i cried on the train

moving, new beginnings, and tears

It’s official - I was a cliche. I was that lady who cries on the train. It was 1pm and I found myself fighting back tears, resolved not to be a stereotype, as I made one of my final midday commutes to my office in Fidi.

I held the tears at bay as all of the emotions from the last couple weeks swirled around in my head, pushing at the dam that would send me into a freefall of hysteria and sob-ridden hiccups if I gave in. Because the man who I spent the last two months dating had turned into another failed situationship. Because I had gotten into the first real fight with my best friend. Because I was two weeks away from leaving some of my closest friends and the community I’d so passionately poured into over the last 4 years. Because my apartment was in so much disarray, strewn with half packed boxes and clutter I’d hoarded that I couldn’t walk two feet without tripping over a wayward shoe. Just because.

I hate crying in public. To know me is to know I hate crying in general. But the overwhelming weight of everything I’d been holding back was finally crushing down, and though I may have been resolved not to let the tears fall, they were resolved to push me to my breaking point.

A few months ago, I made the decision to move back “home”, i.e my parent’s house. And though the decision had been final for months and I’d spent the last year teasing it to my friends, often to a chorus of “please stop bringing it up,” it still didn’t come any easier.

I had my pros and cons down to a tee, rattling off the mixture of financial stress and “looking out for future me” that had initially fueled the decision like it was a memorized school report. I made my moving checklist and planned my own going away party, pressured to make everything perfect for my final days. I had it all together, it all made sense.

But as I sat on the train, sunglasses covering my eyes to hide my weakening facade, I fought not to crumble. A day before, I’d gotten a request for additional documents to the housing lottery (the same one I’ve been applying to since before I moved in 2021 but was just now somehow advancing to the final stages for). And as I read the email on the train, asking me if I wanted to tour a studio unit of a supportive housing building just a week before my move out date, I lost it. Because it was exactly what I did not want. Because it refueled my decision for moving. Because it made it real- I had to make this tough decision for myself and the future I knew I wanted, but it didn’t make it any less bittersweet.

“Working toward a goal, a project, a dream – it requires real dedication. It’s inconvenient. It’s uncomfortable.”

- from discomfort is the price you pay for a fulfilling life

Like most people, I’m pretty uncomfortable with change, avoiding it like the bubonic plague until I’m forced into situations that require me to abandon my previously cushiony circumstances. Moving 17 hours away back to my hometown in the height of my independence and personal growth journey naturally felt like a setback, one of the biggest changes I’ve had to do in a long time. It felt like starting over…

until I decided that’s what I needed.

Because I was starting over (in a way). I was resetting the expectations for what I wanted my life to look like, and re-grounding myself in my purpose, which at this stage in my life required a change of scenery. Instead of looking at it as a setback, I resolved to use this time as a foundation - the first steps to the life I’d already mapped out on my Pinterest boards but was just too afraid to take the leap into.

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My first few days home felt…calm. Optimistic even. Yes, I felt the twinges of sadness and held back *more* tears as I sent my final goodbye text to my community. But more than that, I had the chance to revel in my “boredom.” In days spent in consistent routine, waking up to the sound of my father clacking away in his office, and winding down with homemade dinners and family banter I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed.

I found time to tap back into my simple pleasures, like binging seasons of Ready to Love (one of the few dating shows I condone) and making my way through the growing list of books I promised myself I’d read in 2025. I’m exploring a city that sits stagnant in my Instagram bio like a trophy wife but I haven’t spent more than two weeks in since 2021.

“New York keeps me busy, yes, but it also keeps me distracted. There doesn’t seem to be enough space to hear myself think, to sit with what I really need.”

“And to me, if this is what boredom is helping me realize? Then I know the rest of my twenties, the little that I have left, will be the sexiest, most gracious yet. All because I chose differently.”

- from being bored is making me sexy

I’m trying to prioritize rest in the ways I’d lost living in the city that never sleeps, and become okay with doing nothing again. I’m putting a spotlight on more intentional hangouts with friends, but also re-finding the glory in days spent alone.

Truth is, in the words of my good friend - i don’t know what the f*ck I’m doing - but I finally feel like I have the time to figure it out. I was so resolved to not be that lady crying on the train, but I know now she was just figuring out how to say goodbye and make room for the next chapter. And the next time I find myself shedding tears on public transit, maybe I’ll let them fall.