I have a modest proposal for society. Can we please stop punching one another before we’ve even had our morning coffee?

Over the last two weeks, my commuter rides have turned into an unintended sociological field study. Twice, I’ve watched arguments erupt in front of me, escalating into actual punches. Not metaphorically. Not in some reality show. On my morning train. With people in business suits. At 8 A.M. Because apparently, the commute is now a contact sport.

In the first incident, a woman punched a man because he hadn’t moved far enough into the train car. She had stepped onto the platform to let passengers exit and felt disrespected when he didn’t accommodate her expectations. He didn’t hit back. He moved away. She followed him, pushing him. The police were called, and the rest of us got an involuntary extension of our morning at the station.

The second altercation began when a seated commuter objected to a very large man attempting to squeeze into the seat beside him. Words were exchanged. Tempers flared. And the smaller, seated man got up and punched the bigger guy.

Welcome to the 8 A.M. Fight Club. Membership is apparently automatic. No dues, just a MetroCard and a questionable relationship with emotional regulation.

Let’s be honest. Commuting is a uniquely unpleasant social experiment. We cram strangers into confined spaces, eliminate their personal bubbles, add noise, delays, body odor, competing interpretations of personal space, and the knowledge that everyone is already mentally at work before they’ve physically arrived. Some people are carrying deadlines, financial worries, family problems, grief, exhaustion, or the accumulated indignities of a life that hasn’t gone according to plan.

And then someone doesn’t move down the train car.

Or someone wants the seat next to you.

And suddenly, a minor inconvenience becomes a referendum on respect, dignity, fairness, and whether you are going to let some stranger get away with that.

Psychologically, we know that chronic stress can narrow our capacity for patience, impair emotional regulation, and make ambiguous social interactions feel more threatening than they actually are. Add a crowded environment, perceived disrespect, and an audience of strangers, and the temperature rises quickly. We stop responding to the immediate situation and start reacting to everything we’ve been carrying into it.

But here’s the thing. Understanding why people reach their breaking points isn’t the same as excusing what they do at them. Being frustrated is human. Punching someone because they annoyed you is a choice with potentially devastating consequences.

So what do we do?

We can start by reclaiming the space between feeling disrespected and acting on it. Not every perceived slight needs a response. Not every inconsiderate stranger deserves a confrontation. Sometimes the most psychologically sophisticated thing you can do is move away, take a breath, put on your headphones, and refuse to make a stranger the main character in your morning.

We also need to look beyond individual behavior. Crowded, unreliable transportation, long commutes, economic insecurity, demanding workplaces, and the relentless feeling that we’re all running out of time create conditions in which people have fewer reserves to draw upon. Better transit, less punishing work expectations, accessible mental health support, and environments that reduce rather than intensify stress matter. We cannot mindfulness-app our way out of every structural problem.

And perhaps we could all benefit from a little more generosity in how we interpret one another. The person blocking the doorway might be distracted, not deliberately disrespectful. The person needing extra room might be struggling with something you cannot see. You don’t know their story. They don’t know yours.

A little grace can prevent a lot of unnecessary misery.

Meanwhile, I would like to propose a new commuter motto. Nobody wins a fistfight on the 8:03 train. You might lose your job, your freedom, your dignity, or your front teeth. And for what? A few inches of seat space?

Calgon, take me away. Preferably somewhere with a private beach, reliable transportation, and absolutely no one trying to establish dominance before breakfast.

Until then, may we all get to work with our bodies, our tempers, and our criminal records intact.

And please, for the love of all things therapeutic, keep your hands to yourself.