I don’t think about time as something that moves forward in a neat, obedient line. For me, it drifts. It doubles back. It lingers where it needs to. Some days, it shows up unexpectedly—in a familiar song, a quiet morning, a reaction I didn’t anticipate. And more often than not, it settles in the past.

The past doesn’t arrive as scenes or memories anymore. It shows up in subtler ways. In the instincts I trust now without second-guessing. In the pauses I allow myself instead of rushing to respond. In the boundaries I keep without explaining. I don’t return to the past to relive anything—I return to it to understand. Time has softened what once felt sharp. Distance has filtered out the noise and left behind what actually mattered. What once overwhelmed me now teaches me. What once confused me now makes sense. Looking back feels less emotional and more clarifying, like rereading a chapter with better lighting.

I think about the future too, but differently than I used to. I no longer build it in detail or hold it to specific outcomes. I’ve learned that imagining it too vividly can turn hope into pressure, and dreams into deadlines. So I keep the future open. I don’t ask it to guarantee anything. I don’t demand certainty. Instead, I think about how I want to move through it—steadily, honestly, without rushing myself into versions I’m not ready to become. The future feels responsive now, shaped more by who I am growing into than by what I’m trying to control.

If I spend more time with the past, it’s because it has already passed its tests. It no longer asks me to react or defend or fix anything. It offers perspective instead. It reminds me of what I survived, what I learned to let go of, and what I chose to carry forward. And when I move ahead, I do so without urgency—bringing insight instead of heaviness, memory instead of regret. I stand in the present where both timelines meet, grounded by what has been and open to what may come, trusting that understanding—not speed—is what allows me to walk forward well.