There are stretches of life that seem to feel still. Not in a soft, peaceful way, but in the quiet,
stagnant way that encases everything like a fog. The days begin to blur into one another. Class,
assignments, deadlines, conversations, and commutes— it all folds into a soundless rhythm. It’s not
exactly sadness or a dramatic ache, but something more muted and subdued. You wake up one day and
realize that despite following the script, this feels nothing like the movies.
But then there comes a point when something shifts. It’s rarely loud, and more so quiet and
gentle. Sometimes it’s as small as feeling the sunlight on your face as you walk to class, the kind that
makes the world feel honey-warm. Sometimes it’s the sound of your favourite song spilling out of a
stranger’s headphones, catching your ears at just the right moment. Other times it’s sitting on the grass
under the willow tree, watching people run between lectures, reminding you that the world is in fact not
stuck. Falling in love with life doesn’t happen in grand, cinematic scenes. It happens slowly— almost shyly.
It happens in the little rituals you build for yourself. Somewhere in between deadlines, decisions, and
expectations, we forget that we’re living through a chapter we’ll ache to to return to. University, our
twenties— this is the time to let ourselves be swept up in it all. To do some damage. To say yes to
adventures that don’t make sense and no to expectations that box us in. This is the time to build messy and beautiful memories that don’t always follow a plan.
But what no one tells us is that falling back in love sometimes requires effort. It warrants the act
of choosing to show up for yourself again. It’s deciding to get out of bed ten minutes earlier to sit by the
window and drink your coffee slowly and intentionally. It’s taking the long way to class just to walk past your
favourite tree. It’s starting to romanticize the moments that once felt ordinary, because the magic doesn’t
just disappear: it simply waits patiently for you to notice it again.
We spend so much of our twenties convinced that we’re running out of time. There’s this invisible
clock ticking in the background; pushing us to figure it all out, to be ahead, to have the perfect plan. We
rush through experiences, skipping the in-betweens, terrified that if we slow down, we’ll fall behind. But
the truth is, we have more time than we think. The world doesn’t demand that we have every step mapped
out: it asks that we show up. That we try. That we let ourselves live through the mess and the magic
without pressing fast-forward. This is the time to take those changes, and to follow the pull that makes your
heart race. To be brave without worry. To say “yes” to dates, to join the clubs that felt intimidating, to
rekindle love that you’ve quietly missed but never reached out to fix, and to simply expand your horizons.
Time isn’t racing ahead of us as much as it’s waiting for us to be brave enough to meet it halfway. The
biggest regrets usually come from the chances we were too scared to take, not the ones that didn’t go as
planned. Because one day, these moments we often treat like background noise will become the stories we
wish we would relive. It’s all happening now. And if we’re too busy rushing, worrying, and holding back,
we’ll miss them completely. Life won’t ever pause for us to notice it; we have to actively choose to lean
in and claim the time that’s already ours.
This chapter of our lives is meant to be electric. Everything feels so fragile and infinite all at
once. We’re all learning, fumbling, finding our way, and yet we have this rare freedom to shape our lives
with both hands. We can fall in love, with people, with cities, and futures that are still being built. How
beautiful is it that in this moment in time, we are able to reinvent ourselves over and over again?
Now is the time for deep currents, whirlpools, and waves. Now is the time for movement.