Let it go

TW: assault

Last month, I was assaulted at the train station.

It was a Saturday evening at a busy Green Park station, buzzing with passengers heading to and from Winter Wonderland. I was dressed to the nines—5-inch platform heels, a patchwork multi-colored coat—on my way to a friend’s birthday dinner. I stepped off the Victoria line beaming.

Just moments earlier, a couple on the train had complimented my coat which I received with glea. I say “received” because I’ve been consciously trying to accept compliments without qualifying them. I left the carriage glowing—I felt good, I looked good, and I probably smelled good too.

What could go wrong?

Everything.

As I made my way to the escalators through the narrow concourse, I felt a sudden swoosh as my body hit the wall hard. A stranger had body-slammed me.

I froze—but only for a nanosecond.

I grabbed her arm. Reflexes kicked in, whether from netball or mum instincts, I don’t know. Shocked, I gasped:

“Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing?”

Her reply was unequivocal. She punched me in the face!

My left eye instantly started to drip. My face was hot, and so was my rage.

Now, I’m holding onto her coat with both hands. People are staring. The platform is five feet away, and my mind is racing. Should I hit her back? Should I throw her onto the train track?

Then I remember: I’m a lawyer. I’d be held to a higher standard if I retaliated. I think of my young daughters—what would they think if they saw me respond with violence? I thought of the optics of a black woman hitting a white woman, even in self-defense.

A spectator told me to let it go: “She’s not worth it.” I agreed she wasn’t worth my energy. I let go.

And fled the station in tears, dodging through the crowds. In my rush, I forgot to report the incident. Shaking, I made it to my friend’s dinner, where I instantly broke down, sobbing in front of a jam-packed restaurant. I couldn’t stop.

I had been violated. I was a victim. And yet, all I could think about was her. Why would she hit me? What was her life like? Was she mad? Sad? Broken? Who hurt her? But also… why didn’t I hit her back? Why didn’t I tell anyone?

Letting go

For a week, I replayed the scene over and over. I analysed every second, looking for my fault; imagining all the ways I could have changed the outcome.

After some encouragement from my family and therapist, I reported the incident to the police. Even knowing it was unlikely they’d take the case, sharing it gave me release. When I received a letter from the British Transport Police saying the case was unlikely to result in investigation and was therefore closed, I felt even more relief.

It was done.

I realise that this is something I do in my creative process as well. I replay everything—every brushstroke, every word, every idea—trying to perfect it. Pointing out the errors. Looking to change the outcome.

But eventually, you have to stop. You have to let it go.

The same is true for creativity. That’s why sharing your work is so important—it’s an act of letting go. Once it’s out there, there’s less opportunity to fixate, to overanalyse, to spiral.

Letting go doesn’t mean you stop caring. It means you free yourself to move forward.

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Your Turn

What’s something you’ve been holding onto, in life or in creativity? This week, I encourage you to let it go. Maybe it’s a half-finished project you’ve been agonising over. Or maybe it’s something you’ve been afraid to share because it doesn’t feel “good enough.”

Let it out. Let it go.

Have a lovely weekend.

Salome

P.s. I’m ok (now). Time has passed and I’m proud of how I responded and for standing up for myself. I ain’t no punk!