There’s a stigma attached to the phrase romanticizing everything. It’s usually said like an accusation. Like you’re naïve. Like you’re setting yourself up to be disappointed. But sitting on the L Train at 11:43 p.m., pressed between a stranger’s tote bag and a pole that’s seen more lives than I ever will, I’m convinced romanticizing everything is actually how we survive.
The train rattles the way it always does, too loud, too unapologetic, and either too fast or not fast enough. Someone is texting furiously. Someone else is asleep standing up. A couple is sharing one pair of headphones, leaning into each other like the rest of the car doesn’t exist. And the whole thing feels cinematic. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s happening. Romanticizing isn’t lying to yourself. It’s choosing to notice. It’s choosing to see the poetry in waiting. The tenderness in routine. The intimacy of small, repeatable moments that don’t look like much until you frame them differently. When you romanticize, you’re not denying hardship, you’re refusing to let it be the only story. We’re taught that realism is mature. That hope should be rationed. But honestly? Cynicism has never made anyone wiser. It just made them quieter.
Romanticizing everything is what keeps the mundane from feeling meaningless. It makes getting dressed feel intentional instead of obligatory. It makes the two pigeons sitting on your fire escape a “this is us in a different life” moment, rather than just two pigeons eating whatever could possibly be on your fire escape (ok but really… what were they eating?). On the L Train, romanticizing is how you forgive the delays. You tell yourself the pause exists so you can finish the song you’re listening to. So you can people-watch a little longer. So the love of your life can step off the M train and you can collide into one another at the Myrtle-Wyckoff station. And yes, sometimes romanticizing leads to disappointment. You imagine more than what’s there or you attach meaning to moments that were never meant to last. But, depth always comes with risk.
I’d rather be someone who sees too much magic than someone who pretends none of it exists.
Romanticizing everything means you believe that small moments matter because they’re all we really have. So I’ll keep romanticizing the L Train. The eye contact. The missed connections. The way the city feels like it’s breathing alongside you underground. I’ll romanticize the repetition of the ride, the familiarity of the route, the comfort of knowing where you’re going even when the rest of life feels unclear.
I’ll romanticize the ordinary resilience it takes to show up, to move through the city with your heart still open. The quiet choice to stay curious instead of closed off. The softness that survives even in crowded, unglamorous places.
If that makes me delusional, so be it. At least my life feels alive.
