It may be a cliche that we need to walk the world in one another’s shoes to gain empathy, but something else happens when we experience the world in a way we normally wouldn’t: we gain new perspectives. And seeing the world in new ways can be a profound way to grow as a person. This happened to me while studying abroad this past year in the United Kingdom.
I experienced this most profoundly around my own relationship to time—and how I use my time—in a culture where, I found, time was treated somewhat differently. Time is something we all wish we had more of. Something that always seems just out of reach, slipping between the cracks of deadlines, notifications, and “just one more thing before bed.”
What if we could have more time? What if it was possible?
I found myself asking this question not in some deep philosophical way, but in the most everyday moments. I saw time stand still in the middle of a bookstore where people weren’t just flipping through pages but reading—just to read. Or over a cup of tea with someone I met on a plane, now sitting across from me, preparing to sing in a women’s Hindu choir. Wandering through streets I had only read about in my London history class, with nowhere to be except exactly where I was.
One of the most surprising examples came from that chance encounter on the plane.
We had only just met on a flight, exchanging stories somewhere between takeoff and landing, but by the time we touched down, she extended an invitation that felt too genuine to pass up: “My choir is singing this weekend. You should come.” Two days later, I found myself walking into a community hall tucked in a quiet neighborhood, not knowing anyone but feeling strangely at home.
The choir’s music filled the room with something sacred—something that felt like it was holding all of us together. And then, toward the end of their final song, the singers did something unexpected. They turned to the audience and welcomed us to the floor.
At first, only a few stood, unsure. But slowly, laughter and footsteps filled the space. And just like that, we were no longer observers. We became part of it. People of all backgrounds, ages, and identities—moving in harmony, unchoreographed yet completely in sync.
We weren’t a mosaic—mosaics are beautiful but fixed. We were a kaleidoscope in motion—constantly shifting, refracting light through every smile, every step, every note. The room shimmered with connection, the kind you can’t plan for, only step into when you let go of the clock.
In that moment, time felt like it had opened up. It wasn’t passing; it was spilling over. What mattered wasn’t what time it was, but how present we all were within it. That Sunday afternoon wasn’t just a cultural exchange—it was a reminder of how rich life can be when we let ourselves slow down and show up.
And that’s a lesson that stayed with me long after I returned home.
A few weeks later, while reflecting on my time abroad, I didn’t expect to find clarity while simply waiting for a train to central London.
It was an ordinary moment—one that passed in seconds—but something shifted. As the train rumbled forward, the tension left my body, as if space had been cleared in my mind. I hadn’t memorized all my routes yet. I was in a foreign country, surrounded by people I didn’t know. And yet, for what felt like the first time, I had the brain power to think—to really think. I had the power to think not about to-do lists or obligations, but about life’s heaviest and most philosophical questions. An expansive awareness, a clarity I had never known before.
I sat after boarding the train, stunned by the realization: Wow. This is the kind of mind space I am capable of having?
Some cultures, it feels as an outsider, have already figured it out. They’ve mastered time—not in the productivity-hack, wake-up-at-5-AM way, but in a way that feels slower, fuller, and more intentional.
I eventually had to return home. But I wanted this experience to change me and my own relationship to productivity and how I use and understand time.
I eventually had to return home. But I wanted this experience to change me and my own relationship to productivity and how I use and understand time.
I can’t help but wonder: If we didn’t have so many obligations for work, school, and everything in between, would we have more time for the things we truly care about? Would we have enough time to sit, to reflect, to intentionally care for our mental health and our relationships? Where is the space for that kind of thoughtfulness, for truly investing in ourselves and our communities?
Time doesn’t just seem scarce because we’re busy; it’s because so many of us are burdened with obligations that take us away from what really matters. We’re always running—always “too busy.” And I wonder if, without the pressure of constant productivity, we might actually have time to show up for the things that matter most: the work, the conversations, the reflections, and the connections we deeply care about. Or even just enough time to sit and intentionally reflect. Where is the space for our mental health in all of this?
Recently, I got caught up in the very thing I am speaking about. I got so busy with school, work, and my other part-time job that I forgot one of my closest friends’ weddings. There were no excuses. I had it in my calendar. I had her invitation on my refrigerator. But after coming back to the States we hadn’t reconnected and I mistakenly thought the invitation said May. It was in March. I was devastated. I was embarrassed. I was so angry with myself. To see someone marry their best friend is one of the greatest treasures in life. And I missed it because… I had too many things going on? In that moment, I realized that if I continue to live my life constantly running from one thing to the next, I will miss out on these irreplaceable moments, the ones that really matter. It was a lesson I learned through an exchange with a culture that was not my own and I decided I needed to carry the lesson forward.
But it’s moments like this that really make us stop, breathe, and wake up. Life isn’t a to-do list to check off; it’s a series of fleeting moments that demand our presence. And missing out on one of those moments—the one that mattered the most—stings. But it also reminds me that this is exactly why we need to make room for what really matters.
Since that wake-up call, I’ve been changing how I spend my time. I’ve been learning to slow down, to carve out space for rest, reflection, meditation, and yoga—yes, even when there are a thousand other things vying for my attention. I’ve been saying “no” to the noise. And guess what? The world didn’t fall apart. Everything feels a little more alive. The more I let go of the excess, the more I’ve been able to connect with what really matters—my mental health, my relationships, and the things I love.
I used to believe that if I wasn’t busy, I wasn’t doing enough. That my worth was tied to how much I could accomplish in a day, how many tasks I could check off. But now I see that doing enough is about doing the right things with intention, about showing up for the moments that matter most, even when it means saying “no” to the things that don’t.
So, here’s what I’m continuing to develop: Time isn’t something we find—it’s something we create. And the more we choose to live with intentionality, the more time we actually gain—time for reflection, connection, and the kind of peace of mind that makes life feel like it’s worth living.
And maybe, just maybe, the secret to having more time isn’t about squeezing more in—it’s about letting some things go, so we can truly experience the moments that matter.