Yesterday morning, while many people were preparing for Valentine’s celebrations, I made a different decision.
I woke up early.
Not because I had somewhere urgent to be. Not because I had a romantic plan. But because I needed space, mental space.
Valentine’s Day can be loud. Social media becomes filled with flowers, surprises, red outfits, dinner reservations, couple photos, declarations of love. It almost feels like there’s a script everyone is expected to follow.
And as I sat on my bed that morning, I asked myself something honest:
Am I different?
Everyone seems to celebrate it for a specific reason. But for me, I didn’t feel like following that pattern. I didn’t feel like pretending to be part of something I wasn’t emotionally aligned with at that moment.
Instead, I felt the need for something deeper.
Reflection.
Meditation.
Stillness.
So I left the house early.
The air was calmer. The roads were not yet chaotic. The morning carried that quiet Lagos energy - not asleep, but not yet overwhelmed.
And almost instinctively, I decided to board the train.
From Mile 2 to Marina.
No appointment. No destination waiting. Just movement.
I wanted to sit somewhere in transit, somewhere that allowed me to move physically while thinking mentally. Sometimes motion helps clarity. When you’re on a train, you’re not in control of the direction. You just sit. You observe. You allow the journey to unfold.
That morning, I needed that.
Inside the train, I found a seat by the window. I let the rhythm of the tracks settle my thoughts. I watched people come in, sit down, scroll their phones, adjust their bags, stare quietly ahead.
Everyone was heading somewhere.
And I was heading inward.
I began to reflect on my life. On where I am. On where I’m going. On the things I haven’t said out loud. On the expectations society places on timelines; relationships, achievements, milestones.
Valentine’s Day can sometimes amplify those questions.
But instead of letting it create pressure, I allowed it to create awareness.
And as I sat there thinking, I started noticing the visuals around me.
The way morning light entered the carriage through the glass windows. The patterns formed by rows of seats. The soft reflections of passengers layered over the outside scenery. The symmetry of the train interior.
Photography became my quiet companion in that moment.
I wasn’t taking pictures of people directly. I wasn’t trying to invade anyone’s privacy. Instead, I was capturing atmosphere, the feeling of being in transit, surrounded yet alone.
And then, through the window, I saw the National Theatre.
Strong. Distinct. Architectural.
Even in the daylight, it carries weight. It feels symbolic, like a landmark that has seen different eras, different people, different stories pass by.
From inside the moving train, it looked framed. Almost cinematic. The building outside standing firm while we moved past it.
I quickly adjusted my phone and took the shot.
The glass created subtle reflections, blending the inside and outside worlds. The motion added slight blur. It wasn’t technically perfect, but it was emotionally real.
That frame captured more than a building.
It captured contrast.
Inside: a moving carriage filled with individual thoughts. Outside: a fixed structure grounded in one place.
In that moment, I realized something.
Sometimes we think everyone else is moving ahead, celebrating, achieving, pairing up - while we feel stationary in our own lives. But maybe it’s not about keeping pace with others.
Maybe it’s about understanding your own direction.
That train ride became my meditation.
From Mile 2 to Marina.
And then back again.
Yes, I didn’t even stop long at Marina. I simply stayed on, let the train turn, and returned. It wasn’t about the destination. It was about the process.
The movement gave me clarity.
It reminded me that being alone does not mean being behind.
It reminded me that reflection is also growth.
It reminded me that sometimes you need to step away from noise - even celebratory noise, to hear your own thoughts clearly.
Photography helped anchor that experience.
Each shot from that ride represents a layer of that morning:
The quiet carriage. The filtered sunlight. The passing cityscape. The National Theatre framed by a train window. The feeling of observing without needing to perform.
Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to look the same for everyone.
For some, it’s dinner dates. For some, it’s gifts. For some, it’s quality time with a partner.
For me, this year, it was a train ride.
A conversation with myself.
A question : Am I different? answered not with insecurity, but with acceptance.
Yes, maybe I am different.
And maybe that’s okay.