The Time Between

I used to think I had to make the “right” choice or I’d lose time.
But then I realized—the only wasted time is spent doing something that isn’t true to you.
So I stopped obsessing over past decisions and started asking—
Is this where I want to be now?
You’re never too late to change direction.
Time isn’t lost.
It’s just waiting for you to use it differently.

For a long time, I believed one wrong choice could ruin everything. That time, once lost, was gone forever. So I stood still—not out of comfort, but out of fear. Fear of letting go too soon. Of moving in the wrong direction. Of getting it wrong again.

After my second marriage ended, I knew I needed to move. The house was too big, too much, too full of echoes. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. It had become a kind of cave—my one constant as the life I’d built fell apart. I worked from home. I barely left, except to walk my dog. Time didn’t feel linear there; it either dragged or disappeared. The silence was thick, and the walls held memories I wasn’t ready to sort through.

The house itself was unlike any other—funky, layered, full of character. Over two centuries old. Part of it had once been a corner store; the later addition, a rooming house. I liked knowing it had outlived its past lives. That it had been many things before me. That maybe I could be too.

But I also feared I was becoming part of its stillness.

My ex-wife, who knew me well, once told me she didn’t think I’d ever leave. “You’ll die in that house,” she said. Not unkindly. Just... flatly. Like it was already written. It bothered me—not because I believed her, but because I worried she did. We’d once planned to move to Florida together. Bought the condo. She made me promise we’d be living there within the year. I tried—applied for jobs, rearranged budgets—but nothing aligned. Salaries were lower. No doors opened. She saw a broken promise. I saw a door that wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I pushed.

And still, I carried that promise with me—the trying. The not-yet. The ache of being misread by someone who once knew my rhythms better than I did.

Her words lingered. They became a kind of friction—an emotional edge I could press against. So when the final tenants in the condo moved out and that coincided with her visiting me, we agreed to inspect it, redecorate it. Just a task. A visit. No big decisions.

But the moment I arrived in St. Pete, something shifted. The air felt different—livelier, looser. The streets hummed with life I hadn’t realized I was missing. She was only there for a few days, but even in that short time, she nudged me again. “You should move here,” she said. And this time, I didn’t flinch.

I stayed three weeks. The construction boom meant the painters were all booked—but the delay gave me time. I walked by the water. Called in dolphins (or maybe they called me). Sat in sunlight. Let the city move around me. I noticed how my shoulders softened, how I didn’t feel the need to rush. I told myself I wouldn’t make a decision until I was back on familiar ground.

But as I drove over the bridge toward Tampa, with the skyline behind me and water on both sides, I felt something settle. Not certainty—just the absence of resistance. A quiet knowing, the kind that doesn’t ask permission.

It was time.

I left the cave. I crossed the bridge. And I haven’t looked back.

What surprises me now is how fully that old fear has fallen away. I used to obsess over whether I was making the “right” choice. I used to believe time was something you could waste—drop it, misplace it, never get it back. But now, I move with something gentler. Life unfolds. It doesn’t always answer. But it gestures. And I try to follow.

I don’t fear wasting time anymore. I just don’t want to build another cave—not when the windows here open wide, and the light finds me before I even ask for it.

There are still bridges to cross. And I trust myself to keep walking.