A short investigation into time, ageing, and who keeps fast-forwarding my life.
Last week I wrote about family. About turning up to a party and realising the people I love have quietly upgraded themselves while I was still using an old mental operating system.
They’ve changed. I’ve changed.
And somewhere between the buffet and the “who brought this playlist?” moment, it hit me.
I’m getting old.
Not “buying a walking stick” old.
More “time has stopped obeying the rules we agreed on” old.
I have a very clear memory of sitting in January 2025 thinking, This is going to be a long year. Christmas felt theoretical. A rumour. Something for Future Me to worry about.
Five minutes later, I’m having the same thought in January 2026 and wondering who keeps fast-forwarding my life when I’m not looking.
One minute you’re planning the year.
Next minute you’re explaining to a younger relative what a fax machine was and why it felt exciting at the time.
Here’s the annoying thing.
This isn’t imagination. It isn’t nostalgia. And it definitely isn’t just because the years are full.
There’s a reason time feels like it’s accelerating, and it’s deeply unfair.
When you’re five, a year is massive. It’s 20 percent of everything you’ve ever known. That’s not a year. That’s an era.
When you’re fifty-something, a year is about two percent of your life. Your brain looks at it the way you look at a meeting invite that says “quick catch-up”. Mild interest, low emotional investment.
Same amount of time. Completely different psychological impact.
Then there’s novelty. Or, as adults, the tragic lack of it.
When you’re young, everything is new. New people. New mistakes. New ways of embarrassing yourself. Your brain is busy recording every detail like a documentary crew that refuses to miss anything.
As adults, we get efficient.
Same routes. Same conversations. Same “what’s for dinner?” debate that’s been running since 1987 with no clear winner.
Your brain stops filming in high definition. It switches to highlights only. Which means when you look back, whole months collapse into a single blur labelled “busy”.
Routine is brilliant for productivity.
It’s also a professional time thief.
And then there’s attention.
This is the bit that stings.
Time doesn’t actually speed up.
We just stop being fully in it.
We’re thinking about what’s next, replaying what’s already happened, checking something, worrying about something else, while life carries on in the background like background music in a lift.
Which brings me back to family.
Standing in a room with people I’ve known my entire life and realising how much I’d missed simply by assuming I already knew them. Watching nephews turn thirty. Seeing siblings differently. Feeling life shift slightly under my feet.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to notice.
I’m getting older. Life is changing. Time is still doing that irritating thing where it pretends it’s in a hurry.
But here’s the hopeful bit.
The moments that feel longest are the ones you actually notice. Not the big milestones. The small, ordinary, easily ignored ones. A conversation you stay present for. A coffee you drink without doing anything else. A family gathering where you observe instead of narrating.
Time stretches when you pay attention.
So no, I can’t slow the years down.
But I can stop skimming them.
And if time insists on flying past at this speed, the least I can do is be awake enough to enjoy the ride.
