Time does not announce itself as it moves forward.
It makes no noise, asks no permission, and waits for no one to be ready. One day you are a teenager convinced you have all the time in the world; the next, you look back and wonder how twenty-five years passed in the blink of an eye.
As this year comes to a close, this is the thought that has stayed with me the most. Not in a dramatic way, just quietly and persistently. A growing awareness of how fast everything moves, and how little we notice while it is happening.
I am 42 years old. I do not feel old, but I do feel aware in a way I did not before. I remember being sixteen. I remember the year 2000, sitting in tenth grade, convinced that adulthood was something far away, abstract, almost theoretical. That year was also a time of change for me. I had just moved to a new town, meeting new people, making new friends, and babysitting for neighbors. I loved it deeply. Those children became part of my daily life, and caring for them gave me a sense of purpose and connection that stayed with me. Today, they are college graduates, adults living lives of their own, and I sometimes wonder if they ever think of me as I still think of them.
Part of this reflection has been shaped by watching those closest to me age, especially my babies, my dogs, Dante and Emma. They are always here beside me as I work, teach, write, and think. Sometimes they are quiet, sometimes not at all. They interrupt, they demand attention, they insist on being part of every moment. Day after day, they exist with me, sharing my routines and my time in a way that feels steady and grounding.
And yet, their time moves faster.
Dante’s health has changed drastically this year. Emma, now eleven, carries small signs of age that were not there before. These changes are not dramatic. They’re gentle. Almost polite. And maybe that is what makes them powerful. Loving beings who age more quickly reminds you, without saying a word, that nothing stands still. Time can feel cruel, especially when it comes to those who have so much love to give. With them, time is never enough. Their presence makes you aware of how fragile moments are, and how easily they slip past us, especially the moments we wish could last…forever.
Learning a language teaches you something similar. Progress is not loud. It is quiet, daily, and often invisible. You do not notice it happening. One day, you simply realize you understand more, speak more easily, and move more confidently through the world. Life works the same way. We do not wake up transformed. We accumulate days, experiences, habits, and love, and suddenly we are fluent in a version of ourselves we did not see forming.
This year did not end with a grand conclusion. It ended with awareness. With gratitude. With questions I am not in a rush to answer. And with the understanding that time does not need to slow down for us to live meaningfully. We simply need to learn how to notice it as it moves.
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