Hey—It’s Toffer.
It didn’t start with a panic attack.
It started with unopened emails.
A calendar full of meetings I said yes to —
but didn’t want to attend.
I was moving. Replying. Producing.
But inside? I was holding my breath.
I thought I was tired. Or lazy.
I wasn’t either. I was just… split.
One part wanted to rest.
Another feared falling behind.
One wanted to say no.
Another didn’t want to disappoint.
That tension? That’s stress.
Stay in it long enough and it hardens.
Into something heavier.
Anxiety.
The thing I don't notice until I can’t sleep.
Can’t focus. Can’t breathe right.
I got lost. So I looked.
And found the only solid ground I kept skipping.
The only ground that doesn’t move.
The moment.
Estimated read time: 2 minutes
In medieval Europe, a moment meant 90 seconds—1/40th of a solar hour.
Measured by shadows on a sundial.
I could feel it move.
In Kyoto, 1683, a poem said a moment had no length.
It was the pause before a word,
the stillness after tea.
Not something you counted.
Something you entered.
間 (ma) — the space between.
In New York, 1985, a trader called it timing.
The difference between broke and legend.
He missed his moment and blamed the markets.
(It wasn’t the markets.)
In Addis Ababa, 2061, a child called it music.
A beat. A clue. Something that told them when to move.
Music doesn’t rush to the end.
It unfolds. It deepens. It holds.
A moment wasn’t a break in time.
It was the rhythm itself.
Wasted time, I’ve realized, is time I wasn’t there for.
I wasn’t present. I wasn’t in it.
I was arguing with the moment,
replaying how it should’ve gone,
or bracing for how it might.
That’s not living. That’s dying in real time.
So I’ve stopped trying to fix the future.
I just step into the moment I’m already in.
Even if it’s just for 90 seconds.
Stress is just a moment pulled in two directions.
The moment I choose becomes mine.
Your Friend in Time,
Toffer
P.S. The moment refreshes four times a day.
Here's one waiting for you 👉 Page Me