By: Hawi Bussa
I don’t know about you, but 2025 is sprinting. And I don’t mean a slow jog. I mean running, shoelaces untied, not stopping to catch its breath. One minute it was January, and now I’m staring at June like it owes me an explanation. And the worst part? I don’t even remember much of the in-between.
There used to be seasons I could feel deep in my bones. Time had texture. The air would shift. The months would unfold like chapters. And now? It’s all blur and bustle. I blink and the week is gone. I turn around and I’m older. People I haven’t spoken to in a year are getting married, moving countries, changing careers. I scroll through my feed and everyone is doing something. Becoming something. Racing the same clock I am, only they look like they’re keeping up.
But if I’m honest? I feel like I’m behind. Like time is a river and I’m stuck on the shore, trying to catch it with my bare hands. And every time I try, it just slips through—cool and quick and cruel. It makes me wonder: When did time become something I was afraid of?
There’s this ache I can’t shake lately. A sense that I’m not living fast enough for the speed at which life is happening. That maybe I’ve wasted too much time worrying, overthinking, trying to perfect things that just needed to be lived.
We weren’t built for this pace. This digital era where everything happens at once, where news breaks by the second, where we can scroll through ten years of someone’s life in ten minutes. We used to sit longer. Linger more. Look people in the eyes instead of at their stories.
And I miss that. I miss the slower versions of us. The ones who didn’t need a calendar reminder to drink water, to call a friend, to rest. I miss knowing what it felt like for a day to stretch long and soft, like a hammock in the sun. Time used to feel like something we moved with. Now it feels like something we’re chasing and losing at the same time.
But here’s what I’m learning—and it’s not easy: I can’t stop time. But I can meet it. Not with panic, but with presence.
If time is going to run, then maybe I need to walk slower. Maybe I need to pay more attention. Sit with people longer. Say what I mean. Put my phone down more often. Celebrate things even if they’re small. Make peace with not doing it all. Laugh hard. Love louder. Write things down so I don’t forget who I was while I’m becoming who I am.
Because time is scary. It is. But it’s also sacred. And if I keep fearing it, I might miss the beauty of what it’s trying to give me. Every passing moment is a chance. A page. A beginning. And I don’t want to be someone who only realizes the value of time after it's gone.
So if the year feels like it’s flying—good. Let it. But don’t let it fly without you in it. Cry if you need to. Pause if you have to. But live. Choose. Be there.
Time may slip through our fingers. But that doesn’t mean we can’t hold on to the meaning.