Time?

Do you need time?

Do I need time? I think I’ve had too much of it, and never enough. Time has been both a healer and a thief—steady in its rhythm, merciless in its pace. It’s given me the space to grow, to mend, to write, but it’s also taken people, places, and versions of myself I can’t get back.

When I was younger, I thought time was something you could manage, like a ledger—hours traded for progress, years exchanged for wisdom. Now I see it differently. Time isn’t a resource; it’s a presence. It watches, it waits, it demands that we listen.

Ireland taught me that. The sea doesn’t hurry, the rain doesn’t apologize. Things unfold here at their own pace—crab pots, friendships, healing. Time is less about minutes and more about meaning.

So, do I need time? Maybe not more of it, but better with it. Time that isn’t spent counting, proving, striving—but simply being. Time to walk, to listen, to let stories breathe.

Because in the end, I don’t think we ever truly need time.

We need the courage to inhabit it.