The Morning I Missed the Bus—and Found My Way Instead

The Morning I Missed the Bus—and Found My Way Instead

I was 17, late for school, and flying down the block in the middle of winter with half-frozen hair and a burnt piece of toast in my mouth. Classy. The yellow school bus came around the corner just as I was reaching the stop. I waved frantically, breath clouding in the air, but the driver didn't see. Perhaps he did, and just decided it was too late.

I remember standing there, out of breath and frustrated, thinking about how everything in my life was like that moment—me, always a step behind.

Instead of brooding, though, I decided to walk. The school was maybe 2.5 miles away, and the sidewalks were icy. I figured I'd be there in time, and maybe cool off in the bargain. Literally and emotionally.

Halfway along, I passed a small coffee shop I'd never noticed. Probably because I was always rushing by in a panic haze. I was cold, and I still had an hour to go. So, I stepped inside.

It was cinnamon and espresso scented inside. It wrapped me in warmth like a blanket. I ordered a hot chocolate I couldn't really afford and sat in the window. That's when I noticed an older man at the table beside me. He looked over, smiled, and said, "Missed the bus, huh?"

I laughed. "That obvious?"

We started talking. He told me he was a retired literature instructor. There was a quality in his soft voice and thoughtful words that calmed my stressed-out mind. He asked me what I was going to do after high school, and I stammered out the same old, "I don't know, maybe something with writing."

He leaned forward and said, "Then write. Don't 'maybe' do it. Don't wait for permission."

I can still feel the weight of those words. It wasn't counsel disguised as expectation or pressure—it was freedom.

We spoke for almost 45 minutes. I told him about how much I loved storytelling, how I wrote journals but never showed them to anyone, how I was scared it wouldn't be 'good enough.' He told me every writer feels that way. He said, "Write badly if you must. But write."

I eventually made it to school, much too late for homeroom, but strangely at peace. I didn't feel behind that day—I felt like I was precisely where I needed to be.

I did more writing after that. Nothing significant. Just short stories, blog posts, journal entries. But I wrote. And I continued to write.

Two years later, I was enrolling in a creative writing program. In my admission essay, I wrote of the day I missed the bus and found the little coffee shop that changed everything. I do not know what happened to that man. I never saw him again. But sometimes I catch myself wondering if he existed at all. Maybe he was just what I needed that day—a reminder that even detours are for a reason.

So now, when I'm getting behind or things don't go as planned, I pause. I think of that morning. And I say to myself: maybe I'm not late. Maybe I'm exactly on time for something I haven't seen yet.