Happy Monday, Reader,

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As my birthday approaches, I’ve been thinking about time. What it means, how it’s measured. But more importantly about the power we give it.

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I’ll be turning 37 in two days. And honestly? I’ve never felt the urgency that most people seem to feel when they turn another year older. I wonder why.

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Most people start freaking out about “getting older.” But what does that even mean? Older?

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That question led me down a rabbit hole about time itself.

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Time is a societal construct. Early humans paid attention to the sun and moon to survive. Being out after dark meant danger. Later, farming required calendars and seasons. Time became useful, but not yet important.

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But somewhere along the way, time stopped being a tool and became a standard. A measuring stick. A judgment. That’s when things got messy.

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We started asking ourselves: What have I done by this age? What should I have accomplished by now? We measure value in milestones. Promotions. Paychecks. Publications. Productivity. And when we fall short, or even just feel like we do, we decide we’re wasting time.

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But are we?

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That’s what led me to existentialism (not the academic kind), but the kind that shows up at 2 a.m. when you’re lying in bed asking what the point of all this is.

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Existentialism is a philosophy that says:

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Life has no built-in meaning, but that doesn’t make it meaningless.

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Instead of assuming the universe hands us a purpose, existentialism tells us that it’s our job to create one. That we are not born into meaning; we build it. That the only authority on your purpose is you.

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And that hit me hard. Because I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I was behind. Like I had to prove my worth. Like there was a race I was running, but I didn’t even know the finish line.

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Existentialism shifts the question from:

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“Am I doing enough?"

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oo

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“Am I choosing what matters to me?”

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It doesn’t offer answers. It offers freedom… and responsibility. You get to define what matters. But you also have to own it.

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Which brings me back to my birthday.

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What have I done in the last 36 years of my life. Have I lived purposely?

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To some people it may seem like I’ve wasted my life, simply because I haven’t found a “true” purpose. But then I think about what Henry David Thoreau said, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately… and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

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I live every day with the knowledge that I’m building something significant. I wake up every day knowing that today I’m doing something deliberate. As Thoreau says, I don’t want to get to the end of my life and figure out that I was not deliberate.

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Thoreau didn’t go to the woods to escape. He went to remember how to live. To stop letting the outside world tell him what counted. To ask, quietly and clearly: what do I want this life to mean?

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Writing and the illusion of lost time

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And this is where it hits home for me, because I’m a writer.

And writers are constantly haunted by time.

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"I don't have time to write."

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"I'm wasting time trying to write."

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"It's too late."

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"I'll never finish."

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Every unwritten page feels like a failure. Every day not spent producing feels like it’s slipping away.

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But what if none of that is true?

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What if time isn’t slipping…it’s stretching?

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What if your pace is exactly what it needs to be?

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What if the quiet, seemingly unproductive days are composting something deeper?

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Einstein told us time is relative.

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Thoreau told us to live deliberately.

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Existentialism tells us to define meaning for ourselves.

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And I’ll add this:

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Time is not wasted if it was yours.

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If you chose it, if you were present for it, if it taught you anything (even how not to spend it next time)then it counted.

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The birthday that isn’t counting down

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So as I turn 37, I’m not asking if I’ve done enough.

I’m asking if I’ve been awake to my life.

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If I’ve been building something I care about, even if the blueprint looks nothing like what people expect.

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I don’t need my time to be impressive.

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I just need it to be mine.

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And if I can say yes to that (even on the slow days, the messy days, the invisible days) then I haven’t wasted a thing.

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So, what is time really? What is purpose? Where do we fit in those two concepts?

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Hit reply and let me know what you think about time, purpose, and the “dreaded” birthdays.

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With lots of love,

PS: Happy Halloween! And if you don't celebrate it, then... well, I'm not sure... Happy Dia De Los Muertos? Is that something people celebrate outside of Mexico? Oops...