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Life Isn’t Meant To Be a Race
The moments I rush through are often the ones that matter most.
I think about my childhood a lot. Not the stories or the milestones. But the feeling of it. Back then, time didn’t just stretch. It felt endless. Summer afternoons would spill into evenings. The edges blurred with sticky popsicle fingers. The crunch of bike tires on gravel. The hours felt like they belonged to me. Like I had more than enough of them.
I remember lying in the grass. The blades are cool and prickly against my skin. Staring up at clouds that seemed to hold whole worlds. I could spend hours just watching them drift. Letting myself drift. The only thing that mattered was catching fireflies before they disappeared into the night. That version of me didn’t know how to rush. I don’t think it even crossed my mind that time could run out. But somewhere along the way, time changed. Or maybe I changed. Either way, it became harder. Rigid. Like clay left out too long. Now, it’s divided into neat boxes on a schedule. And each box demands something from me. Productivity. Accomplishment. Forward motion.
I can’t remember when adulthood slipped in and stole my childhood joy. It wasn’t dramatic or sudden. It was quiet. Like ivy creeping up a wall. One day, I woke up and time wasn’t something to enjoy anymore. It was something to manage. To…