Sitting at Wash Park, enjoying my egg croissant, I spotted a plaque on the bench beside me. It read, “Every love story is beautiful, but ours is my favorite” NS+JS 4.3.16. Curious about the couple’s story, I snapped a photo of the plaque and sent it to E. I took in the scene—the cherry blossom tree above, the playground behind.

In front, a group of young adults, likely teenagers or in their early twenties, lounged on the grass in a circle, presumably NYU students collaborating on a class project. As a passerby strolled past, I saw his fist clenched as he kept looking back at the students, trying to swallow the urge to say something. He then exclaimed, “A safe space, huh? Nice. Just wait till you get out into the real world, kids.” His words, though laced with cynicism, stirred a sense of empathy in me. How unkind had the world been to him? Yet, it seemed not everyone shared his experience; all the older women of Manhattan in designer attire and purses that cost more than laptops seemed to navigate life much easier, though perhaps it was presumptuous of me to assume so. My eyes returned to the students on the grass; I didn’t miss a thing about college. 

Dressed in unremarkable attire I relished the anonymity it afforded me for people-watching. Only the babies seemed to meet my gaze with interest. It’s as if everyone has a natural sense of being observed, but as we age, both things and people lose their marvel, and we become more guarded, less open to the world around us.

After I finished my sandwich, I went to the Jefferson Library, where I waited for its 10 a.m. opening. The garden out front provided a peaceful spot to finish my coffee before diving into my studies. I skipped out on wearing headphones and instead hummed the tune of “Soon as I Get Home” by Faith Evans.

In the garden, I observed three seniors at a patio table near the entrance, wondering about their lives—were they retired or still working? Further along the path, I spotted a woman near my age on a corner bench, tearfully wiping her face. Was she finding solace in past memories or mulling over present grief?

As a sensitive person, I often notice when someone is trying to hide their tears. Yesterday, during my pedicure, the nail technician unexpectedly began giving me a shoulder massage. I couldn’t help but wonder if she sensed my sadness that day and decided to offer me comfort. The idea of a stranger showing such healing kindness overwhelmed me, and I started to cry. I tapped her hands to stop, and later, I learned that complementary massages are commonplace at the salon. The realization that the gesture was impersonal dampened the initial sentiment, but it served as a reminder that sometimes, gestures aren’t as emotionally charged as they may seem at first. 

Similarly, perhaps the woman’s tears at the garden were prompted by something more common—a bad grade, petty relationship drama, or maybe she was also experiencing the emotions of her menstrual cycle like me.

That’s the thing about being on your period—it’s akin to having an uninvited life coach pushing you to thoroughly declutter your emotions. A forced reset. I can’t help but wonder how many of the world’s problems could be alleviated if everyone had a monthly emotional check-in.

-K.O