My granddaughter and I share something: we're morning optimists. Not the relentless, everything-is-awesome kind, but the quieter type who wake up expecting the day might surprise us with something good. She's only six, so her optimism still has that pure childhood shimmer—unicorns are possible, every day could be Christmas. Mine is more weathered, shaped by years of reality checks, but it persists. Every morning, like clockwork, optimism arrives with the dawn, undeterred by everything I know about how days actually turn out.
My family doesn't always understand this morning enthusiasm; rather, they get it, but they're not always willing to go along with it. They need coffee, or quiet, or preferably both first. "Not before coffee," my wife mumbles when I try to share my latest optimism-sparked idea. She understands, though. Deep inside, she gets it because I wake up on most days like she does on Christmas morning. I respect the coffee-first rule, knowing my wife is only a holiday away from her own bouncing-out-of-bed optimism. My daughters grew up rolling their eyes at my morning cheer, developing elaborate strategies to avoid my pre-school perkiness. But my granddaughter gets it. She bounces into consciousness like I do, ready to embrace whatever adventures the day might hold.
I wasn't always this reliable with morning optimism. Or rather, I was, then I wasn't, then I found my way back. Life has a way of grinding down your enthusiasm, replacing possibility with predictability. For a few years before the accident, morning optimism had given way to morning weight—that heavy-chested feeling when another identical day waits. I was living in a downtown loft with stunning views that should have meant something. Commuting to Santa Ana, making good money, and in a decent marriage. But somewhere between the morning coffee and the evening traffic, the optimism had gone gray. Which is probably why I didn't see the train coming.
It was September 8, 2014. I remember this not just because you tend to remember the day you collided with public transportation, but because I'm blessed —or cursed —with remembering dates: birthdays, anniversaries, and random Tuesdays when important things happened. My family finds it fascinating. This particular date stuck for obvious reasons.
That morning, I decided to take a different route to work. Waze was suggesting the 110 to the 405, but on impulse, I veered left toward the 10 East onramp instead. It was one of those last-second decisions that feel like freedom—a small rebellion against algorithmic certainty. The intersection was one of those complex downtown tangles where the left lane serves both the freeway entrance and the city street. I saw a car turning ahead, thought my light was still yellow, and followed.
The horn blast hit me before comprehension did. Not a car horn—something deeper, more institutional, more unforgiving. Metro train. There's this moment, I learned, when your brain refuses to process what's happening, even as your body starts reacting. I had enough time to think "that's not good" and nothing else. I may have let out a little yelp.
The collision was both definitive and merciful. Multiple airbags I didn't know existed deployed from hidden compartments. My right shoulder and neck took the impact, but I walked away. Just bruises and a stunned appreciation for Subaru engineering.
"Man, there are some unhappy people on that train," the paramedic said, more concerned about a birthmark on my neck than any collision damage. His relief was palpable when I confirmed it had always been there. "Not many walk away from a train wreck," he added, searching for silver linings in my having just shut down Monday morning transit in downtown LA.
When I got home, my wife was appropriately concerned. My brother was inappropriately delighted by the aerial news footage. But it was something Corina said later, after the insurance calls and the nervous jokes, that stayed with me: "You need to snap out of this funk. I can see it each morning when you leave."
She was right. Somewhere in the daily grind, I'd let my morning optimism fade to morning resignation.
We made changes after that. Moved back to Huntington Beach, where the commute wouldn't feel like a daily surrender. Bought a house in New Orleans because we needed to feed our souls with something more than mortgage payments and traffic reports. Started paying attention again, not just to routines but to possibilities. It took a train to remind me that different routes are always available, even if some turn out to be mistakes.
Now, years later, morning optimism again arrives with the dawn. It's different than before—less about what I'll be when I grow up, more about what remains possible. My wife still needs her coffee first. My daughters seem a bit more appreciative of my enthusiasm, or maybe apathetic is a better word. Somewhere in Los Angeles, trains still run their morning routes—now separated, at least at one crossing at Flower St and the 10 East onramp, by a gate.
My granddaughter doesn't know about the train. Someday I'll tell her, when she's old enough to understand that life sometimes needs to knock you sideways to get you facing forward again. For now, we share simpler stories and morning enthusiasm. She bounces into consciousness expecting unicorns. I bounce into consciousness grateful to still be bouncing.
Every morning, we're both right. The day ahead holds something—if not unicorns, then at least the possibility of them. Even when you're old enough to know better. Even when you've been hit by a train.
Especially then.
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