“Astronomy was history, because space was time. … The space between you and the star is time.”
— Joan, Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid
I read Atmosphere mostly because I saw it everywhere on Bookstagram. Members of my community kept raving about it, so I decided to give it a try. This was my first book by TJR, and while it didn’t hit all the spots for me, it’s undeniably a good story. Women in astrophysics at NASA in the 80s? You can just imagine.
Among the themes explored in the story, one in particular caught my attention: time. That line above stopped me. It made me think not just about the universe, but about the small, ordinary ways time moves through my own life.
I’ve asked myself this question more than once since I moved to Canada: Where did my time go?
It’s not just about motherhood or busyness—something deeper shifted. And Joan’s words made me wonder if the answer has less to do with how I spend my days… and more to do with the space I’m crossing to live them.
“Maybe I haven’t lost time—maybe I’ve just been crossing more of it.”
More Distance, More Time
I’m not a physicist by any means, but here’s how I’ve come to understand Joan’s idea from a Time-as-Physics perspective.
In Einstein’s theory of relativity, time and space aren’t separate—they’re woven together into a single fabric called spacetime.
When Joan says “the space between you and the star is time”, it’s not just poetic—it’s also rooted in this truth: nothing can happen across space without time. Movement through space takes time. The farther apart two points are, the more time is required to connect them.
Light takes time to travel from a star to your eyes—sometimes years, centuries, or even millennia. Sound takes time to reach your ears, whether it’s a whisper across a room or thunder rolling in the distance. Even the moment you see a star isn’t right now—you’re seeing light that left it long ago. Space isn’t empty; it’s filled with the unfolding of time.
Maybe that’s why, here in Canada, I feel like I don’t have as much time as I used to.
In Cameroon, everything felt close—home, work, groceries, people. Grocery shopping at the farmer’s market was a 40-minute round trip, and everything I needed was in one place.
Here in Canada, everything is farther. The time it takes to move through that space? I feel it in my bones. Grocery shopping at Costco feels like a workout. Visiting family? Four hours of driving, there and back. Commuting to work? Well, you get the picture.
“Space isn’t empty—it’s filled with the unfolding of time.”
Time Isn’t What the Clock Says
If physics says movement through space takes time, life says time moves through us in ways the clock can’t measure.
We don’t actually see time—we experience it. And our experience of time is deeply personal.
When you’re in awe, a moment seems to last forever.
When you’re grieving, whole days can vanish without you noticing.
When you’re waiting, seconds stretch until they feel like hours.
This isn’t just individual—it’s cultural too. In Cameroon, my days felt full but never rushed. People aren’t always in a hurry. One of my French bosses used to say, “Africans have time, and Westerners have the clock.” It’s a different mindset altogether—time as something you live inside, not something you race against.
Canada taught me the opposite. Here, you have to rush—catch the bus, make the meeting, keep the schedule. Everything is planned, and if you don’t stick to the clock, things quickly fall apart.
Neither approach is inherently better—it just reminds me that culture, environment, and the ticking of a second hand all shape how we experience time.
“Africans have time. Europeans have the clock.”
I Had Time—Then I Didn’t
In Cameroon, life felt smaller in the best way. Shorter commutes. Smaller stores. Smaller circles.
I didn’t have a long commute to work—“long” meant 15 or 20 minutes. Stores were easy to navigate. Family and friends were nearby. Kids’ activities happened right outside the house, no drop-offs or pickups needed.
Canada is different. Back home, my commute here would count as a trip. Grocery shopping means several stores, sometimes in several different towns. To see friends, I have to cover the space between us.
Maybe I didn’t lose time when I moved here. Maybe I just crossed too much space. But space always demands time. And the more time you spend moving between the places and people in your life, the less time you have to simply be with them.
“Maybe I didn’t lose time. Maybe I just crossed too much space.”
Maybe It’s Not “Where Did My Time Go?”
The more I think about Joan’s words, the more I realize I’ve been asking the wrong question.
Instead of Where did my time go?
I’m learning to ask: Where am I now… and how far have I come?
One thing I appreciate about life in Canada is that it allows me to have a schedule. My mum taught me to be punctual and to manage my time well. I like knowing exactly what to do at a certain time—even if I don’t always follow it. Here, the system makes it easier to keep that routine.
Back in Cameroon, life was slower but more unpredictable. Plans shifted, buses left late, and sometimes you just had to adjust. That pace can be freeing, but it also made routines harder to maintain.
So maybe my real question now is: How can I stop rushing?
I’ve started small:
- Grocery shopping twice a month, which means meal planning.
- Accepting that housework never ends—and stopping when I need to.
- Guarding moments of stillness, even in a busy week.
Maybe the time I’m looking for is still here. I just need to stop rushing through it.
“Maybe the time I’m looking for is still here. I just need to stop rushing through it.”
Let’s talk in the comments
💬 Do you feel like life where you live pushes you to rush—or allows you to slow down?
💬 What’s one small change that’s helped you feel less rushed in your everyday life?
💬 Do you think our experience of time is shaped more by culture, environment, or personal habits?