The 8.47 from Hackney Downs is always a squeeze. Bodies pressed together like sardines that forgot they had a choice. I used to shuffle sideways the second a bloke came barreling down the aisle, shoulders first, eyes on his phone. Automatic. Like my feet had their own programming. Step left. Make space. Don’t be the one who causes a fuss.
That stopped about three months ago.
It was a Tuesday. Rain coming down in that thin, miserable way that soaks through your hoodie before you even notice. I was standing near the doors, vape in one hand, blue nails tapping the window because the signal was rubbish and I needed to check if the Coven had seen my last thread. A man in a navy suit came through like he owned the carriage. Big guy. Not huge, just the kind who walks as if the rest of us are scenery. I started to move. Old habit. Then I heard Sarah’s voice in my head.
Sarah from the features desk at the old place. We were in the pub after a particularly grim edit meeting. She was halfway through a pint and she just said it, casual as anything. “You know you do that thing, right? On the Tube. You always give way. Men never do. I’ve watched you.” I laughed it off at the time. Called her a nosy cow. But it stuck. Like chewing gum on the sole of your trainer.
So that Tuesday I stayed put. Feet planted. The man came right up to me, waited a beat, then had to twist his body around mine. He made this little huff. Not loud. Just enough. I looked at my reflection in the glass and grinned. Tiny win. Felt stupidly good.
Now I do it every time. Packed trains, rush hour, the lot. I stand my ground. Sometimes I even put one foot up on the opposite seat if it’s empty enough, vape cloud drifting while I scroll. People notice. A few women have given me the nod. One older lady last week actually said “good on you, love” under her breath as a bloke had to wait. Most men just look mildly put out. Like I’ve broken some unspoken rule they didn’t know they were following.
It is an unspoken rule. That’s the point. We learn it young. Move aside. Don’t take up space. Be polite. Be small. I grew up in Basildon where the pavements were narrow and the lads took the middle without thinking. Mum used to tug my sleeve. “Let them past, Emma.” She meant well. Didn’t want trouble. But it adds up. All those little steps to the side. All those times you make yourself narrower so someone else can stay wide.
London trains make it worse. Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone thinks their time is more important. I used to count how many times I moved in one journey. Six. Seven. Once it was nine before we even hit Stratford. Ridiculous. I was the one with the deadline. I was the one who needed to get home, kick off my shoes, and write the thing that might actually pay the rent this month. Yet I was the one making space.
The first week I tried it I felt like a fraud. Heart going a bit quick. Waiting for someone to say something. No one did. That’s the funny part. They just adjust. They go around. The world doesn’t collapse because one woman in a slouchy hoodie refuses to play the game. I started noticing other things too. Who holds the door. Who stands in the exact middle of the pavement. Who expects you to wait while they finish their conversation blocking the whole platform. Small stuff. Everyday stuff. The kind that never makes the news but lives in your bones.
I told the Coven about it one night. Voice note at half eleven, cherry vape going, feet up on the coffee table. “Girls, I have a new hobby. Not moving.” They lost it. Proper cackling. Jess said she’d try it on the Central line and report back. Priya sent a string of fire emojis and a photo of her own trainers planted firmly on the District line. It became a thing. Not a campaign. Just us noticing. Sharing the little moments. One of them got a proper dirty look last Friday. She stared back until the bloke looked away first. We all cheered in the chat like she’d won a medal.
It isn’t about being rude. I still say excuse me if I need to get past. I still move for pushchairs and old people and anyone who actually needs the space. That’s different. That’s basic human. This is about the default. The assumption that I’ll be the one to yield. I used to think it was just manners. Now I see it as training. Years of it. From school corridors to supermarket aisles to these rattling carriages that smell of wet coats and last night’s kebab.
Some journeys I still catch myself starting to step aside. Muscle memory is a stubborn cow. I have to lock my knees and stay. Feels weird for a second. Then it feels right. Like I’ve taken a bit of myself back. The train rocks and I stay planted. Blue nails on the pole. Vape in the other hand. Watching the city blur past. Hackney to wherever the story takes me that day.
I think about the women who came before. The ones who had to fight for the vote, for equal pay, for the right to sit where they damn well wanted. This is tiny by comparison. I know that. I’m not pretending it’s the same. But the principle is there. Space. Who gets to occupy it without apology. Who is expected to shrink.
Last month I was on the Overground coming back from a gig in Dalston. Packed solid. A group of lads got on at Canonbury, loud, taking the whole width. I didn’t budge. One of them actually said “alright love, make some room.” I looked at him. Proper look. The one Mum used to give me when I was being a nightmare. He laughed it off but he moved. His mate muttered something I didn’t catch. Didn’t matter. I stayed where I was. Felt the carriage shift around me instead of the other way round.
That’s the shift. Small. Daily. Mine.
I still get the odd comment. “Cheer up love.” “Not very friendly are you.” I just smile and keep standing. Sometimes I put my foot up if the seat opposite is free. Not to be extra. Just because I can. Because the space is there and I don’t have to give it away anymore.
The Coven reckons I should turn it into a thread. “The Great Train Stand-Off” or something equally dramatic. I might. Or I might just keep doing it quietly. Some protests don’t need a hashtag. They just need you to stay put when the next bloke comes through like the carriage belongs to him.
I get off at my stop now and the platform feels different. Wider somehow. I walk through the barriers without that old automatic sidestep. The habit is breaking. Slow. Uneven. But breaking.
Tonight I’ll be on the same train home. Same squeeze. Same chance to choose. I’ll plant my feet. Light the vape. Watch the rain on the window. And I won’t move unless I actually want to.
That’s the whole thing really. Wanting to. Not because someone else decided I should. Because I decided I don’t have to.
The doors will open. The crowd will spill out. I’ll step onto the platform in my own time. Hoodie up. Nails bright. Still here. Still taking up the space I paid for with my own two feet.
And tomorrow I’ll do it again.