I am, by most measures, busy.

I have a full time job, with an hour commute at either end.

I have three young children, a home, a husband, a family and friends I’d like to see more than I do.

I chair two committees, sit on several more, run social media for a handful of organisations and do children’s church more Sundays than not.

I write a blog, and dream of writing something more.

I am busy. Maybe even too busy.

Tonight, putting away laundry while replying to emails, I chided myself for not organising my time better. I feel like I am doing nothing well. Perhaps I should stay up that bit later, get up that bit earlier, spend that bit less time with my children just being in each other’s company, so that I can fulfil all my responsibilities, action all my actions.

The answer must be out there. We women are always being told how to get better at time management, after all. Just as the latest miracle cream shaves years off our faces and the latest miracle diet shaves millimetres from our waists, so the latest app, the latest trick, the latest (loathsome word) hack promise to help us shave minutes from our day so that we can pack even more, Tetris-like, into our waking hours.

It struck me, shirt in one hand, work phone in the other, that I don’t want to whittle my time still further.

Time is all I have. Time is who I am.

It’s not time I’m nipping and tucking to fit around this impractically shaped life.

It’s me.


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