By Robert Clements
An Island in Your Head..!
It’s only 6 in the morning and already Manhattan is in a frenzy. Cars honking, buses groaning, and joggers zooming past like they’ve got to beat the stock market before breakfast. The air smells of ambition mixed with bagels and burnt coffee. I do my morning walk beside the East River, dodging determined runners and overly enthusiastic dogs. I wonder whether this city ever sleeps, or if sleep here is just a coffee break between meetings.
There’s something relentless about New York — and no, that’s not a complaint. It’s just how the city is wired. The skyscrapers aren’t the only things trying to reach the heavens; the people are too. Climbing ladders, chasing dreams, updating LinkedIns.
And then I see it.
A pedestrian bridge.
Not grand like the Brooklyn Bridge that graces postcards, nor flashy like Williamsburg’s with its art deco flair. Just an old, weathered crossing, quietly offering another way. No signage, no marketing. It wasn’t shouting, just inviting. And sometimes, those are the most meaningful calls — the ones that don’t scream.
Curiosity nudges me. I start walking. It creaks under my steps, the boards weathered by time and shoe soles from every corner of the world. Halfway through, there’s a hump. Not the kind you hop over and forget, but one that makes you question your knees, your age, and the number of vanilla ice-creams you had last night.
But I make it over.
And then, like someone hit mute on the chaos behind me — silence.
I’m on Randall’s Island.
And suddenly the same river that just moments ago echoed with sirens and subway rumblings now carries only the gentle lap of water against stone. Ducks glide past like they’re late for nothing. A bird tweets — not on Twitter, mind you, but in real life. That natural, melodic kind of tweeting we’ve almost forgotten about.
I look around. The air is still. My shoulders, which had been stationed somewhere near my ears thanks to the stress of surviving the city, drop into a natural place. I breathe. No, not the short, shallow gulps we’ve turned into a lifestyle, but a real breath. A breath my lungs have been waiting for. And in that moment, a thought ambushes me: “Why can’t life be like this?”
And then I realise — it can. You see, this island wasn’t tucked away in the Himalayas, or hidden in the Pacific Ocean with coconuts and hammocks. It was right here. A short bridge. A small hump. A little willingness to cross over.
Isn’t that how it is with our minds too?
Most of us live on the Manhattan side of our brains. Traffic. Tension. The to-do list that grows faster than our bank balance. Texts we forgot to reply to. Calls we don’t want to take. And that one email which begins, “As per my last message…” — which, if you didn’t already know, is corporate for, “Why are you still so dense?”
We’re always on. Always performing. Always pretending to have it all together while secretly Googling how to have it all together.
But inside each of us is a Randall’s Island. A quiet place. A still place. A space where ducks don’t care if you missed a deadline and the river doesn’t mind your unpaid bills. It’s calm. It’s clear. It’s where peace lives.
But — and there’s always a “but” — you’ve got to get there. And here’s the tricky part: the bridge to that peace comes with a hump. And that hump? That’s your worry. Your anxiety. That unresolved conversation from last week. That WhatsApp group that gives more stress than updates. That voice in your head that says, “You’re not enough,” every time you almost believe that you are.
Humps don’t vanish with positive thinking or reading a quote on Instagram with a sunset background. You have to walk over them. One careful step at a time.
Sometimes it means letting go of things.Sometimes it means forgiving people who don’t deserve it — for your sake.Sometimes it means putting your phone in a drawer and pretending it’s 1992.And sometimes it’s just about choosing to cross — even if it creaks and groans beneath your weight.But cross it, and what awaits on the other side is not utopia — it’s perspective. The chaos doesn’t vanish. The cars don’t stop. The city doesn’t suddenly go silent. You just stop letting it live rent-free in your head.
You begin to realise that life isn’t always about getting ahead. Sometimes it’s about getting away — even if it’s just across an old pedestrian bridge.
So, dear reader, find your bridge. It may not be a physical one, but it exists. For some, it’s early morning prayer. For others, it’s a jog in the park. For some it’s writing, for others it’s reading. And for a lucky few, it’s simply switching off the world and watching ducks do duck things.
Walk your hump.
It may wobble under you. Your knees may complain. Your phone may beep angrily, asking where you are.
Ignore them.
Keep walking.
Because beyond that hump is peace — not the peace of perfect circumstances, but the peace of inner stillness.
And that’s the kind of peace that powers you through Manhattan traffic and Monday morning meetings. Because sometimes, peace isn’t found in those flashy cars, nor in the speed they can drive. It isn’t in exotic getaways, expensive spas, or apps that promise mindfulness in five minutes. Sometimes what we need is an old pedestrian bridge in our minds, one that helps us cross over to a quieter self.
And as for the WhatsApp message my cousin sent back in 2018 — the one that still makes me roll my eyes — I haven’t replied.
Some humps, my friend, need a bit more huffing and puffing before they’re crossed…!
(Robert Clements is a newspaper columnist whose column “Bob’s Banter” appears in over 60 newspapers across the world. He sometimes finds ducks far more therapeutic than deadlines. You can request for his daily column on whatsapp by messaging him on [email protected])