The long ride to letting go

The moment the subway doors slid open, I was hit by quiet disappointment. The carriage was already full — every seat claimed, bodies swaying in practiced stillness. It was frustrating, especially since I had made a point of getting up early to conduct a long-distance interview.

This journey would take 50 minutes, half an hour longer than my usual commute, and I had envisioned using the time productively. As I stepped onto the train, I scanned the cabin for telltale signs of imminent departure: a raised head checking the map, a hand reaching for a bag, knees bouncing in anticipation.

Nothing. No hints. No hope.

By default, I stationed myself near two girls sitting close to the door. Stylish and relaxed, they were scrolling through their phones, whispering and giggling over snippets of gossip that fluttered above the rumble of the train.

They looked, to me, like they might hop off after a stop or two, on their way to a cafe or a shopping center.

But five stations passed, and they remained planted — locked in chitchat. Meanwhile, the train grew more crowded, and people who had boarded after me began slipping into newly vacated seats, guided by what felt like some invisible force of wisdom and timing. I stayed where I was, trapped by my misguided gamble.

As the train rattled on, regret curdled inside. My arm ached from holding the pole and my legs throbbed in protest. But more painful than the physical discomfort were the simmering irritation at myself and the voice in my head that kept muttering: "This isn't how it was supposed to go".

I had it all planned out — grab a seat early, settle in, and finish the last bit of a story I was working on. There was no looming deadline, just the quiet satisfaction of using time well. But now, all I had was this inner churn of annoyance.

Then, halfway through the journey, the train doors opened again, and a middle-aged man stepped in, holding a dark cane. He wobbled slightly with the train's motion, clearly visually impaired.

And in that moment, something remarkable happened. A young man — someone I had been silently envying for snagging a seat three stations earlier — stood up without hesitation. He gently tapped the blind man's shoulder, guided him to the seat, and stood back with quiet composure.

It wasn't performative, but instinctive — decent and generous. And just like that, something cracked open inside me.

I had spent half an hour fuming over the lack of a seat, fixated on what I didn't have. But I wasn't actually trapped. I had stood for others before — pregnant women, the elderly, parents with toddlers.

As I did some soul-searching as to why this had gotten under my skin, I realized it was the script in my mind: the expectation that if I played the game right — got up early, calculated smartly, positioned myself well — I'd be rewarded.

Maybe deep in my mind, I assumed the seat wasn't just a place to sit; it was proof that the universe was cooperating with my plans.

But I know life doesn't run on personal scripts. It moves to its own rhythm, indifferent to our calculations. The passengers who found seats after me weren't necessarily lucky, they were simply unattached to expectations.

Seats opened up during the final leg of my journey, but I didn't take them. I didn't need to. I was already standing with a quiet realization that had dissolved my earlier grievance.

I stepped off the train that day with a lighter, clearer mind. What I thought was wasted time had become an unexpected lesson — a nudge toward presence, humility, and gratitude. I saw how easily we waste our mental energy clinging to imagined entitlements and obsessing over small comforts.

In chasing a seat, I nearly missed the gift of stillness, perspective, and an unplanned moment of clarity.