I almost skipped posting this month. I nearly fell into the excuses I gave myself… Between a pile of new tasks, fresh challenges, and honestly, just not feeling well, I gave myself a full set of excuses. I realised I was subtly hiding from the perfect moment to share my work. I promised myself I’d catch up later.with two posts in the second and fourth weeks. It isn’t easy to be consistent. Yes, today, 30th September.
You can probably relate. My excuses are likely your excuses, because we spend so much of our lives waiting for the right moment: when we feel energetic, when we have free time, or when we finally get that clear signal. We imagine a flawless alignment of clarity, confidence, and maybe even approval from others, to tell us it’s time to move. It is even harder if you are doing things alone, where no one is going to save you. You have to figure it out yourself.
But the clear, dramatic sign we wait for usually never shows up. When? We never know, and yet we thought we did, so we kept delaying. Instead, we end up forgetting and regretting. The real signal is not a big announcement. It is within us, ourselves. It’s an uncomfortable, quiet nudge inside—the realisation that standing still feels heavier than moving forward. The signal is subtle; it’s easy to ignore, to replace with bigger excuses, chores, or the sudden urge to clean the toilet. If you’re not careful, like me, you’ll keep waiting and avoiding forever until opportunities pass. The longer we delay, the bigger and more unbearable the perceived risks become, forcing us to accept whatever comes without any choices.

The Danger of Letting Life Wait

I hate wasting time, yet there are times I didn’t realise how much of it I wasted on things that didn’t matter, neglecting what is important. I waited too long on some decisions where life simply does not wait for anyone. These are the things that impacted me, and I’ll share them with you right now, in the comfort of your pyjamas and coffee, so that you won’t repeat the same painful mistakes as I did. The last paragraph is important; make sure you read it.
We always assume we have more time, more chances to speak our feelings, and more space to figure things out. We have so much in our heads, our work, and family. But life doesn’t move on our schedule. We worry endlessly about working and saving money, but rarely about saving time. Yet time leaks away far quicker, and once it’s gone, it never returns. Every “I’ll do it later” is a silent expense you never see until it’s too late. When I began looking at time the same way I look at money—limited, precious, always flowing—I realised how often waiting is the most expensive decision of all. It is not noisy, and when it comes, it comes without warning, the moment you know there is no more chance, no more extension.
You see it most clearly in relationships. We wait to say ‘I love you’ to our parents, assuming they know it. We put off apologies because pride feels safer than vulnerability. We focus on winning, on who is right or wrong,  we often forget that pride matters less than peace. Until the person is no longer here to hear the words. We promise ourselves we’ll visit our parents next month, until one day there are no more visits left to make. Grief is sharpest where words were left unsaid. But sometimes I do wonder, it is not the ones who are older than us that leave us, but we ourselves may leave this world anytime. We often think that when we are young, we are healthy and we have no health issues. Reading a lot of news online, I’ve learned that death can come to anyone regardless of age, and this scares me. To have fewer regrets in whatever I do, to cherish my loved ones and friends, and to take care of my health.
The same waiting shows up in opportunities. The job application you keep perfecting? Someone else has already taken the role. The business idea you’ve been polishing? The market has already moved on. And in creativity, I’ve had drafts sit so long they felt irrelevant. Posts I never shared, telling myself they weren’t ready—when the truth was, I wasn’t ready to risk being seen. We even wait to live, pushing joy into the future: “I’ll travel after I retire.” But health changes, years slip by, and someday, “later” never comes.

