The Night I Realized Time Isn’t Mine

Written toward the end of April 2026.

There are moments that don’t feel significant when they’re happening…

until later—
when I realize they were sacred all along.

A laugh that shouldn’t have happened.
A sentence that lands differently than expected.
A silence that says more than words ever could.

And somewhere in the middle of it, I feel it—

time is not as long as I think it is.

There’s a song that’s been sitting with me lately—

Fly.

It’s quiet.
It doesn’t explain.
It just stays in that space between holding on and letting go.

Be still… let your hand melt into mine…
I’ll fly with you through the night… I’m not letting go.

I used to think that meant staying

Now it feels like something else—

presence.

Being fully here… even when you know the moment won’t last.

I’ve heard it my whole life—
life is like a vapor.

But I didn’t live like it was true…

until I started watching people I love
walk through loss I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

My brother and sister-in-law lost two children in a house fire.

There are no words that can hold that kind of grief.

And yet…

we were sitting at game night.
Trying to be normal.

The words house fire came up.

My niece said it out loud.

And for a split second—

everything in me braced.

Because I knew that moment could break the room.

But instead…

we laughed.

Not because it was funny—
but because somehow, they’ve fought their way back to a place where they can breathe again.

And something in me shifted.

Because I realized—

just because I don’t see their tears
doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Just because they can laugh
doesn’t mean they don’t carry their children with them every single day.

Healing doesn’t mean forgetting.

It means learning how to live
while still loving what you’ve lost.

I’ve seen time stretch in ways that feel like mercy…

and still not be enough.

My sister lost her husband eight years ago.

He had been sick for years.
Fighting. Holding on.

And somehow… they were given more time.

Enough to build memories.
Enough for their boys to know him.

But even then—

it still wasn’t enough.

And I’ve seen time collapse without warning.

We lost my brother-in-law in Aug (2018).

Two months later, a close friend was diagnosed with cancer.

By January… he was gone.

He knew.

And somehow, he carried that knowing with a kind of peace
that didn’t come from circumstances—

but from believing this wasn’t the end.

Still—

even with that peace—

it wasn’t enough time.

That’s what I can’t ignore anymore—

whether time stretches
or collapses—

it never feels like enough.

I used to live like I had time to spare.

Time to say things later.
Time to show up later.
Time to fix things later.

Like time belonged to me.

But loss has a way of correcting you.

It reminds you—

I don’t get to keep time.
I only get to use it.

So now… I stay.

Now when I hear—

I’ll fly with you through the night… I’m not letting go…

I don’t hear control.

I hear—

I’m here while I can be.
I’m loving you while I have the chance.
I’m not wasting this moment assuming I’ll get another one.

If life is a vapor…

then I don’t want to rush past what matters.

I want to stay a little longer.
Hold a little tighter.
Say what needs to be said.
Laugh—even when it feels fragile.

Because I’ve seen what happens when time runs out.

And I’ve seen what it looks like
when people choose to live anyway.

So I’ll be still.

I’ll hold the moment in front of me
while I still can.Because I don’t know how much time I have—

but I know I don’t want to waste it.

I’m not letting go—
not of love,
not of presence,
not of what matters most—
while it’s still here.

~ Louda

this blog fit into the grief series.

The Night I Realized Time Isn’t Mine

There are moments that don’t feel significant when they’re happening…

until later—

when I realize they were sacred all along.

A laugh that shouldn’t have happened.

A sentence that lands differently than expected.

A silence that says more than words ever could.

And somewhere in the middle of it, I feel it—

time is not as long as I think it is.

⸻

There’s a song that’s been sitting with me lately—

Fly.

It’s quiet.

It doesn’t explain.

It just stays in that space between holding on and letting go.

Be still… let your hand melt into mine…

I’ll fly with you through the night… I’m not letting go.

I used to think that meant staying.

Now it feels like something else—

presence.

Being fully here… even when you know the moment won’t last.

⸻

I’ve heard it my whole life—

life is like a vapor.

But I didn’t live like it was true…

until I started watching people I love

walk through loss I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

⸻

My brother and sister-in-law lost two children in a house fire.

There are no words that can hold that kind of grief.

And yet…

we were sitting at game night.

Trying to be normal.

The words house fire came up.

My niece said it out loud.

And for a split second—

everything in me braced.

Because I knew that moment could break the room.

But instead…

we laughed.

Not because it was funny—

but because somehow, they’ve fought their way back to a place where they can breathe again.

And something in me shifted.

Because I realized—

just because I don’t see their tears

doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

Just because they can laugh

doesn’t mean they don’t carry their children with them every single day.

Healing doesn’t mean forgetting.

It means learning how to live

while still loving what you’ve lost.

⸻

I’ve seen time stretch in ways that feel like mercy…

and still not be enough.

My sister lost her husband eight years ago.

He had been sick for years.

Fighting. Holding on.

And somehow… they were given more time.

Enough to build memories.

Enough for their boys to know him.

But even then—

it still wasn’t enough.

⸻

And I’ve seen time collapse without warning.

We lost my brother-in-law.

Two months later, a close friend was diagnosed with cancer.

By January… he was gone.

He knew.

And somehow, he carried that knowing with a kind of peace

that didn’t come from circumstances—

but from believing this wasn’t the end.

Still—

even with that peace—

it wasn’t enough time.

⸻

That’s what I can’t ignore anymore—

whether time stretches

or collapses—

it never feels like enough.

⸻

I used to live like I had time to spare.

Time to say things later.

Time to show up later.

Time to fix things later.

Like time belonged to me.

But loss has a way of correcting you.

It reminds you—

I don’t get to keep time.

I only get to use it.

⸻

So now… I stay.

Now when I hear—

I’ll fly with you through the night… I’m not letting go…

I don’t hear control.

I hear—

I’m here while I can be.

I’m loving you while I have the chance.

I’m not wasting this moment assuming I’ll get another one.

⸻

If life is a vapor…

then I don’t want to rush past what matters.

I want to stay a little longer.

Hold a little tighter.

Say what needs to be said.

Laugh—even when it feels fragile.

Because I’ve seen what happens when time runs out.

And I’ve seen what it looks like

when people choose to live anyway.

⸻

So I’ll be still.

I’ll hold the moment in front of me

while I still can.

Because I don’t know how much time I have—

but I know I don’t want to waste it.

⸻

I’m not letting go—

not of love,

not of presence,

not of what matters most—

while it’s still here.

⸻

~ Louda