The Woman in the Ice Cream Van

"The greatest weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another." — William James

She sat in the open hatch of her ice cream van, parked by the edge of St James’s Park — the kind of London spot where laughter and footsteps blur together in the hum of the city. The day was bright, but she looked as if the light reached her only partially.

Her face was thin, the lines around her mouth drawn a little deeper than her years might suggest. She couldn’t have been more than in her thirties, yet her expression carried the quiet fatigue of someone who’s had to grow strong just to stay afloat. Her fingers were stained, her teeth uneven — the marks, perhaps, of cigarettes smoked not for pleasure, but for release. It was as though she had burned through her memories one drag at a time.

Still, when she spoke, her voice was open — gentle but firm, unpretending. “Exercise,” she said, when I asked what helps her through stress. “Walking, running, being outside — especially in parks.” She looked past me toward the trees of St James’s, as if the sight alone offered a kind of relief. “It helps my mental health. It’s like… I can breathe again.”

She mentioned sleep — or the pursuit of it — almost with a laugh. “I suffer from insomnia,” she said, her eyes glancing downward for a moment. “So I try to exhaust myself — walking, running, anything to make the body tired enough to rest.” There was no drama in her voice, no self-pity, just the honesty of someone who has learned to keep going with whatever tools are within reach.

When I asked what life had taught her, she paused — a long, quiet pause, her gaze fixed on the passing crowd outside. “Some things,” she said finally, “we just don’t have control over.” She exhaled, and a faint, weary smile crossed her face. “You try your best. But not everything bends to you. Life’s like a rat race — everyone rushing, stressing. But some things… you just have to let go.”

Her words weren’t polished, but they carried the weight of truth — the kind learned not from books or therapy, but from long, hard years of endurance. Around us, the world kept moving: children tugging at parents’ hands, couples wandering by with cones melting faster than they could eat.

Inside her small van, though, there was stillness — the hum of the fridge, the faint scent of vanilla and waffle, and her quiet strength sitting behind the counter.

As I walked away, I looked back once more. She was leaning on the counter, looking out toward the park, eyes half-focused on something in the distance. There was no drama, no grand revelation — just a woman, surviving, finding moments of calm where she could.

And somehow, that ordinary perseverance — walking, breathing, accepting what can’t be changed — felt like the bravest thing of all.