’m not saying connection can’t be intentional, but sometimes it’s simply hearing someone else say what you’ve been holding onto. And sometimes it can be even more meaningful that way.
Our experiences and feelings that follow us can leave us feeling lonely; they can even make us feel crazy. Life can be lonely sometimes, and knowing that other people understand and relate can pull you out from under.
Relief doesn’t come from solutions or answers to the buried feelings and unresolved con icts you keep inside. It comes from the vulnerability of expressing your feelings and realizing that whatever you’re holding onto won’t actually consume you. It comes from occupying the same emotional space as someone else. It comes from being understood without explanation.
I left the table feeling lighter. Not because we spoke about anything particularly happy, but because I felt a little bit less alone. At the table, it was clear that my relief came from the connection with my roommates, the shared understanding of each other’s experiences.