The Crucial Distinction: Patience vs. Hiding

The goal isn’t to rush blindly, but to move intentionally. Speed isn’t the enemy. Carelessness is. I think of it the way I think of a chessboard: every move has weight, and you can’t sit forever deciding, but neither can you rush blindly without thought. The art is in moving quickly enough to keep the game alive, yet slowly enough to honour the meaning of each choice. It’s less about pace and more about presence—about acting with intention rather than hesitation or panic. The real test is simple honesty: Are you waiting with purpose, or are you waiting out of fear? Fear can be a reason to start whatever you dream of, or it also can eat you up ‘alive’.
Patience is a necessary tool for important decisions. For big commitments like buying a house, switching careers, or starting a business, investing, waiting allows emotions to settle so you can decide with clarity, not impulse. In relationships, waiting means giving space for trust and compatibility to genuinely grow, instead of rushing into commitments due to pressure or loneliness. If you cannot be comfortable with yourself, you may end up mingling in the wrong circle of friendship. Even with creative work, letting an idea simmer can sharpen your perspective and produce depth. And when emotions run high, waiting even a day before sending an angry reply or making a rash confession can save relationships and reputations. I had done these a few times, and it sucks.
That necessary pause becomes hiding when restlessness builds, but you silence it with excuses. We tell ourselves we’re being careful, but deep down, we know it’s fear. Hiding looks like waiting for the calendar to grant permission: “I’ll start after the new year,” or “Monday feels better.” It’s when opportunities knock, but we keep saying “not yet.” The clearest sign of hiding is when procrastination becomes active, replacing the perceived risk of a big action by suddenly needing to clean the toilet or tackle other chores that make the actual goal feel bigger and more impossible. That day will never come. Ten years, twenty years, thirty years. We often fill our days with busyness, but deep down, much of that activity is just hiding. Stillness frightens us because it leaves us face-to-face with our own thoughts, with no noise to drown them out. At its root, this is often a fear of being alone—not just physically, but emotionally, with ourselves. And until we confront that fear, we mistake distraction for productivity and noise for meaning.

The True Signal: The Vanishing Role

During my hospitalisation, I was forced to wait. But the slowness forced me to face something uncomfortable: life itself doesn’t wait. My body had paused me, but time outside kept moving. Staying still suddenly felt heavier than the risk of moving. Back then, I hoped time would fly when I was in pain.
I saw it again when my grandmother and a close friend passed. That’s when I realised how sharp procrastination can be. When your parents’ hands look older than you remember—that’s the signal. When their voice wavers, and you realise they won’t always be here to pick up the phone—that’s the signal.
When my grandmother passed, I lost more than her presence; I lost the identity of being her grandson. That role vanished quietly, and with it came a strange emptiness. This is part of why we ache for childhood so deeply. It’s not just nostalgia for toys, play, or freedom. It’s because childhood anchored us with roles and relationships that shaped who we were. When those disappear, what we’re really missing isn’t the past itself, but the versions of ourselves that lived inside it. Relationships don’t just give us people to love; they give us roles to hold: Son, Grandson, Friend. When those people leave, those roles disappear, and parts of us leave too. You don’t just lose the chance to say something; you lose the chance to be someone in that relationship. When you realise the role you carry today could vanish tomorrow—that’s the signal.
I can’t stop my parents from growing old. But what I can stop is myself from waiting—waiting to call, waiting to visit, waiting to say the words I keep saving for later. I would rather carry the weight of having said too much than the silence of not having said enough. Losing my grandmother led me to think it is important to communicate and share how I feel when we are still alive. We may not recognise anyone when we are old enough.

Say It Now. Make It Now. Today.

Sometimes the thing we lose first is not a person, but a voice—the small, honest voice that used to write at midnight or sing in the shower. Losing your voice is also losing the self who would have launched the idea or said the apology. We call our work “not ready” when really we have been quietly abandoning ourselves. I’ve found that when I need clarity, it comes when I decide to walk and write, even when the words feel messy or unfinished. Somehow, the page acts like a mirror, showing me what I truly think and believe. What felt cloudy in my head takes shape once it’s written down. Writing doesn’t just record thoughts—it reveals them. It’s often the only way I’ve uncovered the truths I didn’t know I was carrying.
Maybe the perfect signal you’ve been waiting for isn’t out there somewhere. Maybe it’s already here—in the restlessness you feel, in the opportunities that keep knocking, in the awareness that your life won’t pause for you. Maybe the very act of asking the question is the signal.
To my friends, and to the strangers who read these words: don’t wait. Don’t keep your apologies, your stories, your songs, and your “I love yous” in drafts. Say it now. Send the message. Make the call. The small courage today is the thing you won’t regret tomorrow. You can start small: record a 60-second voice memo and don’t edit it. Publish one paragraph of a draft. Send one unsent text. Protect a recurring “voice hour” on your calendar. Take the walk. Hold your loved one’s hands. Kiss your spouse