on reading minds

all i remember from the early aughts romcom what women want is that mel gibson somehow gains the ability to hear women’s thoughts, and it slowly drives him insane. helen hunt is also there, i think? i’m pretty sure they fall in love—it is a romcom after all.

i could look this up or rewatch the movie, but that would require opening another browser tab, and i have zero interest in doing that tonight. so let’s just say, from what i do remember, the moral of the story is... although we might think we’re better off knowing what everyone else is thinking, it’s probably best we don’t.

my hot take: i’m not convinced—on this lesson that might not even be the actual lesson from a movie i haven’t seen since the bush administration.

and look, i’m not saying i’d want access to everyone’s deepest, darkest thoughts. i’m aware that ignorance is often bliss when it comes to these things. i’m not dying to know that you think my teeth look like tiny vampire fangs, or that you quietly lose your mind whenever i use “whilst” in casual conversation, or even that you find it morally questionable that i cycle through yoga studio free trials like some kind of downward-dog grifter.

i don’t need to know any of that. truly.

but sometimes, when doubt creeps in, i find myself wishing for a window into other minds—to peer past drawn curtains of decorum and politeness, to glimpse thoughts that never find their way to words, to see if i, too, exist in the rooms they keep to themselves. if only for a moment of clarity, if only for a second of assurance.

i wonder, wouldn’t it be nice to know? that i slip into their thoughts on a tuesday between subway stops? that when they stumble upon something beautiful, it makes them wish i were there to see it too? wouldn’t it be nice to be certain? that i’m cared for? that i’m loved?

deep down, i know i am. i know the people in my life love me. my friends, my family, the people i’ve given little pieces of my heart to—they’ve told me so. and i believe them.

but i also have the emotional memory of a goldfish; i collect reassurances only to watch them dissolve, each “i love you” a birthday candle blown out, its smoke carrying wishes that dissipate into thin air.

it’s in these quiet moments, when existing feels like work, when i’m folding in on myself, when the world feels heavy and i feel small—that i wish i didn’t have to ask. again. again. again.

i wish i could just slip into someone’s consciousness and see myself there, held in some small corner. and i would just know. i matter. i wish love could feel like ambient noise, a station i tune into whenever i need a tiny whiff of worth.

i suspect that’s all any of us want, ultimately. to feel seen. to feel as though we belong. to feel we exist, even briefly, in someone else’s reality.

but i’m too afraid—of seeming desperate, of baring the depths of my insecurity, of what it might mean that i need so much at all.

so i don’t ask. instead, i sit in the bog of not-knowing, mired in doubt and longing.

it’s strange how we carry oceans of feeling for one another, but only let small puddles spill out. how we think of someone with such tenderness and care but dilute that into passing pleasantries and talk of weather. how we hold back the very words that might bridge the distances we most wish to cross.

maybe the real lesson here, from the romcom i barely remember, isn’t about reading minds at all. maybe it’s about saying the damn thing.

so they don’t have to wonder.

so they don’t have to ask.

so they know, without question, that they are safe, seen, and loved.