The Wrong Train

I don’t know who to give the credit to for this picture but it so resonated with my soul!

The train rattled along the winding tracks, cutting through misty evergreens and forgotten towns. I watched the landscape blur past the window—soft hills cloaked in amber grass, pine trees bowing in silent witness. There was something hauntingly beautiful about the ride, yet a growing knot in my chest reminded me I didn’t belong on this journey.

I boarded this train months ago, maybe years. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent—just a way to escape, to forget. But somehow, the longer I stayed seated, the more it felt like my seat had molded to me, like my silence had made a home here. I made friends with distractions and found comfort in the hum of forward motion, even as each mile pulled me further from the place I used to call “home.”

Home. The word wasn’t just a location—it was the version of myself I’d left behind. The hopeful, vibrant girl who dared to dream and dared to leave. She had packed a bag full of ambition and carried a heart light with laughter. But somewhere along the tracks, her bag got heavier and her laughter quieter.

It hit me one chilly morning, somewhere between Nowhere and Regret, that I’d boarded the wrong train. Not because the journey hadn’t taught me anything—it had. But because every destination it promised was never meant for me. And every stop I passed was another reminder of the cost of staying too long.

“The longer you stay on the wrong train, the more expensive it is to get back home.”

The words echoed as I stood at the exit, hand trembling on the rail. I didn’t know how many more stops I’d miss if I waited. I didn’t know if home still looked the same or if I’d even recognize the way. But I knew I had to get off.

So I did.

I stepped off the train, onto uncertain ground, into cold air and clearer skies. And in the quiet, as the train pulled away behind me, I finally heard it—the whisper of my own soul, reminding me that it’s never too late to turn around.