The Day I Peed on Myself and Stopped Caring What People Think
The Day I Peed on Myself and Stopped Caring What People Think
This is the story of how I once pissed myself on a stalled New York City subway train—and why I wouldn’t trade that night for anything. It’s about shame, letting go, and realizing the world doesn’t revolve around you. Thank God.
The Day I Peed on Myself and Stopped Caring What People Think
It was 2 a.m. on a sticky summer night in New York City. I was in my twenties, buzzed from a night out, trying to make my way home on the subway. We pulled into a station—and then we just… stopped.
Doors stayed closed. No announcements. No escape.
And I had to pee.
Badly.
At first, I tried the usual tactics—wiggling, shifting, praying. But the train wasn’t moving, and neither was I. And eventually, well… I pissed myself. In shorts. In a crowded subway car. The kind of piss that travels—down your legs, into your socks, across the floor. A piss puddle, in motion.
And the best part?
Nobody said a word.
Not one person acknowledged it. They all just stared into the void like nothing was happening. And that’s when something unexpected hit me:
I was fine.
The world didn’t end. The sun came up the next day. My dignity took a hit, sure, but I was alive. And I learned something that stuck with me:
Most people aren’t thinking about you.
They’re thinking about themselves.
It was one of the most embarrassingly human moments of my life, and it taught me not to be afraid of embarrassment. You survive it. You get up the next day. And if you reflect on it, you come out of it freer.
Years later, when I was stationed in Korea and wanted to use my broken classroom Korean in the real world, I remembered that train ride. I remembered that feeling of being exposed—and how it didn’t kill me. So I just went for it. I butchered words, said weird phrases, used hand gestures too much, and kept going.
That walk through Korea — clumsy phrases, awkward interactions, but real effort — reminded me what connection actually looks like. I ended up writing more about that here, in a post about seeing people, especially the ones we usually overlook.
And here’s the thing: that attitude attracted people.
Especially women.
Not in a performative way—but in the way that people naturally respond to someone who’s unafraid. There’s something magnetic about a person who’s not trying to impress you—just living, learning, stumbling forward without shame. It pulls people into your orbit.
You don’t have to be the best, or the smoothest, or the smartest.
Just be in it. Be alive and unapologetic about the mess of it all.
Embarrassment is part of the deal. You’ll mess up. You’ll say the wrong thing. You might even pee yourself on public transit.
But here’s the truth:
Embarrassment fades. Growth stays.
So go for it. Say the wrong thing. Try the new skill. Talk to the person. Take the risk.
The people who get the most out of life aren’t the ones who never mess up.
They’re the ones who stopped caring that they might.
And if you need a reminder to stop wasting days worrying what people think, I started keeping a death clock. It’s been weirdly freeing — like a countdown that dares you to live.
The quiet hours come in many forms — an empty gym on a rainy day, a path through the woods, or the glow of vinyl spinning late at night. Each reminds me that solitude is its own kind of luxury.
Parenting a pre-teen sometimes feels like watching an eclipse—the light dims, conversation shrinks, and frustration flares. I’ve found myself losing my temper, but also found a way back: giving my son a true name—Rising Sun—to remind me who he is and who he’s becoming. This post is about discipline, anger, and learning not to dim his light.
Some nights, even with all the right sleep rituals, I still find myself staring at the ceiling until 3 a.m. The next day feels foggy, heavy, and frustrating. But I’ve discovered one small practice that helps me reset: a short midday meditation. It won’t cure insomnia, but it can save the day.
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