There was a time in my life when time felt like all I had, but money was always missing. I had just started writing seriously then. It was the kind of season where the days stretched out slowly and the nights were filled with too much thinking. I wasn’t taking on too many clients yet just trying to find my voice. And as hard as it was to not have money, I had something I didn’t know was gold: time.

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Time to write badly and rewrite again. Time to reflect and imagine. Time to lie on the floor with music in my ears and a story forming in my mind. I could pause life for hours and return with a fresh idea. I’d write until I got tired, nap in the afternoon, take long walks, and read books like I had all the days in the world. It wasn’t easy, don’t get me wrong. There were moments I worried about rent, about food, about stability. But in between the worry, I had something most people didn’t: *peace*. *space*.  *quiet*.

That season shaped me. I discovered what kind of writing I loved to do, and what I didn’t. I found my rhythm without any pressure. I wrote stories that felt honest and shared them with the world. Some got ignored. Some got noticed. But I kept going. It felt like building a house from sand, slowly learning what could stand and what would collapse.

Then everything changed.

A few years later, the clients came. Projects doubled. Deadlines tripled. Money started flowing, and for a while, I felt accomplished. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing emails, reminders, meetings, revisions. I was finally *that girl*. I had the tools, the income, the opportunities.

But the time? The time vanished.

I stopped reading for fun. I stopped taking those long reflective walks. I began writing only when someone paid me to. My notes app was filled with half-finished ideas I didn’t have time to grow. I’d eat while typing. Sleep while thinking. Wake up with tension in my chest, not inspiration in my head. My creativity, once a free-flowing river, had become a stiff tap that only opened under pressure.

One night, after delivering a heavy batch of work, I sat in the dark and realized I couldn’t even remember the last time I wrote something for myself. Not for money. Not for approval. Just for me.

The money was nice I won’t lie. But the version of me that existed during that time of ‘plenty’ felt smaller somehow. Hollow. I had to admit it: the more I chased wealth, the more I lost connection to the core of who I was.

And relationships? Don’t get me started. I started saying *I’m busy* more than *I miss you*. Calls became tasks. I avoided texts because I didn’t want to *waste time* chatting. I watched people drift, and I told myself it was just what happens when you grow. But deep down, I knew I was slowly disconnecting from others and from myself.

That’s when I made a quiet decision.

I couldn’t continue trading time for money at the cost of everything else. I began to cut back. I chose slower projects. Said no to things that didn't align. I started waking up earlier, not to meet deadlines, but to write just for me like I used to. I reached out to friends again. I started making space.

Now, I’m not rich. But I’m rich in time. And time is where the magic happens.

It’s in the still moments that new stories come. It’s in the pauses that I remember who I am and why I even started. The truth is, time isn’t just something we spend it’s something we live. And when you’re constantly working, chasing, stressing, you stop living.

So if you ask me now, *Unlimited free time or unlimited money?*

I’ll smile and say, *Give me time*.
Because with time, I can rest. I can create. I can connect. I can heal.

And maybe, just maybe, I can still build something beautiful and sustainable on my own terms.

<sub>Note: 
**This is my personal story, written by me without the help of AI .**
**Images designed on Canva by me**</sub>
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