Ever had that weird, hollow feeling when you're looking at old photos of a place you’ve never actually been? Or maybe that sudden, sharp realization that every single person walking past you on the sidewalk has a life just as messy and complex as yours? We’ve all felt these things. But for the longest time, we just didn't have the words for them. We’d just say we’re "sad" or "nostalgic" and leave it at that. It’s frustrating.
Language is usually a tool, but sometimes it feels like a cage that’s way too small for what’s happening inside our heads.
Basically, there are 23 emotions we can't explain using standard English, at least not without a lot of awkward hand-waving. Most of these terms come from John Koenig, the creator of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. He spent seven years tracking down these "missing" words for the human experience. While some critics argue these aren't "scientific" in the way clinical psychology defines a "primary emotion," they’ve gone viral because they hit on a universal truth. They name the unnameable.
The Core 23 Emotions We Can't Explain
Let's get into the specifics. You’ve definitely felt these, even if you didn't know there was a label for them.
Sonder is the big one. It’s the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own. They have their own ambitions, friends, routines, and worries. You are just a background character in their story, a blur on the highway. It’s humbling, honestly. It makes the world feel massive and tiny at the same time.
Then there’s Opia. Have you ever locked eyes with someone in a crowd and felt an intense, almost invasive surge of energy? That’s opia. It’s the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously like a connection and a threat.
Why Nostalgia Isn't Enough
Sometimes we feel a longing for a past that isn't even ours. Anemoia is the word for that. It’s that pang of nostalgia for a time you never knew. You might feel it while watching a grainy film from the 1950s or listening to a 1920s jazz record. It’s a trick of the brain, a romanticization of a history you didn't have to actually live through.
Then you have Vellichor. If you’ve ever walked into a used bookstore and felt a strange sort of peace mixed with a heavy sense of time, that’s it. It’s the strange wistfulness of used bookstores, which are somehow infused with the passage of time—thousands of old books, each once read by someone who is now a completely different person or perhaps no longer around.
Monachopsis is that subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. You’re at a party, or maybe even with your family, and you just feel... off. Like you’re a traveler who hasn't quite learned the local customs.
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The Complexity of Social Friction
Socializing is exhausting. We pretend it’s natural, but it’s often a performance. Enouement is the bittersweet feeling of finally seeing how things turn out in the future, but wishing you could go back and tell your past self. It’s like standing at the finish line and looking back at the "you" who was still worried at the starting blocks.
Rubatosis is much more visceral. It’s the unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat. Usually, your body does its thing in the background. But every now and then, you notice it. Thump-thump. It’s a reminder that you’re a fragile biological machine. It can be terrifying.
Then there’s Kenopsia.
Think of a school hallway during the summer. Or an abandoned mall. These places are supposed to be full of people. When they’re empty, they feel "wrong." That eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling but is now abandoned and quiet is kenopsia. It’s not just "spooky." It’s a specific kind of architectural loneliness.
Dealing With the Scale of the Universe
We live in a world that is far too big for our monkey brains to process. Jouska is that hypothetical conversation you compulsively play out in your head. You know the one. You’re in the shower, winning an argument with your boss that hasn't even happened yet. Or you’re practicing a confession to a crush. It’s a way of trying to control a chaotic social world.
Chrysalism is the opposite—the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm. You’re safe. You’re dry. The world outside is roaring, but you’re in a cocoon. It’s one of the few truly "cozy" emotions on this list.
But then we have Exulansis. This is a heavy one. It’s the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it. Maybe it’s a trauma, or maybe it’s a beautiful moment from a trip abroad. Eventually, you just stop telling the story because the "you had to be there" gap is too wide. The memory starts to feel lonely.
The Psychological Reality Behind the Words
Are these "real"?
Psychologists like Lisa Feldman Barrett, author of How Emotions Are Made, argue that our brains actually construct emotions based on the concepts we have available. This is called "emotional granularity." Basically, the more words you have for what you’re feeling, the better your brain can regulate those feelings.
