Where Did the Time Go?

When I was a kid, a day felt like an eternity. I remember waking up on a summer morning with no agenda except to explore the backyard or ride my bike until the streetlights flickered on. Time stretched out, elastic and generous, holding space for everything: climbing trees, running barefoot, lying on the grass and watching clouds tumble across the sky. Back then, it seemed like a day could hold a lifetime.

Now? Now, I blink, and the day is gone. I wake up with a mental checklist of things to do—work, errands, emails, meals—and before I know it, the sun is sinking, and I’m left wondering where all those hours went. The same hours I used to stuff full of adventure and wonder now seem too small to carry the weight of everything I want to accomplish.

Why does time feel so different as we get older? Maybe it’s because when we’re young, everything is new. The smallest moments—a butterfly landing on your arm, the way rain sounds on the roof—are little miracles. But as we grow, we stop noticing. We move faster, chase bigger things, and forget to pause. Days shrink when you rush through them.

But here’s the thing: Time hasn’t changed. The clock ticks just like it did when we were kids. What’s different is how we fill it—and how we feel it. Maybe the secret to slowing down isn’t in finding more hours (though wouldn’t that be nice?) but in learning to see the hours we have the way we once did.

So, I’m trying to stop and savour the small moments again. I’m letting the warmth of a coffee mug in my hands linger, laughing a little longer at my son being silly and watching the sky change colours at dusk like it’s the first sunset I’ve ever seen.

And you know what? It helps. A day might never stretch as wide as it did when I was ten, but it can still feel full. Full of life, full of love, full of moments that matter—if I let it.

Time may be slippery, but it’s not the enemy. It’s a gift. One we can choose to unwrap slowly, piece by piece, with the same wonder we had when we were young.

The days may seem shorter, but they’re still mine.