Time ticks by in the blink of an eye
On being present when it counts - even if the days blur together
Hi, I’m Holly - certified coach, Breathworks mindfulness facilitator and author of Zestful Zen. I write about wellbeing, self-care, personal growth, mindfulness, creativity and purpose. My mission is helping you to lead a more mindful, meaningful life, full of zest and energy, complemented by a calm, zen mind. Join the supportive Zestful Zen community today. 💖✨
The following post is part of a Seed Pod collaboration about time. Seed Pods are a SmallStack community project designed to help smaller publications lift each other up by publishing and cross-promoting around a common theme. We’re helping each other plant the seeds for growth!
As we call time on 2024, this is isn’t the post I thought I’d be writing. I was all geared up for an “end of year review”, or looking forward to new beginnings in 2025.
But alas, that wasn’t to be.
When time stood still
Friday 6th December, 2024, 12:23 GMT.
The moment that time seemed to stop.
The moment my heart started racing.
The moment my brother messaged to say Mum had fallen and maybe her hip was broken.
It had started out as a good day. The second day of a conference that had been months in the planning.
Everyone seemed pleased with how things were going, and I was equally pleased that all my hard work seemed to be paying off.
Then suddenly, none of that mattered anymore.
Red alert
The rest of the day passed in a blur – trying to keep on top of the event while the WhatsApp messages trickled in.
No, the ambulance hadn’t arrived yet. (It took several hours to come.)
No, they weren’t in Accident & Emergency yet. (Hours and hours of queuing outside the hospital waiting for someone to leave A&E so Mum could take their space).
And, over the weekend: No, she hadn’t been admitted to a ward yet. (Days of Mum lying on a trolley, waiting for someone to be discharged to free up a hospital bed.)
My worries surged, but my brother reassured me – Mum’s doing pretty well. No need to come, there’s nothing you can do to help. No point in both of us being stuck at the hospital.
By Sunday evening, things were looking up.
Mum was more comfortable in a ward. She had a fractured pelvis, but no surgery needed, just rest and physio. She’d hopefully be discharged by Tuesday.
Good news, all things considered.
Yo-yo time
But Mum started going downhill Monday afternoon, and I raced to find a route to Northern Ireland (there’s no direct flights from Brussels).
After a convoluted journey, I got there by Tuesday evening. Mum had rallied and I breathed a sigh of relief as I chatted to her.
My relief was short-lived.
I’ll spare you the details, but Mum’s health yo-yoed up and down for days, as she battled hospital pneumonia – giving us hope in one moment, dashing it in the next.
Time became elastic. We lost track of what day it was and how long we’d been at the hospital. When had we last eaten? Slept? Showered?
None of that mattered. The important thing was that Mum wasn’t alone. We were there with her, keeping vigil, right until the end.
Before and after
And then time shifted again – into before and after.
Before Mum passed, and after. Before we said goodbye, and after.
Before we had to break the news to friends and relatives. And after, when we’d broken their hearts.
Before, when we still had a parent, and after, as adult orphans.
Time to rest and recharge
I dealt with the shock and grief in the only way I knew how – I threw myself into action, dealing with all the things you must do when you lose your last parent.
Phone calls, visits to the funeral home, notifying utility companies. Busy, busy, busy.
Until my body said no. I’d caught some hospital bugs and was so burnt out that I just couldn’t fight them.
So, I dosed myself with Lemsip and Benylin and slept away two days. Or was it three? The calendar still eluded me as the hours blurred together.
Time heals all wounds…?
My body clearly knew what my mind hadn’t wanted to admit – I needed to slow down. Even if that meant more time alone with my thoughts.
I soothed myself with long walks, in the woods, along the coast, back and forth to my brother’s village. Nature was my refuge, and movement too.
There was something comforting in the impermanence around me – trees stripped of their leaves, while berries ripened on holly bushes.
Nothing stays the same, from one moment to the next, including grief.
A time to pause and reflect
In my quiet moments indoors, I took comfort in reading and journalling.
I’d bought ’s book “KOKORO (心): Japanese wisdom for a life well lived” a few months before but not found time yet to start it.
As I dove in, it felt like the universe had planned this – saving Kokoro for when I’d need it most.
Beth describes her book as “a meditation on impermanence, a deeply personal honouring of grief, and a companion for navigating major changes at any time of life.”
I’m only a few chapters in, but it’s been exactly the companion that I needed. Along with Beth’s Calm Christmas podcast episode, Ancient Embers, “where sadness is honoured, our loved ones are remembered, and we allow all the feelings, however they might arise.”
Timely lessons
When December began, I’d made myself a promise that this Christmas, I’d focus on presence, not presents. I wanted to give my family the gift of quality time together, instead of material things.
Mum had been getting frailer recently and I was conscious that we might not have many more Christmases together.
The universe granted half my wish - no Christmas with Mum, but she spent her final days and hours with us close by her side, holding her hands, surrounded by love.
And I knew I’d made the right decisions:
I was so glad that I’d chosen a job in Europe, to be closer to home in case of an emergency.
I was relieved that I’d listened to my gut, walked out of my office Monday afternoon and booked flights, even though Mum hadn’t seemed so ill then.
And the last three weeks have reinforced what I’ve always known deep down:
Presence and quality time matter. You can’t get time back, and I’m so glad I gave mine fully when it counted.
My family and friends are my rocks. I couldn’t have gotten through this time without them, especially my brother.
My body and soul know the way, even when my mind tries to fight it (they have wisdom, like knowing when I need a rest). I just have to pause, tune in and listen.
Questions for self-reflection or journalling ✍️
What does quality time mean to you?
What (or who) do you want to devote more time to?
When did you last take the time to be alone with your thoughts?
What time do you need most now? Time to rest, play, learn, or just be?
Now take action 🎯
Commit to making time for the things that matter most to you.
Put down your devices and be more present, in the moment.
Track your time for a day (or week) to better understand how you’re spending it.
Listen to what your body and soul tell you about what you need now.
Identify what support can help you get the most out of your time.
Share your perspective ✨
I’d love to hear your thoughts on time. Is it passing you by? How do you most like to spend your time? Has your perspective on time changed as your life has?
Let’s have a conversation in the comments or subscriber chat. 💬
Wishing you all a Happy New Year, and a wonderful 2025. 🌟
P.S. Thank you for all the supportive messages I’ve received since losing Mum - your kindness has been a comfort and given me strength. 💖
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Ways to connect or work with me 💬
DM me, jump in the subscriber chat, or connect via my website, LinkedIn or Instagram 😁 I offer coaching sessions and mindfulness courses.
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Oh Holly... I am so very sorry for your loss. I understand how hard it is to lose a parent. Time stands still and becomes a blur at the same time - for a while. Sharing about your loss may help someone else. It truly helped me to hear the experiences of others who had joined the same 'club' so to speak. I felt less alone in it. I was fortunate enough to be working from home so that I could spend about a month back home with the family after my dad passed (2020). As far as TIME... I want it to go nice and slow so I can savor all of the moments of my life - even the grief. The tears and the sadness are because we loved them so much. Happy New Year!
I'm so sorry you lost your mum, Holly. I can relate strongly to so much of what you say about being with loved ones. My trips to see my elderly parents never seem enough. But I'm always glad I make them. And try to focus on tiny moments. Look after yourself and your bother in this time of grief. Wishing you all the best for 2025.