A few nights ago, I was in a small boat on Amsterdam's waters with close friends, surrounded by complete chaos.

Boats of every size jostled for space, bumping into each other like bumper cars set loose on the canals.

Hands reached out to push away incoming bows before they scraped our sides. People shouted, laughed, poured drinks, and pointed at the horizon.

It was messy, loud, unpredictable, and completely unforgettable.

Inside our little circle on the deck, though, something else was happening.

Every small "wow" or "look at that one!" ricocheted around between us.

Someone laughed, another pointed, someone else topped up the wine.

We weren't just surviving the bumper-car ballet of Amsterdam's waters.

We were building a collective memory.

And in the middle of it all, a thought landed with me.

Would this experience mean the same if I had been here alone?

Let's talk about it.

What We Were Part Of

That chaotic night was part of Sail Amsterdam, an event the city only hosts once every five years. Tall ships from all over the world sail into the IJ harbour, their masts rising like a floating forest of history.

It's half parade, half reunion, and half excuse (yes, three halves because that's how it felt) for anyone with a vessel, from polished yachts to wobbly inflatables, to join in.

It's the kind of spectacle you can watch from the quay or scroll past onInstagram. But being in it, with the sails glowing in late summer light and the chaos pressing in from all sides, was different.

Alone vs. Together

There's a difference between seeing something and feeling something.

Between witnessing and belonging.

Had I been standing alone on the quayside, I would still have admired the ships, taken photos, maybe even felt that awe.

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But here's the thing about the concept of awe: it's fragile when it has no one to bounce off.

When you're the only one holding it, it doesn't expand.

It fades.

Awe needs witnesses.

It needs the quick glance at the person next to you, the shared gasp,the small smile that says, "Did you feel that too?"

Without that exchange, awe is like an echo that never returns.

Neuroscience explains why.

Our brains are social organs.

When we share an experience, something called mirror neurons fire, specialised cells that activate both when we perform an action and when we observe someone else doing it.

I've written about this before in This Is Your Brain on Dancing, how our bodies and brains literally mirror the movements and emotions of those around us.

It's why you feel lifted when you dance in a crowd.

And why laughter spreads so easily.

In practice, that means when my friend gasps at the sight of a ship, mybrain partially "lives" his gasp as if it were my own.

His emotion becomes mine, and vice versa.

The ships will sail away.

But that boat ride?

It's etched into the fabric of my friendships, and into our nervous systems.

A City as a Stage for Belonging

There's this quiet myth we carry around about experiences.

That they're like possessions.

You have yours, I have mine.

We line them up and compare.

But experiences don't add; they multiply.

Think about it.

One person laughing in a room is… nice.

Ten people laughing together is something else entirely.

The same goes for music at a festival, fireworks on New Year's Eve, or even sitting in silence during a moment of collective awe.

The presence of others amplifies what's happening.

That amplification isn't just psychological, it's chemical.

Shared joy triggers a cascade of neurotransmitters.

Dopamine for reward, endorphins for pleasure, oxytocin for bonding.

The combination heightens the moment, gluing it into memory more firmly than if you'd experienced it alone.

That's why watching the same sunset with a friend feels different than watching it alone. The sunset is the same. The multiplier is the person next to you.

Humans have always been tribal.

Our ancestors relied on shared rituals like song, dance, and firelight stories.

Not just for entertainment but for survival.

Modern neuroscience shows that those activities activate the vagus nerve and calm the stress response. Simply being present with others lowers cortisol.

Connection literally makes us feel safer.

On that boat during Sail Amsterdam, I realised again how much of life is about finding your people to stand (or sit, or sail) next to when something big happens.

Because yes, you can admire a tall ship alone.

You can sip wine alone.

You can clap alone.

But the moment your laughter collides with someone else's?

That's when life expands.

Amsterdam itself seemed to know this.

The city wasn't just hosting an event; it was creating a stage for belonging.

The canals became connectors, tying together thousands of small stories into one collective one.

And maybe that's the lesson for cities everywhere?

It's not just about building infrastructure for efficiency, but infrastructure for connection. Boats, squares, festivals, art, all of it creates opportunities for these shared, multiplying moments.

The question is: do we design them on purpose, or leave them up to chance?

Let's Wrap This Up

That night on the boat reminded me that belonging is not an abstract concept.

It's physical.

It's immediate.

It's the difference between admiring a ship in silence and pointingit out to your best friend with a smile.

We often chase experiences as if they are things to collect.

But the real magic happens when experiences collide.

When they're shared, multiplied, and transformed into stories that will be retold years later.

Sail Amsterdam happens every five years.

The ships will come and go.

But the memory of that boat, those laughs, the bumping chaos, that feeling of being exactly where I belonged, that will stay.

So here's the thought I took with me.

Experiences are not really about what you see.

They're about who you see them with, and your brain was built for exactly that.

Lots of love,

Stina

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