Does Language Change How We See the World? 

In Arrival, a linguist decodes an alien language with a circular writing system and begins to experience time as circular itself. It’s a sci-fi take on linguistic relativism, known as the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis—the idea that language can influence how we organize and perceive reality. A notable example is how Russian has separate words for light and dark blue, which makes speakers distinguish between the two more readily than languages where “blue” is seen more as a spectrum.  

Nothing as mind-bending as in the film, of course, but English does something interesting with time too. Slavic languages like to clarify whether something is finished or still in progress. English lets you manipulate time differently: I have finished, I had been working, I will have sent. It becomes more layered, more meandering as it lets you stretch a moment or zoom in on duration and sequence. This in turn stretches our thinking, carving new pathways in the mind for organizing events as we speak.  

English also handles motion and direction differently. Think of phrasal verbs—take away, move out, pick up. In Slovak, a prefix like od- immediately signals direction (odsťahovať sa), but in English, meaning unfolds sequentially: you get the action first (move), then the direction (out). While it’s only a split-second difference, it shifts the focus from the result of the movement to the process itself, as meaning arrives with some delay. This can subtly shape not only how we understand language, but also how we think when we speak.   

Apart from organizing how we see reality, language also gives it texture. Take Potawatomi, for example, a Native American language made up of about 70% verbs and only 30% nouns. Instead of “a rock,” you would say something closer to being a rock. In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer argues that this way of speaking reflects a deeper attentiveness to the living world, a kind of ecological awareness. Not because the language alone creates this way of seeing, but because it carries traces of a consciousness shaped by a different landscape and history. 

The same is true of other languages as well, though not always in the same way. English, by contrast, is relatively noun-centric, much like many Slavic languages. Yet both systems allow for flexibility—each in its own way. Slovak, for instance, relies on inflection to shape how meaning unfolds. English has its own features. We turn those same nouns into verbs constantly: to hammer a nail, to water the plants, to house a friend. Even simple descriptions can come alive: trees dotted the hillside. Here, a “dot” isn’t just a tiny, fixed speck; it’s something the trees are doing. The effect is subtle over time, but it can make the world feel more dynamic as you learn to think in these terms.  

And then there are idioms, confusing at first, but encouraging you to visualize situations differently from how you would in your native tongue. Instead of just being “happy,” you might say you’re over the moon. Rather than merely “busy,” you can be snowed under. You can also find yourself in hot water, your rent might cost an arm and a leg, and your plans can go out the window. Suddenly, you acquire a whole new set of metaphors to describe the goings-on in your life, which expands not only your vocabulary but also your imagination.  

In the end, learning a new language probably won’t give you superpowers — unless, perhaps, you learn to speak alien. What it might do, though, is add new tools to your mental toolkit or extra colors to your palette. The world itself may remain unchanged, but with every new language, our view can become a little wider and all the richer for it.  

Recommended TED talk: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RKK7wGAYP6k&t=70s 

Written by: Ecaterina Mazur