We Always Think There’s So Much Time: Until there isn’t (#419)

We always think there’s so much time.

Time to call a friend. Time to visit a parent. Time to send the message, make the trip, finish the project.

We imagine the future as a long stretch of open road, waiting patiently for us to arrive.

And then, something happens.

It might be a phone call in the middle of the night, a doctor’s appointment that changes everything, or simply the realization that someone we meant to see has quietly slipped out of our orbit.

The world doesn’t always announce its turning points with fanfare. Sometimes, it’s just the soft closing of a door, almost imperceptible, until we realize we can’t open it again.

The Currency of Later

We live as though time were a renewable resource. Something we can spend carelessly and replenish at will.

We save the good wine for a special occasion, the trip for next year, the words for when the moment is right.

But the truth is, later isn’t a currency. It’s a fragile illusion we trade in because the alternative - acknowledging the brevity of our lives - feels too sharp to hold.

Think about how often we postpone the simple things: the text we mean to send, the walk we keep rescheduling, the apology that lingers unspoken. We imagine that tomorrow will look just like today, and that everyone we care about will still be there when we’re ready.

Sometimes they are.

Sometimes they’re not.

The Weight of Unfinished Conversations

One of life’s quiet tragedies is how easily we assume there will be another chance. Another dinner. Another visit. Another time to say what matters.

And yet, if you’ve ever lost someone unexpectedly, or even gradually, you know the ache of unfinished conversations. You replay the missed calls, the postponed plans, the thought you meant to share but didn’t. It’s not guilt so much as recognition. The sobering truth that life doesn’t always give us closure, only moments.

The poet Mary Oliver once asked:

What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

Most of us answer that question in theory.

But the real answer is written in how we spend our days. In the calls we make, the love we give, the courage we muster to be fully present.

When the Clock Speeds Up

Time doesn’t always feel linear. In youth, it stretches endlessly ahead. An ocean of possibility.

By middle age, it begins to ripple, quicken, pull us toward the horizon.

And in later years, it feels like a current we’re carried by, not steering anymore. Swift and unpredictable.

It’s in those moments that clarity often appears. We realize that the greatest act of love, for ourselves and others, is:

To pay attention. To notice. To be there.

The gift of time isn’t in its length but in its depth, and in how fully we inhabit each moment before it passes.

Living in the Now We Have

So, what do we do with the realization that time isn’t guaranteed and that someday may never come?

We start small.

We show up.

We say what we mean while we can.

We write the note, make the visit, take the photo, forgive the grudge.

We stop saving the good china, and use it just because we’re here to enjoy it.

We look at the people we love and let them know it.

Because when we stop assuming we have time, life becomes sharper, richer, and infinitely more beautiful.

Every sunrise feels less routine and more like a privilege.

Every laugh shared feels like a small victory over impermanence.

The Gentle Reminder

We always think there’s so much time. Until the day comes when there isn’t.

And by then, the only thing that matters isn’t what we owned, achieved, or planned.

It’s who we loved, and how well.

So, if someone comes to mind while reading this, reach out.

If a dream has been sitting quietly in the back of your mind, give it air.

If life feels too busy to pause, remember that one day, the pause will be all that remains.

The clock is still ticking. But for now, we’re here.

And that means there’s still time to begin.

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