From Rushing Toward the End to Living in the Middle

For most of my life, I’ve been in a rush.

Rushing to get to class.

Rushing to an appointment.

Rushing to say what I wanted to say—only to stumble over my words because I was trying to fit them into a space that never felt long enough to hold them.

Even family vacations were rushed. We’d wake up early, pack the car in a frenzy, and barrel toward California or Florida to see relatives, never pausing except to fuel up or eat. There was never enough time. Not to breathe. Not to linger. Not to just be.

That pace never left me. As an adult, I kept myself in constant motion. I tried every sport I could—kickball, volleyball, hockey, rugby. I went to every event, every party, every trip anyone suggested. I said yes to everything. I drank. I traveled. I filled every available hour.

Because in my mind, I was on limited time.

The Clock I Thought Was Running Out

Even as a child, I believed I wouldn’t live to be old. I didn’t know how or when, but I was sure I would die young. That belief drove me to experience everything I could while I could—as long as I wasn’t a financial burden to anyone.

The goal wasn’t to build a life. The goal was to use it up.

And then my sister-in-law died.

Watching my family’s grief broke something open in me. For the first time, I thought about what it would mean for them if I were gone. Not the abstract idea of my own death, but the very real pain it would cause the people I loved.

In 2020, I realized I couldn’t keep living like the end was inevitable and near. I had to start thinking about what it would mean to live—not just for me, but for the people who would still be here after me.

Learning to Think Beyond the End

When you’ve spent years thinking about your death, it’s hard to imagine a future. I had no long-term vision—only short-term adventures. For six years, I designed my life around constant travel, leaving every week for work or play. It was exhilarating. And it was exhausting.

It wasn’t sustainable.

Shifting my mindset from "How much can I cram in before I die?" to "What do I want to build while I’m alive?" left me disoriented. For a while, I felt completely lost. I didn't feel like I had purpose

The Mountains That Taught Me to Slow Down

That shift has shown up in surprising ways—especially when I hike.

Before, I treated hikes like another checklist item. Get to the waterfall. Reach the summit. Take the photo. Head back down. Move on to the next thing. I’d push ahead, leaving my partner behind, more focused on the finish than the journey.

But in the last couple of years, something changed. I found myself slowing down. Stopping mid-trail to take in the view. Waiting at the top for my partner, feeling the quiet instead of rushing to escape it. Pushing through the physical discomfort without stuffing it down, letting the effort be part of the experience instead of a problem to solve.

I never thought I’d live to the age I am now. And yet—here I am.

I’m no longer racing the clock. I’m learning to notice the small things: the way the light shifts through the trees, the sound of water before you see it, the steady rhythm of my breath after a hard climb.

I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m living—slowly, fully, in the middle of the story instead of rushing toward its end. Time will always move forward. The gift is that now—I’m moving with it, not chasing it.