The Lives I'll Never Know

By: Alicia Rosas

There's something about long car rides that makes me feel small. Sitting in the passenger seat, staring out the window as the city rushes by, my mind wanders. Each house, each passing car, holds a life I'll never know. It's easy to get caught up in my world, to believe my worries are the center of everything, but then I look outside and remember that each person I pass has a life as full and complex as mine. 

As I watch the world unfold outside my car window, I start noticing the people within it: the fleeting glimpse of their lives, each carrying a story of its own. At the red light, I see a man gripping the steering wheel too tightly, his jaw clenched. Is he late for work? Stressed about something? I shift my gaze and notice an older man sitting alone in a restaurant, slowly stirring his coffee. His gaze is distant, lost in a memory or a thought he'll never say out loud. Maybe he's waiting for someone who won't come, or perhaps he just enjoys the comfort of routine. 

As we continue down the road, my eyes catch a little boy in the backseat of a car, his hands pressed firmly against the glass. His smile stretches wide with excitement as he points excitedly at something outside, but his parents are caught up in their world and don't seem to notice. And as we keep moving, I see others, all living separate lives, each with their own silent story. 

Their world instantly becomes mine, only to slip away just as quickly. The faces blur and fade, lost in the distance, and I'm left with a quiet reminder of how fast lives pass by, unnoticed and unchanged. 

The cityscape shifts as we continue down the road: new streets, new people, each carrying a life of their own. I keep watching. A mother walks briskly down the sidewalk, her toddler trailing behind, struggling to keep up. She glances at her watch, then down at her child, torn between patience and urgency. Maybe she's exhausted, carrying more than just the bags in her hands. Meanwhile, just a few steps away, a group of teenagers laugh as they walk down the street, pushing and shoving playfully.  Their carefree world reminds me how easily I can lose myself in my head, worrying about things that might not matter in the long run. 

Most of the time, I live in my head. I stress over deadlines, overanalyze conversations, and let small worries take more space than they should. It's easy to believe my problems are the center of everything and my struggles are the heaviest. But then I sit in this car, passing house after house, car after car, and I remember I am just one of many. 

My worries, like stressing over a chemistry exam I've been putting off studying or wondering if I'm making the right choices for my future, feel small compared to those just trying to get through the week. I often find myself guilty over something as simple as what I ate for lunch or whether I'm doing enough. But in those moments, I remind myself that my struggles are real, but they are a privilege. I am allowed to feel overwhelmed, but I also need to acknowledge that others carry burdens I can't imagine. 

The car then stops at a gas station. Through the window, I notice a cashier rubbing his temples, his face weary, like someone on his feet for too long. It reminds me of feeling drained after a busy day, just wanting to sit and do nothing. I wonder if he's been standing there for hours, watching the constant flow of people come and go, wondering if he ever gets a moment to pause or if the cycle keeps going. 

 In another car, a father sits in the driver's seat, laughing as his daughter tells him a story. He nods along, eyes crinkling at the corners, the kind that makes the world feel a little lighter. I'll never know what they are laughing about, but maybe that's the beauty of it. Even without knowing the details, I can feel the warmth of the moment, a reminder that despite the rush of life, joy still finds its place. 

The car drives away from the gas station while I think back to the quiet moments I saw through the car window at the start of my journey. Each person, with their quiet struggles and joys, reminds me that I am just one piece of a greater whole. My worries about school, the future, and the little things are real, but not everything. That's the weight of sonder, the realization that everyone around me lives as complex as mine. It shifts my perspective, reminding me that my struggles are a part of a much bigger picture.

Looking ahead, I realize how easy it is to lose myself in my thoughts. But living beyond myself means stepping outside them, making space to notice the world around me. It's about seeing the weary cashier and remembering that exhaustion is universal. It's about watching the mother with her toddler and understanding that we all struggle with patience. It's about recognizing that joy, like the father laughing with his daughter, can even exist in the simplest moments. 

To live beyond myself is to exist with more awareness, to acknowledge that every passing face holds a layered story. The next time I find myself lost in thought during a long car ride, I'll remind myself that everyone is carrying something. And while I never know their stories, I can move through the world with empathy, noticing, appreciating, and understanding that I am just one of many.