How many songs have been written about time?
A ridiculous amount.
Apparently every musician eventually reaches a point where they stare out a rainy window, question mortality, and think:
“You know what? This album needs a clock.”
Pink Floyd gave us Time.
Jim Croce put it in a bottle.
Chicago asked if anybody really knows what time it is.
And if you’re somewhere between forty-five and “I suddenly make noises when standing up,” Semisonic’s Closing Time still activates something emotional in your nervous system you can’t explain.
Which is honestly alarming because that song is almost thirty years old.
Thirty.
Years.
That means people born when Closing Time came out are now old enough to complain about lower back pain and get emotionally invested in air fryer reviews.
Where did the time go?
Pun absolutely intended.
Lately I’ve been writing a lot about slowing down.
About noticing the small things.
The holy things disguised as ordinary life.
Morning light through the kitchen window.
Dogs sleeping without a single unpaid bill in their system.
My daughters laughing in another room while I pretend not to cry over something ridiculous like a commercial about fathers and daughters buying sneakers.
And I think part of the reason I notice these things now is because for the first time in decades… my schedule got quieter.
Which sounds peaceful until it happens to you.
Then suddenly you’re alone with your own thoughts at 5:17 in the morning wondering things like:
“Was I always emotionally exhausted or did adulthood just slowly turn all of us into raccoons searching for meaning near exhausted?”
Time feels different now.
When you work sixty hours a week, life moves like a hostage negotiation with Outlook Calendar.
Everything becomes:
next week…
after the meeting…
once things calm down…
this summer…
next year…
Meanwhile next year is outside doing pushups.
But when life slows down… even unwillingly… you start noticing how strange time actually is.
Mornings move slow.
Almost sacred.
Coffee steaming.
Dogs pacing.
Birds acting outrageously confident for creatures with no retirement plan.
The house quiet before the world starts demanding things from you.
Then somehow it becomes 3:14 PM.
And from there the day absolutely detonates.
Dinner.
Laundry.
Texts you forgot to answer three Tuesdays ago.
Someone needs a ride somewhere.
The dog throws up in the exact spot least convenient for human survival.
You sit down for what feels like four seconds and suddenly everyone is brushing their teeth.
Including you.
Again.
How are we already here?
How is bedtime always twenty minutes after lunch once you hit fifty?
And maybe that’s the cruelest thing about time.
Not that it moves fast.
It’s that you never notice it leaving while it’s happening.
You think you have more of it.
More time to make the call.
More time to say sorry.
More time to fix the relationship.
More time to write the book.
Take the trip.
Leave the job.
Start over.
Tell the truth.
Become softer.
Become braver.
But procrastination is sneaky.
It doesn’t look dangerous.
It looks like:
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Which sounds harmless until tomorrow quietly turns into five years.
I can’t even tell you how many people live inside my head now.
People I still mean to call.
People I still owe conversations to.
People I still rehearse apologies for in the shower like emotionally unstable TED Talks.
Or the nights I sit staring at someone’s contact name glowing on my phone screen… thumb hovering over the call button like it weighs five hundred pounds.
And every time I think about reaching out, another voice says:
“There’s still time.”
But that’s the lie, isn’t it?
Because one day there isn’t.
One day somebody moves.
Or gets sick.
Or stops waiting.
Or dies.
And suddenly the conversation you thought you’d have “eventually” becomes a conversation you carry alone for the rest of your life.
That’s the part nobody tells you about getting older.
It’s not the wrinkles.
Or the knees that sound like microwave popcorn.
Or realizing you now have a favorite grocery store.
It’s the growing list of things you thought there would be more time for.
I used to think time was money.
Now I think time is courage.
Because most of the things we delay are not logistical problems.
They’re emotional ones.
Fear.
Pride.
Shame.
Rejection.
Regret.
We say we’re “busy.”
But sometimes we’re really just scared.
Scared to hear silence on the other end of the phone.
Scared they won’t forgive us.
Scared they will.
Scared the relationship won’t feel the same.
Scared we wasted too much time already.
And maybe we did.
But maybe there’s still enough left for one honest moment.
One call.
One apology.
One “I miss you.”
One “I should’ve said this sooner.”
One awkward coffee meeting where two aging humans sit across from each other pretending not to notice how quickly life disappeared.
I’m writing this as much for myself as anyone else.
Because I still hesitate.
Still delay.
Still overthink.
Still sit on couches having entire motivational speeches internally while accomplishing absolutely nothing externally.
Nike says:
“Just Do It.”
Which feels inspiring until you realize half of adulthood is needing a slogan from a sneaker company to make basic emotional decisions.
But they’re right.
Do the thing.
Send the text.
Make the call.
Apply for the job.
Start the painting.
Write the page.
Say sorry.
Tell people you love them while they can still hear you say it.
Because someday your life will divide itself into two categories:
The things you did.
And the things you kept meaning to do.
And trust me…
Only one of those lets you sleep at night.
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