Unwrittn

On the restless urge to move faster vs the strength in slowing down.

If there’s one phrase you hear most often in your twenties, it’s “you’re young, there’s no need to rush.” Yet it’s quickly followed by “it’s time to be serious, it’s time to settle down.” We’re stuck in this limbo where we’re either racing against the clock, or watching the sand fall through the hourglass in slow motion. It’s either time in abundance, or no time at all.

Look around and everyone seems to be living on a different timeline. The couple from school is engaged. Your friend from university is backpacking across Central America or Southeast Asia. Someone you know is already a CEO at twenty-five. Suddenly, everything you’ve managed to achieve feels small. You feel late for a life you haven’t even defined yet.

This feeling goes deeper than comparison, though it’s easy to scroll and feel behind. It’s the uncertainty of not knowing whether you’re on the right track at all. You keep moving because stopping feels dangerous. To pause, even for a moment, means facing the harder question: what am I really chasing?

We tell ourselves we’re working toward success, stability, a life that makes sense. But if you think too long about the details, they blur. Maye it’s just the feeling of ‘arriving’ somewhere. A job title, a relationship milestone, an income level, because that feels like safety. Maybe once we get there, we’ll feel accomplished and settled, purposeful, – we’ll feel validated.

But where is ‘there’? There’s no fixed point. There’s always a next thing. So, we keep running.

But the finish line keeps moving and the sense of safety never arrives. That’s when the urge for something drastic creeps in: quit, move, change everything to prove you’re not stuck. Sometimes change is healthy and needed. Other times it’s panic in disguise. We don’t know what will bring meaning, so we shake our lives and hope the pieces fall into a better place.

When life goes quiet, the doubts get loud. You notice everything unfinished; you feel the weight of other people’s timelines. You wonder if you’re wasting precious time. So, you push yourself to stay busy.

We also build private deadlines and use them as a measuring stick: career sorted by twenty-five, financial security by thirty, love by thirty-two, clarity by thirty-five. When we fall short, we turn on ourselves. These numbers are mostly invented, but deeply internalised.

Slowing down isn’t the same as giving up. Pausing is often the only way to see whether the path you’re on is actually yours. When you stop running, you can ask harder questions about what matters to you.

You might realise the things you’re chasing don’t line up with your values. You might also find that some of the restlessness is fear: fear of wasting time, of being ordinary, of choosing wrong.

The truth we avoid is that most milestones don’t expire. People change careers well into their thirties and forties. Love remains possible even after you thought all hope was lost. Reinvention happens slowly and over time. The pressure to be fully formed by thirty is something we place on ourselves.

Time keeps moving, but rushing doesn’t allow us more of it. It only makes the present harder to enjoy, and can also push us into choices that don’t fit, chosen simply because they were quick or easy.

If you feel caught between wanting to tear everything up and wanting to breathe, don’t be alarmed. You’re just like everyone else.

Life isn’t lost when you slow down. It’s lost when you move so fast you can’t tell whether any of it belongs to you. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop sprinting and start choosing, even if the choice is to stay where you are until the next step becomes clear.