The roar of the train coming to a halt filled my ears as I walked down the steps for the first time at sixteen.  My body tensed at the new loud sound ahead of me, not used to such volumes. I swiped my $1.50 Metro card and walked through the turnstile gate. My senses heightened at the new smells, sounds, and sights. I grew up in New York, so while none of what I experienced was unexpected, it was still jarring to see it alone for the first time.

Riding the train in New York City at that age felt like a privilege. I could join the millions of others in our city who embraced the freedom of local travel. It allowed me to meet friends, go to college, and become a commuter when I started working. However, my innocence became jaded by the tumultuous environment. Every day, I witnessed people living in the subway, crowds of tourists blocking my path, and dirty, and smelly platforms. The wonder of taking the train felt jaded by the environment. That is when the inward experience took center stage.

In my early twenties, commuting was a daily occurrence. The travel hours served as a space for me to think, read, and most frequently listen to music. In hindsight, it was not the safest way to manage the overwhelm of my surroundings, but I know that the best parts of creativity formed back then. It helped me grow as a writer and person. Having the ability to walk through the inside of my mind while trying to cope with the anxiety building within my environment. I wrote my first blog, gave my saddest thoughts space to process, and embraced the freedom in the rhythm of the songs in my headphones while I danced on the platform. A balance emerged between coping and falling in love with my innermost self.

The loud sounds grew less invasive. My whole body would tighten up with every jolt, whether it be the metallic shriek or a loud passenger. But over time, I realized that the confines of my mind were the greatest shield to my fears. I didn’t have to participate in the surrounding clamor; I could choose to let in only what kept me safe from harm.

Listening to my iPod was like a digital wall around me while I traveled. The moment my headphones settled over my ears, the train became into a more comfortable ride. Loud sounds no longer startled me. My focus shifted to the songs playing. The lyrics transported my mind from fear to curiosity. Often, a good playlist sparks a great writing idea.

Some days were silent, when I didn’t press play at all. These were the moments when I let my mind’s vulnerability in. The enforced stillness of sitting on the train gave them room to breathe and process. The lack of cell service blocked out the demands on everyone’s attention, so focus shifted to my daily contemplations. My imagination blossomed in full force, reflecting on memories that fostered greater mental and emotional growth.

Writing ideas developed as a byproduct of complete attention. The subway opened my mind to wander beyond my usual journey and dive into the creative realm, something I needed to put into words. I drafted notes on my iPhone that tested out scenes for my novel. I learned to drown out the worry-inducing volumes to focus on my passions. Each morning and evening would be an open space for plot possibilities.

There is power in claiming my “me time” in an area no one associates with peace. It feels earnestly resilient. Regardless of the commotion or unpredictability, I got to choose my reactions and redirect them to positive outlets. I was no longer drained but hopeful because of the rituals I created in my inner monologue, through music, and the building of stories. The truest journey underground is not the movement from one destination to the next, but the steady pace of finding yourself each day between the chaos and the calm.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero