If the CTA could talk, it would tell stories you’ll never hear on the news. I’ve been riding it for 48 years and I’ve traveled to every corner of this city—from the Wild Hunnits to Evanston on the purple line, from the West Side to Midway, up to O’Hare on the North-West edge.

There is an unspoken silence among people who commute before the sun rises. There’s respect for women, children, the elderly. Some are coming home from work, some heading out, some returning from a party, and some simply using the trains and buses as a place to sleep. Women with rosaries. Men carrying giant coolers. Kids with book bags. Travelers balancing luggage. 

A quick camaraderie forms when strangers meet in a moving metal box reaching for hand rails finding balance and a place to squeeze and wait until it is their stop. There’s a pause, a shared breath and many times a holding of breath- layered scents of perfume, body odor, coffee, yesterdays lunch- all at once. 

Even the loneliest person isn’t fully alone when packed into an overcrowded car. An overheard conversation might become an interrupted confession, unsolicited advice, or someone handing over their last dollar when a rider is short on fare.

Some days, commuting is the only time I have to pause. In that pause, I might cry—ideally behind sunglasses, staring out the window with music in my ears. A little morning cry, not the booger-drenched sloppy cry. Tears of gratitude, or sadness over injustice, or maybe because I didn’t have time to stop for coffee.

A few years ago, I did an ugly cry on the Brown Line—the kind I usually save for the shower, curled into a ball so the water can disguise and soothe it. I cried because I didn’t think I could keep doing my job teaching yoga for trauma at a hospital for combat military veterans with PTSD. It was so sad and so heavy. I was having nightmares.  I felt really unqualified and that it was just too much for me to handle and sad for letting down the patients. 

When I stepped off the train, a young woman handed me a note. It said:

I don’t know what’s wrong, but you have every right to be upset because emotions are real and valid. I hope things work out and you are able to overcome your struggle, and I want you to know that you are beautiful and this stranger is thinking about you.

I was so touched, just looking at the words this young girl felt she had to write and hand to me. I took that as a sign that I shouldn’t quit. Because sometimes strangers who care make all the difference. Over the next six years, I continued my work at the hospital learning how how essential movement  and mindfulness is for the nervous system.

During the pandemic, I got my own taste of isolation, fear, and stagnation. I realized how lucky I was to have a job that allows me to move and be present in my body. I remembered that everyone carries some form of trauma, and that my moments of numbness were exactly why I needed to stay present for the communities I love.

Eventually my hospital work came to an end, and life shifted. I returned to the community I grew up in—Humboldt Park—working with children and parents, teaching the same practices that carried me: yoga, mindfulness and even journaling. Returning home to do this work felt like stitching together the pieces of everything I’d learned.

The other day  one of my clients gave me 20 pounds of chocolate. I thought I could Divvy home, but my body said: Take the bus. So I did. And on that bench I met two people.

A woman wearing a shirt that said Irish Do It Better. She told me she lived in a women’s home and just needed to sit for a minute.

And a man my age from Humboldt Park wearing more bling on his shirt than my sunglasses. He asked if I was Latina.

Soy Boricua, y Swissa. I replied.

He said, You look Blanca… pero not.

We laughed about our bling,  and then chatted if we knew the same people- which we did. Then I offered them each a bag of chocolate.

“The whole bag?” they asked.

Yes. The whole bag. I had plenty more.

I love Chicago.
The Chicago you won’t hear about on the news.