The Cost of "No Time"

There’s something terrifying about the way we talk about time these days.

We say it so casually—“I don’t have time.” “I’ll call you soon.” “I’ve just been so busy.” But soon never comes. Days blur into weeks, weeks into months, and before we know it, another year has passed. We have every tool to save time—phones that do everything, technology that connects us instantly—and yet, somehow, we are more starved for it than ever before.

We are drowning in convenience and dying of disconnection.

The Modern Myth: There Isn’t Enough Time

Someone I love once told me that they rush from their car into the garage to avoid a neighbor. Not because they dislike them—but because they fear the conversation that might follow the polite “hello.”

That tiny exchange—“Hey, how are you?” “Good, how are you?”—feels dangerous now, because what if it turns into a ten-minute conversation? Ten minutes that could be spent starting dinner, helping the kids with homework, answering emails, or finally folding the laundry.

That’s the reality we’re living in: a world where even a moment of human connection feels like a time thief.

We fear that a quick “thinking of you” text will lead to a reply—and then another—and suddenly, what began as a thirty-second thought turns into ten minutes of back-and-forth we don’t think we can afford.

Yet we’ll spend those same ten minutes replying to work emails after hours without hesitation. We’ll scroll through social media, answer Slack messages, respond instantly to our bosses—because that kind of time-suck feels productive. It’s acceptable.

We don’t call that a waste of time. But the same minutes spent nurturing love, friendship, or connection? Those, somehow, feel indulgent.

We’ve been conditioned to see relationships as optional, but work as mandatory.

To see stillness as laziness, but stress as success.

To see connection as a distraction, but burnout as a badge of honor.

And it’s killing us.

The Great Disconnect

What scares me most is how normal this has become.

We’ve stopped even questioning it. We say “I’m busy” as if it’s an identity. We live in homes filled with devices meant to give us time back, yet we use that time to fill more to-do lists.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve reached out to people—family, friends—just to check in. “Hey, how are you? Thinking about you.” And the silence that follows is deafening. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks before I hear back. And when I finally do, it’s often the same words, laced with exhaustion: “Sorry, I’ve just been so busy.”

Busy has become the great excuse of our generation.

We’re not terrible people; we’re tired ones. We’re overextended, undernourished, and chronically overwhelmed.

Our cost of living has become unbearable. The jobs that once sustained us now consume us. The lives we’re trying to build require endless sacrifice. We are constantly making concessions—to our work, to our children, to our bills—and while all those things matter, they’ve come at the cost of us.

We’re running on fumes.

And in the process, we’re giving no one—not our employers, not our families, not even ourselves—the best version of who we are. We’re giving the scraps of what’s left after everything else has taken its share.

The Weight of a Broken System

This isn’t just personal; it’s systemic.

Our world is not aligned with human wellness—it’s aligned with profit. We glorify the grind. We wear exhaustion like a crown. We build policies and workplaces that speak the language of “mental health awareness,” but don’t give people the time or the resources to live it.

We donate to causes. We repost mental health slogans. We attend wellness days. But most of us can’t even find ten uninterrupted minutes to breathe, because life has become unaffordable unless we’re working ourselves into the ground.

And for those raising children, it’s even harder. There’s no time left between the endless carousel of school, sports, meals, cleaning, homework, and work. And still—still—we tell ourselves we’re not doing enough.

We are not failing because we lack discipline. We are failing because the system was never built to prioritize our humanity.

The Illusion of Choice

We keep saying, “I don’t have a choice.”

And in many ways, that’s true. The cost of living, inflation, rent, groceries—it’s suffocating. Many of us are working 60, 70, even 90-hour weeks just to survive. We’re not hustling for luxury—we’re hustling for basic dignity. But at what cost?

If the trade-off for survival is a life stripped of presence, joy, and connection—are we really surviving at all?

We need money to live, yes. But what’s the point of working ourselves to death just to afford a life we’re too tired to enjoy?

Maybe we can’t change everything overnight. But maybe we can start making smaller choices that shift the balance.

Maybe it’s one meaningful trip a year instead of five.

Maybe it’s a simple Sunday drive instead of a luxury vacation.

Maybe it’s pausing to say “hello” to your neighbor instead of pretending not to see them.

Maybe it’s answering that text instead of letting it sit in your inbox for two weeks.

Because connection doesn’t have to cost much—but losing it costs everything.

The Rebellion of Presence

We talk about revolutions like they’re grand, public, loud. But maybe the real rebellion is quiet.

Maybe it’s choosing to sit down for dinner with your family without your phone beside you.

Maybe it’s taking a walk alone in silence.

Maybe it’s saying “no” to that one more thing that doesn’t align with your peace.

Maybe it’s reclaiming the ten minutes we’re so afraid to lose and using them to actually live.

Time isn’t stolen from us—it’s traded.

And we have to start trading differently.

What We Must Never Accept

We must never accept that there isn’t time for love, for laughter, for joy.

We must never accept a world where stress is a status symbol.

We must never accept being so busy that we forget how to be human.

Because the more we normalize this, the more we feed a system that values production over presence.

And the truth is, no one will remember us for how many hours we worked. They’ll remember how we made them feel. They’ll remember that we showed up. That we listened. That we cared enough to make time.

Where We Begin Again

So maybe this is where we begin—right here, in the awareness of how broken this has become.

We begin by refusing to call burnout a lifestyle.

We begin by noticing our habits, our excuses, our fears about giving time.

We begin by daring to believe that slowing down is not failure—it’s salvation.

God, the universe, life itself—whatever you believe in—has a way of stopping us when we won’t stop ourselves. It sends the storm, the illness, the burnout, the collapse—because we clearly don’t know when to pause. And sometimes, that pause is grace disguised as chaos.

Maybe we don’t need the next big tragedy to force us still. Maybe we can choose to stop before the world stops us.

Because the truth is, we’re running out—of energy, of presence, of years. Not because time is moving faster, but because we’re no longer inside it.

We’re skimming over our lives instead of living them.

A Final Reflection

I’m not writing this as an accusation. I’m writing it as a plea.

I am scared for us.

For the kind of world we’re normalizing.

For the children watching us rush through life as if urgency is the only way to exist.

But I also believe this: it’s not too late.

We can change this—one small act of presence at a time.

We can stop rushing into garages.

We can say hello.

We can answer the text.

We can reclaim our right to be human again.

Because one day, the emails will stop, the meetings will end, the kids will grow up, and the noise will fade. And all that will remain are the moments we either made time for—or didn’t.

So start small.

Text someone you love. Sit with your thoughts. Go outside. Look up.

Because time isn’t what’s running out. We are.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to take it back.

Author's Note:

If this piece made you pause, if it made you reflect on your own relationship with time—that was the point!

Reminder: No amount of time will ever feel entirely sufficient, but we can choose how we use what we have.

No amount of worry can change the future, and no amount of regret can alter the time we've already used to live. Keep your focus on what truly matters.

Here's a hint: It's not money or possessions—it's human connection.

How will you ever remember how you made someone feel, or the words that comforted, inspired, or lifted them, if you never find the time to create these moments? The answer is simple, yet profound: Make the time, and the rest will follow.

"Time slips through our hands, but moments remain. What we value is what we hold onto-every grain matters. Don't waste a single one." - Gia Laurent