Ticking Clock

When the watch my mom gave me slipped from my hands and shattered on the floor, the first thing I noticed was the time frozen at 12:34. It felt almost intentional, too orderly to be random. My instinct was to read it as a warning, that I was running out of time, that I had waited too long to become the person I once imagined I would be.

When I told a close friend, they offered a different perspective: that this wasn’t an ending, but a beginning. I found myself drawn to that interpretation, not because it was comforting, but because it suggested that change doesn’t arrive as a deadline; it comes as a decision. Change feels less terrifying when it sounds like an invitation rather than a warning.

What stayed with me most was that the watch eventually began working again. Time hadn’t stopped; it had only paused. I realized I may have mistaken urgency for doom, assuming that being behind meant being done. Maybe time isn’t something I’m losing, but something I’m being asked to use more deliberately, and be more cautious with.

I don’t usually believe in symbols, yet this moment lingered. Not because the watch meant something on its own, but because I was ready to assign meaning to it. If time feels like it’s running out, it isn’t in the literal sense; it’s running out for avoidance. For staying the same. For delaying choices I already know I need to make.

I once created a version of my future without understanding how much growth requires detours, revisions, and patience. I don’t see that past version of myself as disappointed anymore, just incomplete. She didn’t have the context I have now, the knowledge that comes with growing up. 

The stillness of the broken watch on the floor marked a space between who I’ve been and who I can become. In that pause, I recognized something simple: change doesn’t require permission, and it doesn’t need proof. It requires willingness.

The watch didn’t tell me it was time to change. I did. And that realization matters more than any symbol ever could.