Today, I busted it on the subway

Today, I busted my ass on the subway stairs. Like, one of the hardest falls I’ve ever had. One minute, I was walking into the Columbus Circle station at 57th and 8th, and the next minute my Birkenstocks slipped on the wet landing and my entire body went down hard. I was stunned and disoriented and thought, for sure, the force of that fall had resulted in a broken tailbone. I yelled profanity as I went down and have never been so thankful that nothing fazes New Yorkers.

I sat on the steps, silently communicating with my tail bone to see if we were broken. We weren’t but were severely bruised. I saw feet around me. Oh yes, people. Rush hour. Rain. Four humans wordlessly knelt down beside me, returning my phone, lunchbox, headphones, and apartment keys that had fallen into puddles. It took me a few seconds to pick myself up and get words out. I think people asked if I was okay, and I think I said yes. I looked around to make sure I had everything, mentally cursing my shoes that were unfit for rain, when the man who had helped me up caught my eye. “Get home safe,” he said, and gave me a nod of solidarity. Of dignity. As if to say, “You’ve had a hard fall, but you’re okay. We’ve all fallen on our asses before too, but we keep going.”

And I walked (limped) through Columbus Circle station, returning to the facelessness of New York City rush hour.

Moments after flailing. Everything hurts.

There are so many humans in this city, most of them unfamiliar. I think that’s why people are afraid of it. They see the big city as a scary, dangerous thing to hold at arm's length. I know I did. The unfamiliarity feels unkind or unsafe at a Times Square cross walk on a subway turnstyle. it’s you against the mob. But I love seeing this mob unravel into individuals. Most of them turn out to be kind and decent, especially when you bust it on the subway steps.

A few months ago, in the dead of winter, I jumped on the 1 train headed downtown to work. I wriggled my way onto the overcrowded train, arranging my tote bag on my arm and finding a rail to hold onto, when I felt the gentlest touch on my left shoulder. Unbeknownst to me, my scarf had unwound from around my neck and hung down my back. But someone, on this annoying, cold, and crowded train with annoyed, cold, and crowded people, gently moved my scarf back onto my shoulder, smiled, and hopped off at the next stop. It was the kindest, purest gesture. And my heart melted.

I love the humans of New York because they show me, every day, that they’re not just a mob of angry people trying to cross an overcrowded street. They’re individuals, just like me. They're people. Not dangers to be avoided or celebrities to be worshiped. Sure, they get mean, but so do I. And at the end of the day, we're all just trying to navigate this insane life in this insane city, sometimes getting frustrated, sometimes getting bad luck, and sometimes tenderly noticing a blustering girl who can barely keeping her scarf on. It’s the wordless kindness that touches me. The silent nods, the eye contact, the smiles and knowing glances. A door held open, set of keys returned, a strong arm to help the clumsy ones up out of puddles. There doesn't always need to be conversation, but there’s connection.

If I were to fall again, I wouldn’t be alone. I would be one of the millions of people that bust their ass out here every day, get up, and keep going. New York doesn’t play safe or easy. You get hurt and you’re not special. But you’re not alone. And that’s why I love it. This city is full of kind and compassionate, tough and resilient people. I’m proud to live among them, to slowly develop that battle-worn hardness while preserving an inner tenderness, showing it when necessary.