You’re lying in bed, scrolling. Two hours vanish before you even realize it’s happening—until suddenly you do. And there it is: the awareness. Your book’s still on the nightstand. Your essay’s waiting on your laptop. The puzzle’s half-finished on the table. The coloring supplies are untouched.
I catch myself here, too. Not in a guilt-spiral way, but in that quiet moment where you realize: this is finite time, and I’m choosing how it goes. That’s when everything shifts. Because it’s not really about doing enough—it’s about whether I’m actually building something that feels like mine.
The weird thing about knowing you’re going to die
Here’s the wild part: we know we’re going to die. We know our time is limited. And somehow, that knowledge doesn’t usually send us running toward meaning—it just… sits there. Heavy. Sometimes paralyzing. Sometimes ignored. We scroll instead.
But here’s where it gets interesting. That same limited time that should crush us? It’s also what gives us permission to choose differently. Knowing we won’t live forever makes life feel pointless and makes it matter. Both at the same time. That’s the odd thing we’re all living with.
Think about it. If we had endless time, would anything be urgent? Would anything be precious? Would you actually care about finishing that book, or would you just keep scrolling because there’s always tomorrow?
The limited time isn’t the problem. The problem is pretending we have more time than we do, and then being shocked when we look up and realize we’ve spent it on things that don’t feed us.
What building meaning actually looks like
I used to think building meaning meant achieving something big. Something impressive that proved your life mattered.
But that’s not what’s happening when I sit down to write. Or when I’m deep in a puzzle, completely absorbed. Or when I’m finally reading the book that’s been calling to me for months. Or when I’m in that meditative space of coloring, just… being present with something my hands are doing.
Meaning isn’t always loud. It’s not always finished. Sometimes it’s just the practice of choosing—over and over—to do the things that make you feel alive. To read instead of scroll. To create instead of consume. To be present instead of distracted.
When I write, I’m not building meaning because I think my words will change the world. I’m building it because the act of writing—of finding my voice, of wrestling with ideas, of putting something that’s mine into the world—that’s what makes me feel like I’m actually living, not just existing. Same with the puzzle. Same with the coloring. Same with cracking open a new book and disappearing into someone else’s world for an afternoon.
These aren’t distractions from life. They are life. Meaning is a practice, not a destination. It’s what you build in the small, intentional choices you make with your limited time.
The things that outlast us
Here’s something I’ve been sitting with: our lives are limited, but the things we create—the connections we make, the work we do, the person we become through these choices—those matter beyond just us.
You don’t have to believe in an afterlife to understand this. You just have to look at what lasts: a book that changed someone’s thinking. A conversation that shifted how someone saw themselves. The memory of someone’s kindness. The impact of someone choosing presence over distraction, meaning over numbness.
When you build something—whether it’s writing, a creative practice, a relationship, or just the habit of choosing what matters—you’re reaching beyond your own limited timeline. You’re part of something bigger than yourself. That’s not about being remembered or famous. It’s about the quiet knowledge that how you spend your time matters to people around you. That your choice to read instead of scroll, to create instead of consume, to be present instead of numb—those choices ripple out. Not because they’re perfect or impressive, but because they’re real. They’re yours.
What to do with all this
Look, you already know you’re limited in time. You already feel the weight of that sometimes, usually when you’re quiet and thinking. The question isn’t whether you’ll run out of time—you will. The question is: what are you going to do with the time you have?
Not in a frantic, productivity-obsessed way. But in a deliberate way that’s true to who you actually are and what actually feeds your soul.
Maybe it’s finally picking up that book. Maybe it’s committing to your writing, even when it feels small and insignificant. Maybe it’s giving yourself permission to sit with a puzzle or a coloring page without feeling guilty that you’re “not being productive.” Maybe it’s just this: the next time you catch yourself scrolling instead of building, instead of reading, instead of creating—pause. Notice the choice. And then ask yourself: what am I really wanting right now? And is this how I want to spend this hour?
Because here’s what I’ve learned: limited time isn’t a tragedy. It’s an invitation. It’s the universe’s way of saying, “You get to choose. You don’t have much time, and that’s exactly why what you choose matters so much.”
Your limited time is your most valuable resource. And you’re allowed to spend it on things that feel meaningful to you—even if they’re small, even if they’re quiet, even if nobody else understands why they matter. That’s how you build a life that’s actually yours.