Life Called—It Wants More You in It…

You Can’t Give Your Life More Time. So Give the Time You Have More Life.

This quote hit me like a toddler with a plastic baseball bat—unexpected, slightly painful, and weirdly profound.

We spend so much of our lives doing mental math with time like we’re some kind of cosmic accountants. “If I wake up 15 minutes earlier, maybe I’ll finally become the person who meditates, journals, and hydrates before 9am.” Spoiler alert: I still hit snooze, scroll the apocalypse on my phone, and whisper “just five more minutes” like it’s a sacred chant.

We’re obsessed with time. How much we have. How much we’ve wasted. Who’s stealing it. Who’s not worthy of it. We talk about time like it’s an overbooked currency—“I just don’t have the time!” But the truth is, time isn’t the thief. It’s our choices. Our distractions. Our fear of really, truly living.

You can’t add minutes to your life like toppings on a froyo. You can’t say, “Just one more season” like you’re binging existence. There’s no “Are you still watching?” for life. (Although if there was, I feel like I’d be lying in a hammock somewhere, mouth slightly open, wondering if I ever answered that email from 2021.)

So instead of begging time for more time—what if we begged it for more life?

And no, I’m not talking about selling everything you own and moving to a yurt or taking up fire dancing at sunset on a beach in Tulum. (Although if that’s your thing, I’ll clap for you from a safe, flame-resistant distance.) I’m talking about being present. Like, grossly, radically, deeply in it. In the small moments. In the ordinary. In the here.

Eat the chocolate slowly. Watch someone laugh until they snort. Let your feet hang in the creek a little longer. Say no to the dinner party you’re dreading. Say yes to the weird roadside diner with the burnt coffee and the waitress who calls you “honey.” Tell someone you love them even if your voice cracks. Dance in your kitchen to a song that hurts so good you play it three times in a row. (I’m looking at you, Fleetwood Mac.)

Because that’s how you give your time more life.

It’s not in the big, dramatic gestures. It’s not in the “someday when I retire” fantasy. It’s in the Tuesday afternoon that looked like nothing special until you looked around and realized you were exactly where you were supposed to be. Even if your socks didn’t match and your fridge only had condiments.

I don’t want more time if I’m going to spend it half-alive. Distracted. Stretched. Scrolling. Apologizing for taking up space. Waiting for perfect. Waiting to feel ready. Waiting for permission.

I want to spend the time I have laughing so hard I forget why I was mad. Holding people. Letting myself be held. Writing things that matter. Doing the scary thing even if my voice shakes. Letting go. Starting over. Forgiving. Especially myself.

I want to give my time more life by remembering this isn’t a dress rehearsal. This is it. The messy, beautiful, weird, inconvenient, imperfect it.

So no, you can’t give your life more time. But you can give the time you have more life.

And baby, that’s where the magic is.