The Space Between the Clock and the Moment

I grew up in a house where time was measured in two very different ways.

My dad was the timekeeper. For him, 5:00 PM meant 4:45 PM. Being on time wasn’t just about logistics; it was a sign of respect, a marker of integrity. If someone was late, he felt it personally. A signal that his time, and by extension, he himself, didn’t matter enough to the other person. The clock was a contract, and breaking it was a breach of trust.

Then there was my mum. She wasn’t intentionally relaxed about schedules; she simply wasn’t focused on time. Clocks and appointments often drifted to the background for her, overtaken by whatever was right in front of her in the moment. It wasn’t about resisting structure it just wasn’t where she focused her attention.

Growing up between these two extremes was… interesting. I felt the anxiety of the ticking second hand from my dad, but I also saw the relaxed nature in my mum around time.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve naturally gravitated toward being early. I have always liked turning up ahead of time, settling in, and having a few moments before anything began. It wasn’t about anxiety or pressure; I simply enjoyed the feeling of being prepared and giving myself room to breathe. 

A turning point came about 20 years ago when I read The Tao of Pooh. I saw myself reflected in Pooh’s gentle pace through life! I could relate to his way – how taking your time with slow, mindful steps can get you to the same place as the frantic ones, only with a far more peaceful heart. 

That idea settled deeply for me: being present and steady doesn’t mean you’re late to life – it just means you arrive without having lost yourself on the way.

Today, I still respect time deeply. 

I know it is the one resource we can never earn back. 

How we spend our hours is, quite literally, how we spend our lives. 

When we manage our time well, we aren’t just being efficient; we are making space for what actually matters. We are deciding that our dreams, our health, and our peace are worth scheduling.

But I’ve also learned something vital that my dad struggled with: other people’s relationship with time is rarely about me.

When someone is late, it is easy to slip into a made-up story: They don’t respect me. I am not a priority. It’s a painful narrative, but it’s usually a fiction we write to protect our own egos.

The truth? Most people aren’t late at you. They are late because they are overwhelmed themselves. Because they are optimistic about how much they can fit into a day. Because they are struggling to transition from one role to another, from parent to employee, from boss to friend. They are fighting their own battles with focus, energy, and boundaries.

Realising this changed everything for me. It took the sting out of the waiting.

I learned that we can hold two truths at once. We can be impeccable with our own time, treating it as the precious vessel for our life, while extending compassion to those who are still learning to manage theirs.

We can master our schedule so that we aren’t running on empty, reacting to everyone else’s demands. We can block out time for deep work, for rest, for the things that nourish us. 

We can treat our calendar like a reflection of our values. If you say you value your health, is it on the calendar? If you value connection, is it booked in?

But we can also soften and understand that a meeting starting five minutes late isn’t a character flaw; it’s just life happening.

I like to think I’ve taken the best of both my parents. I have my dad’s respect for the container of time but I have learnt from my mum that the quality of the moment matters just as much as the time it started.

Where do you fall on this spectrum? 

Time is not your master. It is simply the space in which you get to love, create, and live.