I think a lot about the things that are missing. People that are missing, words that are missing, feelings that are missing, experiences that are missing. And most often, things that I feel are missing within myself. I’m good at seeing into empty spaces and noticing what could be there. It can be a good skill to have when things are awry and call for change. I exist largely in a world of my imagination and have a harder time focusing on what’s right in front of me. I often neglect the present moment to reminisce on the past or plan the future.
Recently I’ve been fixating on what my life would be like if I was settled down and married with kids like many or most of my peers. The turn of a new decade for me has been anxiously creeping up and up, and now it’s finally here. At nearly 30 and single with no children, I’ve become very accustomed to being alone. In fact, I’m really good at it. But I always wonder in the back of my mind what it would be like to share my life with someone else. In the mundanity of day-to-day life, what if someone was always there, privy to everything? Would I be fulfilled? Would I get tired of that person and wish I were alone again? Would I never be lonely again? These are questions I can’t answer until it happens to me.
I think I could spend the rest of my life alone. Not necessarily that I should or want to. But I could. And that both scares me and makes me feel safe. My life is full and happy. It’s full of relationships and activities every day. I have caring friends and family to spend time with and call on the phone anytime. I have endless hobbies that keep me occupied and entertained.
But when I go home at the end of the day, it’s just me (and my two awesome cats), and I don’t think that’s good or bad, it just is. I confuse myself going back and forth almost every minute between cherishing my singleness and grieving that no one else is there. What is it that I feel? What is it that I hope? I’m torn between these conflicting parts of myself that can’t seem to reconcile.
But all of this focuses on what’s missing, what’s not there. The past I can’t get back, the future that looks so foggy, and the present moment that slips away and away and becomes the past before I know it.
I forget that every moment is a present moment. When I think about this tomorrow or even five years from now, that will be the here and now. And yesterday was the here and now too. Every moment is an act of creation, where I’m speaking into the time-space continuum, asserting the me-ness that is me, the only me that’s ever existed in all of creation, shaping reality to become something it’s never been before. Never before have I sat here on my couch in the late, quiet hours of the night on a Thursday in early March in the bizarre year of 2025, watching my tiny, elegant cat walk carefully back and forth across my living room, asserting herself into reality with every step, city lights shining through my windows while I listen to Stars by Eriks Esenvalds over and over again, figuring out what to write here. And never will I ever again. When I think about it like that, it’s sort of heartbreaking. Every moment I’ve ever had in my 30 years of life was over before I could really cherish it, before I even knew how to live it. I may vaguely remember, but I’ll never know those moments again.
But I have right here and now. And this moment, sitting on my couch, feels eternal. It’s like I’m living in slow motion, unaware of how much time has passed. This moment is permanently shaping every moment I will have after. And maybe that’s not so heartbreaking after all. Maybe that is a beautiful thing. Maybe that’s the most powerful thing I have experienced. That I am forever creating my present reality, I am forever here, until suddenly I’m not.
I don’t want to spend any more of my present moments thinking about what’s not here or wondering what could be. I want to see the world, create the world. I want to watch myself unfold with every passing second, to be aware of every movement, every feeling, every breath while it lasts. I want every choice to be this slow and deliberate. I want to look at the stars, listen to the music, observe my cats, and feel how I feel without trying to control the moment or force it to be something it’s not. Instead, I want to respond to the moment, to move with it instead if against it.
And even in this quiet moment, I know I am not really alone. The universe is moving in every space, every corner seen and unseen. Whatever else is out there, it’s here with me in this moment. It brought me here, for some reason, and I’m choosing to respond with gratitude and awareness. My family is here, my friends are here, moving in their own ways, creating reality in their spaces that collide with mine. Together, we create the present moment. Even when I can’t see it with my eyes, I know it, I feel it. One day, I won’t be here anymore, but right now, I am, and that’s all I’ll ever know.