How to Cry on the Train Gracefully

The Sacred Art of Public Tears

Once upon a time, catching a glimpse of me crying was rarer than spotting a double rainbow while holding a winning scratchie. If you saw it, you were basically chosen. Divine. The universe had parted its emotional clouds and bestowed upon you a rare moment of vulnerability. But that was then. These days? I don’t think a week has gone by where I haven’t quietly wept on my daily commute. Usually around 7:44am. Always with earbuds in.

My train ride is a gentle 30-minute breeze through suburbia. It’s air-conditioned, often sun-drenched, and gives just enough visual stimulation to feel romantic about life without being completely distracted from whatever playlist I’m using to score the morning. I love it. It’s my thinking space. My daydreaming capsule. My soft launch into productivity. But every now and then, mid-commute, the emotions decide to RSVP and crash the carriage.

Sometimes it’s a sad song. Sometimes it’s a memory I didn’t realise was still raw. Last week? I cried because my best friend gave me the most thoughtful Christmas present I’ve ever received (from him). Then I cried two days later because I had to redownload Bumble. Not because the second date with Scorpio fell through, but because I loathe digital dating and everything it represents. What did I get out of the Scorpio though? Two bloody good blog posts. And a refreshed hatred for small talk.

Choosing Your Cry Aesthetic

Crying on public transport is a niche art form. You want to be emotional, yes, but not unhinged. Controlled chaos is the vibe. We’re not going for sobbing, gasping, mascara-streaked TikTok confessional energy. We’re going for dewy-eyed poetic anguish. Crying, but make it chic.

I call it the “Soft Collapse.” It’s the glisten in your lower lashes as you stare contemplatively out the window. It’s one silent tear rolling down your cheek as you dramatically skip the track because you refuse to let Phoebe Bridgers ruin your mascara again. It’s giving Lana Del Rey trapped in a corporate dystopia.

The key is subtlety. Tilt your head slightly so the tear rolls sideways instead of vertically. It won’t smudge your makeup this way. Make your breathing steady. Sniffle no more than once every five minutes. And always, always have tissues in your bag. Not just for wiping tears, but because blowing your nose on your sleeve is never part of the graceful crying guide.

When the Tears Surprise You

Sometimes, the tears hit before you’ve even sat down. Maybe a lyric punched you in the gut. Maybe you saw a text you wish you hadn’t. Maybe your period is due in 14 minutes and you just watched an old couple share a banana. Doesn’t matter. What matters is accepting the emotion without letting it own you.

I used to feel deeply embarrassed by crying in public. As if feeling too much made me weak or unstable. But over the years, I’ve come to realise that suppressing emotion only ever made me feel worse. What starts as a single tear becomes a clogged throat, which becomes a stress headache, which becomes rage-texting your best friend about a comment someone made on Instagram 4 days ago. Don’t bottle it. Let it trickle.

Now, I view crying on the train as an act of emotional hygiene. You’re simply rinsing out the emotional buildup before work. Like a morning cleanse, but instead of exfoliating your skin, you’re exfoliating your soul. It’s honest. It’s raw. It’s efficient. You’re multi-tasking your trauma.

Practical Tips for Your Commuter Breakdown

Always wear waterproof mascara. Even if you’re not crying, city humidity is aggressive. Have a soft tissue or a microfibre cloth on hand. Napkins from your emergency snack stash will do in a pinch, but they can leave lint. Also, invest in good headphones. They double as a privacy bubble. You could be sobbing to Bon Iver and no one will dare interrupt.

Dress comfortably, but powerfully. If you’re going to cry, cry in an outfit that says, “I have a complex inner world, and also an important meeting at 9.” I often cry in beige trousers and a crisp shirt, which gives me the vibe of someone grieving a French lover who disappeared in 1973. Accessorise accordingly.

And finally: playlist matters. The wrong song will either dry up your tears or make you ugly cry. Curate a playlist that holds you gently in your grief. Think Florence Welch, early Adele, a few cinematic strings, maybe some Sufjan Stevens if you’re feeling brave. But skip anything that includes voicemail snippets. Those are emotional landmines.

Your Tears Are Not a Burden

If no one has told you lately: your emotions are not shameful. Your tears are not dramatic. Your little soft weep on the 8:14 to the city is not an inconvenience. It’s a moment. A release. A quiet, beautiful rebellion against a world that constantly tells us to keep it together.

Crying on the train doesn’t make you unprofessional, unstable, or unhinged. It makes you alive. It makes you real. It means you’re connected enough to your own feelings that they don’t have to stage a full mutiny to be acknowledged.

And if someone dares to glance over with that awkward half-smile of pity? Smile back. Make eye contact. Own it. Let them feel uncomfortable. Let them sit with their own emotions. Maybe you’ll inspire someone else to feel something they’ve been burying too.

Because guess what? You’re not crying for them. You’re crying for you. You’re processing. You’re releasing. You’re being human in a society that worships detachment. And if someone truly cannot handle the sight of a stranger wiping a tear from their cheek while vibing to the Bridgerton soundtrack? That’s between them and their therapist.

Thoughts from the Window Seat

Life is exhausting. People are confusing. Grief is sticky. Dating apps are garbage. And sometimes the only thing we can do is cry on public transport while pretending to look at passing trees. That’s not weakness. That’s survival.

The train is your stage. Your therapy room. Your moving confessional. You’ve got music in your ears, air con on your cheeks, and a one-way ticket to self-acceptance. What a vibe.

Crying isn’t weakness. It’s resistance. It’s being real in a world that rewards repression. So remember, if the tears fall between Wooloowin and Bowen Hills? Let them. Let them glisten.

Who Said Anything About a Crisis? – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking the midlife crisis myth. You know the one. The narrative that says women in their forties are supposed to be falling apart, panicking about relevance, desperately reinventing themselves before it's too late. We're told we should be burnt out, lonely with our cats, spiralling into some kind of existential breakdown that requires a retreat, a programme, or a very expensive rebrand.But here's what actually happens. You get comfortable. You get clear. You stop apologising for knowing what you like and who you are. The charm becomes fully operational. The gut instinct you've been overriding to be polite finally gets the microphone. And instead of a crisis, you get something much better. You get the glow up.Today we're talking about why the bar for female happiness is set so absurdly low, how your forties are actually when life gets good, and why no one needs to audit a woman who has spent decades deliberately curating her own existence. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @bryjaimea

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