Oh Wait, It’s Crying Too

Once upon a Monday morning, I opened my planner and it stared at me like I’d betrayed it. It wasn’t the empty pages or the scattered intentions that did it — it was the tone. Condescending. Mockingly pristine. Like time itself was saying, “Oh look, another mortal thinking she can schedule creativity.” Cute. Very cute.

We chase the holy grail of balance: that perfect week where tasks line up like agreeable sheep, where energy remains unwavering, and where each meeting, brainstorm, or admin flick feels like a noble step in the great dance of purpose. Only to find ourselves buried under other people’s urgencies, decision fatigue, and rogue texts asking, “Can you just quickly…?”

Time management, as sold, is deeply optimistic. Dangerously so. It assumes we are linear, consistent, and able to predict our own emotional weather. It assumes we can flatten the glorious chaos of being human into slots and stacks and post-its. But if you’ve ever cried in a meeting, you technically scheduled with enthusiasm last week, you’ll know—it doesn’t always work out that way.

The truth is, we don’t want to manage time. We want to feel held by it. Safely. Kindly. Like it’s on our team. Not hovering over us with a whistle and clipboard.

You see, linear time assumes progress is forward. Spiral time knows some things take revisiting, relayering, looping back. It respects that sometimes insight lands on the third pass, not the first. That a moment’s pause might birth a breakthrough. That rest isn’t the absence of productivity—it’s its incubator.

Last Wednesday I sat down to do “focus work.” I had good tea. No distractions. Perfect playlist. A clear task.

And then I stared at a sentence for 47 minutes. Not writing. Not editing. Just vaguely resenting the sentence and myself and the whole concept of deadlines.

Turns out, I didn’t need focus — I needed to grieve. A friend had shared a heavy truth that morning. It sat in my chest like wet cement. But my planner didn’t say “grieve.” It said “draft section 2.”

So, here’s the gentle reminder: sometimes your energy won’t match your plan, and that’s not a betrayal of ambition. It’s an act of internal listening.

Prompt for your next foggy day: instead of asking “What do I need to do?” ask “What rhythm wants to move through me today?”

It’s not fluffy. It’s responsive design for emotional terrain.

This is what time care asks of us. Not rigid boxes, but responsiveness. Not peak output, but relational honesty.

And sometimes, it’s about naming the emotional cost of our calendar decisions. You know that thing where you book six things in a week and then wonder why Thursday feels like a personality collapse? That’s not failure. That’s overexposure.

Try this instead: keep one day a week free from external obligation. Call it your “Margin Day.” Doesn’t have to be Friday. Just a soft boundary that says, “This day belongs to recalibration.”

You don’t have to do nothing. You just don’t owe anyone anything.

Each Sunday, glance at the week ahead and ask: – What do I know will be emotionally charged? – What surprises might show up? – Where do I need buffers?

Map not just your tasks, but your tides. Honour that some things are emotionally heavier than others. Not every hour is equal.

It’s not indulgence. It’s sustainability.

Also—can we talk about the weaponisation of “free time”?

There’s that moment where someone clocks you reading a book or baking bread and goes, “Oh you’ve got time!” As if time is just waiting to be filled with unpaid admin and favours.

Actually, no. You chose to give that hour to something replenishing. And that is sacred.

It’s okay to be unavailable. It’s okay to say, “I’m on a slow loop today.” It’s okay to prioritise delight.

Not every minute needs justification.

Here’s a fun reframe for a classic guilt-trip:

“I wasted time today.”

Spiral response: “I metabolised something quietly.”

There’s always a story beneath the surface. Maybe you needed stillness to hear your own voice. Maybe your subconscious was working on a creative knot while you zoned out. Maybe rest was the most radical thing you could do in that moment.

One thing that helped me was removing clocks from my creative spaces. Not all clocks—I’m not living off-grid. But I realised that the constant visual tick was making me rush thought. So now, I work until the work says “pause,” not until the clock says “perform.”

Time tells. But presence listens.

A prompt for when you’re feeling behind: What might I learn from arriving gently, not urgently?

Time management is often a euphemism for people-pleasing, perfectionism, or overcompensation.

So, what if you reclaimed the phrase?

Instead of “managing time,” maybe you’re “curating rhythms.” Maybe you’re “sculpting presence.” Maybe you’re “mapping meaning.”

Language shapes relationship. And we deserve a relationship with time that respects the fullness of how we tick.

Try naming your patterns with kindness. “I’m a morning lark with bursts of mischief around 3pm.” “I do deep thinking best after emotional connection.” “My Sundays are existential and poetic.”

Let time get to know you.

And don’t forget—sometimes, life will derail your beautiful plan in the most annoying and soul-expanding way. A phone call. A breakdown. A dream that demands spontaneity.

The goal isn’t to control time. It’s to co-flourish with it.

You’re not behind. You’re human. And that’s enough.

If you’ve ever felt like your calendar is more prison than palette, maybe it’s time to rewrite the story. Spiral time invites flexibility, emotion, care, and nuance. It doesn’t just hold tasks — it holds truths. Let your days echo meaning, not just output. Time isn’t your enemy. It can be your most thoughtful collaborator.

If this stirred something, you might enjoy diving deeper into Spiralmore’s story frameworks — where emotional resonance meets practical rhythm, and care is not an afterthought, but the lead character.