There’s a word that I love and have developed a bittersweet relationship with, sonder. It’s one of those “most beautiful words in the world” that somehow makes the newest edition of Merriam-Webster but is also the name of a bike brand…?

Sonder is “a noun that means the feeling of realizing that everyone else has a life as complex and full as your own” (thank you, Google). The word rolls off my tongue with weight, conjuring images of black silhouettes against dimly-lit orange-yellow windows somewhere deep in the heart of Brooklyn. Sonder is inherently selfless and collectivist, arguing that not only is your life unique, but so is everyone else’s. It’s basically saying you ain’t special, bitch.

I’ve wrestled with the fear of being unextraordinary, not worthy enough to write home about. That somehow my true colors would leak out of me as soon as I crossed the threshold of my front door, and I would be caught in plain sight, standing in my period underwear and unshaved legs. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. From the years following my college graduation up to even several months ago, I made it my utmost priority to take the time I had to collect as much as I could — mostly memories and experiences, but also the occasional seashell or pretty rock. I felt forced up against the ticking clock of my own life.

Where do memories go when we die?