The train was just a thought

You didn’t miss your stop, you just forgot you could walk

There’s a train, somewhere, that you think you missed.

It pulled away too fast.
You weren’t ready.
You were still staring at the map, trying to figure out which platform you were even standing on.
By the time you looked up, it was gone.

Now you’re just... here.
Holding your ticket.
Wondering if that was it.

But life isn’t a train you missed.

It’s the field it passes through.
It’s the trees waving as it goes by.
It’s the dandelions growing between the tracks.
It’s the sky overhead, indifferent to arrival times.

It’s everything you forgot to notice while staring at the schedule.

There’s coffee cooling on a bench beside you.
Footsteps going every direction except where you thought you needed to go.
And person who hums to themselves while waiting in line.

Just like there are well-loved mugs with little chips at the rim.
Porches that creak just right and dish soap that smells like lemon.
There’s a dog somewhere, sitting by a window, believing with its whole heart that someone’s coming back.

There are notes stuck to fridges.
There are half-read books on nightstands.
There are plants leaning toward windows like they’re listening.

There are grocery lists with three things on them and twenty things in your head.
There are backpacks leaning against chairs.
There are jackets on the backs of doors that still hold the shape of yesterday.

You haven’t missed it.
Life is still happening.

I know it doesn’t always feel that way.
Sometimes it feels like everyone else got on the train.
Like they knew the stop.
Like they understood the map.
Like they boarded something meaningful while you blinked and lost your shot.

You want to ask someone, anyone, if they’ve seen your moment go by.
You want someone to say, “You’re still early.” Or, “This one loops back.”
But all you get is the echo of a whistle, fading down a track you can’t see anymore.
And that silence can sound a lot like failure if you don’t know how to translate it.

But here’s what I keep learning, again and again…
There’s no single train, and no final boarding call.

But it makes sense why it feels that way. We live in a world that teaches urgency like it’s the only language worth speaking. Like every moment must be maximized. Like every breath should prove something.

And when you can’t keep up, when you pause, when you’re tired, when you don’t know where you’re going, it can feel like the doors have shut for good. Like you’re not just behind, but broken.

But you’re not. You’re human. And sometimes being human means standing still for a while, heart pounding, eyes blurry, trying to remember what the point was before everyone started sprinting.

It means realizing the map was never the destination. It means forgiving yourself for missing a stop you were never meant to take. It means listening, really listening, to the part of you that’s still here, still beating, still amazed that it gets to be.

The train is just a thought that passes through.
But life stays.
It waits.
It grows back around you.

Gardens don’t care what day you plant the seed.
And life doesn’t care how long it took you to look up.

There’s a cherry tomato ripening somewhere right now.
There’s steam rising from a cup of tea you haven’t made yet.
There’s a tree outside your window that has no idea what you’ve been carrying, and it’s still going to bloom.

There’s a sock without a match that still deserves to be worn.
There’s a mug in the sink from yesterday, still ringed with cinnamon.
There’s a stranger who will be kind to you today, for no reason other than it felt right.
And that matters.

Nobody schedules the moment the tomato ripens.
It just happens. And you either notice it, or you don’t.

We talk so much about milestones, big moments, headline-worthy updates.
But the stuff that actually makes life feel like life?

It’s the in between moments. When the tomatoes are slowly changing color from green to red.

The half-load of laundry you remembered to fold.
The neighbor who smiles with their whole face like you’ve known each other for years.
The moment the light hits the floor just right and makes everything look like it matters.

These are not signs you’re behind.
These are signs you’re here.
You were just looking in the wrong direction.

And being here… That’s the whole thing.

Not being on board.
Not catching up.
Just being here. Awake. A little amazed.

Because the plants still leaned toward the light, even when you forgot to open the blinds.
Because someone’s still humming in the checkout line, even if you haven’t looked up in a while.
Because life doesn’t punish you for forgetting, it welcomes you back whenever you remember.

You don’t need to explain where you’ve been.
You don’t need a plan.
You can start again while the water’s boiling.
While the toast burns.
While you're standing in the hallway, unsure what you came in for.

Start with what’s in front of you.
That’s all it takes.

By noticing the steam on the mirror.
By petting the dog.
By lighting the candle you’ve been saving for “the right time.”
By smiling at the stranger who looks just as unsure as you.
By laughing at something dumb and not explaining why.

You can look around.
You can get off the bench.
You can walk into the wild and blooming field that’s been here this whole time.

You can write your own map.
Circle a random spot and say, “This is where I start.”
You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you got here.
The important thing is, you’re here. And there’s still time.

The train was never the point.
It just gave you something to chase.
But chasing isn’t the same as living.
Because life isn’t waiting at the end of the line.
It’s what’s happening all around you, while you were so busy trying to catch up.

It’s the moment you notice you’re still breathing.
It’s the way the floor feels under bare feet.
It’s the tomato you used for pasta sauce, the soft socks, the second chance to care.
It’s not a destination.
It’s a return.

This is your life.
And it’s glad you’re here.