Some people glide through life with crisp edges.
They arrive early. They remember birthdays. They pack the sunscreen. Their inboxes are civilized. Their coffee is still hot when they drink it. They own travel-sized lint rollers.
I admire these people. I am not one of them.
I am someone who is perpetually—just slightly—behind.
Late to the call. Late to the deadline. Late to understanding the assignment, only to over-deliver in a burst of last-minute panic that feels, suspiciously, like a personality trait.
I don’t miss the big stuff. I’m not unreliable.
Just... slightly delayed. Consistently.
Call it elegantly late.
Call it chronically optimistic about time.
Call it what it is: trying my best with a brain full of tabs and a body running on caffeine, cortisol, and questionable calendar math.
Time is a concept. But also, it isn’t.
I know how clocks work.
I also know how time bends when you think you have “just five minutes” and that somehow includes a shower, two emails, and reorganizing my shoe rack.
I don’t leave too late because I don’t care.
I leave too late because in my mind, I am faster than I am.
More efficient than I am.
Someone who can teleport, apparently.
There is a version of me who gets ready early, who breezes out the door in linen pants and emotional clarity.
I have never met her. But I think we’d get along.
It’s not laziness. It’s logistics.
Let’s be honest: being on time is a full-time job.
You have to factor in weather, parking, traffic, mood, hydration, and whether or not you remembered to defrost the chicken. You have to account for kids, pets, emails, rogue phone calls, and the 11 minutes you lost trying to remember why you walked into the kitchen.
People who are consistently punctual aren’t just on time—they’re disciplined. They’ve trained for it. They plan ahead. They budget time like money.
Meanwhile, some of us are still bartering.
I’m not late. I’m overly hopeful.
There’s a specific brand of optimism baked into being late. A belief that this time you’ll thread the needle. Hit all the green lights. Get in and out of the drugstore in three minutes. Avoid traffic. Avoid conversation. Avoid that one neighbour who always wants to chat about composting.
It’s the kind of hope that’s never quite rewarded, but never quite extinguished either.
You’d think we’d learn.
We don’t.
The quiet shame of the almost-late
Being elegantly late isn’t glamorous. It’s stressful.
You arrive with too much energy, apologising as you peel off layers and pretend you’re not sweating through your blouse.
You miss the beginning. You miss the preamble. You miss the part where people ease in.
You arrive halfway through and still manage to contribute something smart. But you’re flustered. You’re catching up. And part of you feels like you’re always apologising for existing five minutes behind.
And yet, we survive.
Here’s what I’ve learned: showing up late doesn’t mean you don’t care.
Sometimes it means you care too much—about everything.
About doing it all. Fitting it in. Not letting anyone down.
It means you’re trying.
Maybe too hard.
But you always show up. Eventually. Fully.
Hair slightly wrong. Mind slightly scrambled. Still—there.
That counts for something.
Probably more than we give ourselves credit for.