Love, Mangoes, and the Private Cinemas in Our Heads
You never really know if someone loves you. I don’t mean in the rom-com sense, where a teary monologue on a rainy airport runway suddenly makes everything clear. I mean in the ordinary, everyday way—when someone casually tosses out an “I love you” the way they might mention they’re out of toothpaste. You’re left wondering whether their love weighs the same as yours, or if, by comparison, yours is essentially the emotional equivalent of a Costco-sized bulk pack.
Because, here’s the thing: each of us loves, hates, sulks, overthinks, and quietly implodes in our own, very personal style. No two emotional lives are twins—not even among married couples who insist they “think the same thing at the same time,” which usually just means they both want dessert.
But the real problem is that we can’t check. We cannot pry open someone’s skull and peek at their emotional wiring—not legally, anyway—and verify whether their use of the word “love” aligns even remotely with ours. For all you know, your love is ten times greater than theirs. Or theirs is ten times bigger and yours is more like a polite fondness with intermittent enthusiasm. Or, most likely, they’re both entirely different species of affection that merely share a name, like two unrelated people who both happen to be called Kevin.
This dilemma is what psychologist Irvin Yalom calls existential isolationism. This term sounds like a middle-aged rock band but is actually a genuine psychotherapeutic concept rooted in a long philosophical lineage. The ancient Greeks complained about this problem; modern philosophers repackage it with fewer togas and more footnotes.
Qualia: The Mango-Flavored Mystery of Existence
Existential isolationism is essentially a modern psychological restyling of the ancient philosophical headache known as qualia—the subjective, private sensations that only you experience. If the universe had a customer service department, qualia would be the part of the system where all complaints are forwarded, and none are resolved.
Qualia include:
- The taste of mango
- The first sip of coffee when you’ve mentally given up on the day
- The sting of heartbreak
- The warmth of a shower
- The precise emotional texture of petting a dog while questioning your life choices
These sensations—these inner experiences—belong solely to you. No matter how detailed your description, no matter how many metaphors, no matter how many therapy sessions you pay for, no one will ever inhabit your internal world with complete accuracy. And you’ll never inhabit theirs.
This is why arguments like “No, this mango is sweeter” are doomed: scientifically speaking, you’re not comparing mangoes—you’re comparing brains pretending to compare mangoes.
Existential isolationism blooms from this core idea and grows into two distinct branches.
Isolationism Type 1: The View from Your One-Person Balcony
The first form is the simple yet devastating revelation that you will never—ever see the world through someone else’s eyes. You’re forever stuck behind the eyes you were issued at birth, like a lifetime membership to the world’s most limited theme park. No upgrades. No second locations. No guest passes.
It doesn’t matter how hard you try or how many empathy-building workshops your employer forces you to attend: you only get your one-person vantage point on the universe. It’s like everyone else is hosting a slightly more interesting party in their heads, and you’re stuck at your own, which is mostly just you, your thoughts, and that one embarrassing memory from 2009 that refuses to leave.
And yes, this can feel depressingly inadequate. You may feel like the only person who doesn’t “get it,” whatever “it” is—love, career, mango-flavored beverages, life in general. But the truth is: everyone else feels the same way, they just lie better.
Isolationism Type 2: The Suspicion That No One Is Feeling What You Are
Then there’s the second form, which is more emotional and far more unsettling: the nagging suspicion that other people aren’t feeling the same thing as you—not even close.
When someone says “I love you,” you have to trust that their words reflect an inner life somewhat parallel to your own—not necessarily matching, but at least in the same neighborhood, maybe on the same street. But there’s no guarantee.
For all you know, their “I love you” means:
- “I am mildly attached to your presence.”
- “I enjoy your cooking.”
- “You remind me of a childhood goldfish.”
- “You make tax season slightly more bearable.”
And they might think your “I love you” means something completely different. The entire system depends on blind trust—trust that our inner worlds rhyme, even if they don’t match.
Of course, you can ask, “What do you mean when you say you love me?” but this rarely helps. Most people will simply say, “I just do,” which is the emotional equivalent of a software pop-up that reads: Error. No additional information available.
The Scientific Comedy of Being Stuck in Your Own Head
If an alien anthropologist observed humans, existential isolationism would be their favourite concept. Imagine them writing a report:
Subject species experiences profound emotional events yet remains entirely unable to confirm whether others experience similar sensations. Instead, they exchange sounds (“love you,” “same here,” “sure”), assume mutual understanding, and proceed to mate or buy furniture.
From a neuroscience standpoint, the problem is simple: each brain constructs its own version of reality. My happiness is not your happiness. My heartbreak is not your heartbreak. My perception of “too spicy” is your perception of “tastes like water.”
There is no universal calibration.
Even in laboratory settings, where psychologists strap volunteers into chairs and show them pictures of neutral, happy, or deeply upsetting things, the variation is astounding. One person cries at a puppy photo; another remains emotionally inert. One sees a romantic sunset; another sees glare that will ruin their eyesight.
This is the machinery behind existential isolationism:
We are wired differently, interpret differently, and feel differently—even when the situation is the same.
The irony is that despite this, humans are social animals. We crave connection. We crave synchronization. We crave proof—some reliable, scientifically verifiable proof—that when we reach out emotionally, someone else is reaching back with equal depth.
But the brain offers no such assurances. You’re left standing in the middle of your own mental living room, wondering whether the love you feel is reciprocated or whether you’re essentially emotionally overdressed for the occasion.
So Do You Feel Existentially Alone… or Comfortably Self-Contained?
This brings us back to the central, mildly haunting question:
Do you feel existential isolationism?
Does the idea that you are forever trapped inside your own head make you sad? Lonelier than a single fork in a drawer full of spoons? Nervous about trusting the emotional declarations of others?
Or—and this is equally possible—are you entirely fine with it?
Some people find enormous relief in knowing that their inner world is theirs alone, uninvaded, unexamined, uncriticized. They like the quiet privacy of their thoughts, like a personal cinema where no one else judges the weird movies they choose to watch.
Others survive on optimism. They trust that when someone says “I love you,” it carries a meaning close enough to their own that it doesn’t matter if the qualia differ slightly—just as two people can enjoy the same mango even if one experiences it as “divine nectar” and the other as “reasonably pleasant fruit.”
After all, love has always been an act of faith, not science. And maybe that’s the best we’ve got. We trust, because the alternative is unbearably lonely. We love, because the feeling itself is worth the risk of misinterpretation. We reach out across the gap, hoping the echo that comes back isn’t hollow.
Existential isolationism tells us we’re alone.
Human connection insists we try anyway.
And maybe—just maybe—the beauty of love is that it thrives despite the gap, not because we’ve bridged it.
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