If you just feel "bad," your brain doesn't know what to do. But if you identify that you’re feeling Lachesism—the desire to be struck by a disaster, just to see what would happen and to have a clear direction in life—you can process that specific urge. It’s a weird human quirk. We sometimes crave chaos because the mundane routine of modern life feels like a slow death.
Adronitis is the frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone. You meet someone cool, but you realize it will take years to build the shared history required for a real friendship. So you just... feel tired before you even start.
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Anecdoche is a social phenomenon where everyone is talking, but nobody is listening. It’s a conversation where everyone is just waiting for their turn to speak, overlapping each other without actually connecting.
Digital Age Disconnect
Technology has birthed its own set of 23 emotions we can't explain properly.
Occhiolism is the awareness of the smallness of your perspective. In the age of the internet, we see everything. We see the wars, the galas, the scientific breakthroughs, and the cat memes. It makes you realize that your specific life is just a tiny, insignificant dot in the grand scheme of things.
Then there is Altschmerz. It’s weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same boring flaws and anxieties you’ve been gnawing on for years. You’re not even "sad" about them anymore; you’re just bored of your own problems.
Nighthawk is the name for those thoughts that only come at 3:00 AM. They’re the recursive loops of "did I lock the door?" or "why did I say that thing in 2012?" that disappear as soon as the sun comes up.
Finding Meaning in the Inexplicable
Why do we care about these words?
Because being human is incredibly lonely if you think you’re the only one feeling a certain way. When you find out there’s a word for Liberosis—the desire to care less about things—it’s a relief. You realize that your urge to just drop everything and stop worrying about your reputation or your "path" is a standard part of the human condition.
Onism is the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time. You’re sitting in an airport, looking at the departure board. You could go to Tokyo, Paris, or Lima. But you can only go to one. By choosing one life, you are effectively killing off all the other lives you could have lived. It’s a form of spatial FOMO.
Kuebiko is the state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence. It’s that feeling you get after scrolling through the news for too long. You feel heavy, immobile, and useless, like a scarecrow watching the world fall apart but unable to do anything about it.
The Scientific Perspective on Naming Feelings
While John Koenig gave these specific names, the feeling of them is backed by research into "untranslatable" words from other languages. For example:
- Saudade (Portuguese): A deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one cares for and/or loves.
- Hyggelig (Danish): A sense of coziness and shared community.
- Schadenfreude (German): Pleasure derived by someone from another person's misfortune.
The 23 emotions we can't explain function in the same way. They provide a "handle" for the mind. When we name a feeling, we move it from the amygdala (the emotional, reactive part of the brain) to the prefrontal cortex (the rational, thinking part). This is literally how therapy works. It’s "name it to tame it."
Moving Forward With Your Emotions
Identifying these feelings isn't just a parlor trick for writers. It’s a tool for mental health and better relationships. If you can tell your partner, "I'm not mad at you, I think I'm just experiencing Mauerbauertraurig" (the inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends you really like), it changes the conversation. It moves from "Why are you being a jerk?" to "How can we navigate this weird brain-glitch together?"
Vemödalen is the frustration of photographing something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist. Like the Eiffel Tower. Or a sunset. You realize your experience is unoriginal, which feels like it cheapens the moment. But the solution isn't to stop taking photos; it's to realize that the act of taking the photo is for you, not for the record.
Actionable Steps for Emotional Clarity:
- Audit your "unnamed" feelings. Next time you feel a weird "vibe," don't ignore it. Sit with it. Is it Kenopsia? Is it Sonder?
- Practice Emotional Granularity. Stop using broad words like "stressed" or "fine." Dig deeper. Are you overwhelmed by the scale of things (Occhiolism) or just bored of your own drama (Altschmerz)?
- Share the vocabulary. Use these terms with friends. It sounds pretentious at first, sure, but it actually builds deeper connections when you realize you both share a specific, niche brand of melancholy.
- Journal with specific labels. If you write, use these words to categorize your days. It helps map out your internal landscape more accurately than a "mood tracker" ever could.
Ultimately, the fact that we have 23 emotions we can't explain—and probably hundreds more—is a good thing. It means the human experience is still too big for any dictionary to contain. We are more complex than the software we use to describe ourselves. And that’s actually pretty comforting.