Always Rushed, Always Late

There was a time, not even that long ago, when going to work wasn’t a choice. You just showed up. Rain, flu, heartbreak, exhaustion… it didn’t matter. You went. The only acceptable reasons not to were if you were sick, officially on vacation, or you managed to convince someone you were. That was the norm. The rhythm. Clock in, clock out, survive another day.

But the world I live in now feels different. Especially in the spaces I’ve found myself lately, this strange and freeing world of ideas and knowledge work, where time feels more fluid and presence isn’t always physical. Where remote work and flexible hours have become part of the script.

And like most things in my life, I’ve had the chance, maybe even the strange luck, to experience both sides of the coin. I know what it feels like to report to an office out of duty. And I also know the privilege of choosing not to go in unless I really feel like it.

For a long time, I didn’t feel like it.

But something shifted recently. I started craving the edges of discomfort again, not the kind that breaks you, but the kind that stretches you. I started missing the quiet connections you build without even trying: those lunch breaks with colleagues, the hallway chatter that’s about everything and nothing, the small rituals that form when people share space. Like bumping into someone you messaged weeks ago and never heard back from, but in person, they smile, they make time. There’s something beautiful in that.

Remote work has its perks, no doubt. But so does being there. Being around. Maybe I’ll write more about that sometime. For now, I’m here, in the moment.

I’m drafting this from the heart of London, deep in the colorful chaos of Soho. It’s been four days of moving through the city, on foot, by train, by bus. Watching the people flow in and out of underground stations like tides. There’s a pulse to it. Fast, loud, alive. A race against time.

Always rushed, always late.

I guess that’s why they call it the human race.

It’s strange, watching from the outside. I’m not really in the race, not like they are. I’ve just been observing. Noticing. The energy, the weight in people’s steps. Some probably just finished a night shift. Some are rushing to job number two. Some are just trying to stay on top of life.

And then it hit me, this same train I’m riding on? It’s someone else’s workplace. The driver, the barista handing out coffees at 6 a.m., the cleaner sweeping platforms before the crowd arrives. These are the people who keep the wheels turning.

We don’t think about them enough.

I’ve always known this, but this week, it settled differently in me. Sometimes, you have to be in the middle of it to feel it. To really see the sacrifice and silent effort it takes to keep the world moving forward.

And it made me think: we often reduce jobs to their titles, strip them down to tasks and complaints. But if you zoom out, you might realize that “dead-end job” someone’s always complaining about? It’s anchoring someone else’s day. It’s feeding a family. It’s part of something bigger, even if no one claps for it.

That’s when it clicked.

What a lot of people have, and what they hold on to, even when life feels heavy, is the choice to show up. The quiet dignity in doing what must be done.

I hadn’t thought much about that until now. But moving through this city, feeling its rhythm for a few days, has given me a lot to sit with. A lot to be thankful for. Like the opportunity to “choose” to work in and out of the office

It’s also reminded me that I need to step outside of my comfort zone more often. You don’t really see what people carry until you do. You don’t grasp the gravity of someone’s daily reality until you stand next to it. Watch it. Walk a little of it.

And once you do, you start asking different questions.

Is it connection people are chasing? Or meaning? Or just the quiet dignity of knowing their time counts for something?

We’re all at different points in our lives, and most of us are carrying more than we let on. That’s why Viktor Frankl’s words in Man’s Search for Meaning stay close to me:

“What is to give light must endure burning.”

We don’t really know the limits of what people can endure. But every day, people stretch those limits, and still find ways to show up.

So maybe that’s what I’m learning. Maybe that’s what I want to remember:

Be present. Be kinder. Be grateful.

Because even in the chaos, even in the endless rush, even in the lateness, people are doing their best.

And that, in itself, is a kind of grace.