I used to loathe time. I know, I know—time is not exactly something you can give the side-eye to and expect it to apologize. Still, if time had been a person when I was younger, I would have accused it of being rude, bossy, and entirely too fond of rules.

This question had me thinking back to “the most wonderful time,” which, depending on your age, either means childhood freedom or the holiday song that will live rent-free in your head until February. After my little trip down memory lane, I realized the thing I used to loathe was not one particular season, chore, or person who made me eat vegetables. It was time itself.

When I was a child, time had the nerve to speed up whenever I was out playing, exploring, and doing very important childhood business—like roaming, daydreaming, and investigating creeks, trees, sidewalks, and anything that looked remotely climbable. Then, just when life was getting good, darkness arrived like an official announcement: “The sidewalks are now closed. Please return all children to their homes.”

Dark was the time the sidewalks rolled up. Supper called. Porch lights flickered on. Somebody’s mama yelled somebody’s full name, which, as every child knows, is nature’s warning siren. And suddenly, time—my old enemy—had won again.

Then came the teenage years, and time got even bossier. Curfew entered the chat. I did not care for curfew. Curfew was time wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard. I always wanted more time to do the things I loved, to be with friends, to stay out a little longer, to stretch the evening past what the grown-ups considered reasonable.

Of course, when you are young, time seems endless in the ordinary moments. There was always time to play, time to roam, time to do what I wanted, and eventually—after enough reminders—time to do what I needed to do. There was structure back then, but I hardly noticed it. It was simply the way life worked. Meals happened. School happened. Bedtime happened. Adults made schedules, and children quietly plotted how to bend them.

I loathed having to conform to life’s schedule. I did not hate it—hate feels too sharp for this little personal feud—but I definitely loathed it. Time felt like a fence around my fun, a clock-shaped hall monitor tapping its watch and reminding me that freedom had operating hours.

Now, in my older age, time behaves differently. It no longer drags its feet through school days or stretches summer afternoons like warm taffy. Now it flits. It zips. It disappears while I am looking for my glasses, which are usually on my head, because apparently time also has a sense of humor.

I still do not always have enough time. There are things I want to finish, places I want to go, people I want to see, and little tasks that multiply when I am not watching. But the time I do have, I respect. I enjoy it. I pay attention to it more than I ever did when I believed there would always be plenty.

These days, coming home at a decent hour, going to bed when I should, and doing what must be done are no longer punishments. They are part of a rhythm I have come to appreciate. Structure, the very thing I once grumbled against, now feels like a blessing. It keeps me steady. It helps me make room for the things I love. It reminds me that time is not just something passing by—it is something I get to live inside.

So yes, I used to loathe time. I blamed it for curfews, endings, bedtimes, and the cruel disappearance of daylight when adventure was just getting interesting. But now? Now I love time—not because there is more of it, but because I finally understand its value.

Time may still be bossy. It may still tap its watch and nudge me along. But these days, I am far more willing to listen. And if I am honest, I am grateful for the nudge.