On time travel, transitions, and the “radical act” of living

Screen grab from About Time Trailer https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7OIFdWk83no&themeRefresh=1

I rewatched About Time recently, which feels like the universe having a laugh at my timing (pun absolutely intended). I’m in this borderline macabre transition period in life, where I’m finally taking the leap to shed my protective layers… to well, you know, live authentically in all my vulnerability, as my whole self - regardless of context. It would seem many others are in a similar existential situation. 

Image from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buddy_Christ

Here we are, collectively swimming through what feels like humanity's most chaotic group project yet, and I'm sobbing at Domhnall Gleeson (Tim in the movie, aka Bill Weasley in disguise) learning to notice sunlight filtering through leaves.

Maybe that's exactly when we need reminding that living fully isn't about grand gestures or perfect circumstances—it's about the ordinary magic we're usually too distracted to see.

The Time Traveller's Paradox

Tim's father delivers what might be romcom's most profound life hack: live each day twice. First, stumble through it with all your usual anxieties and tunnel vision. Then travel back and live it again—this time noticing the texture of your morning coffee, the way your partner's eyes crinkle when they're genuinely amused, the small kindnesses that pepper even difficult days.

The magic isn't in the time travel itself—it's in the shift from reactive living to intentional presence. From surviving your day to actually experiencing it. Ah, the power of now. See what I did there? 

Here's where the film gets you right in the damn feels - at least for me: Tim eventually stops time travelling altogether. Instead, he lives each day as if he's intentionally travelled back to live that exact day again. Anti FOMO in realtime.

We're all time travellers right now, aren't we? Not the Hollywood kind, but the messy human variety—caught between what was, what is, and what might be. Everything genuinely feels like it's on fire. Wars raging in Ukraine and genocide Gaza whilst the world watches in real-time on social media, most of us helpless against our broken systems. Climate disasters become so frequent they barely register as news anymore. A cost-of-living crisis that's made basic housing feel like a luxury item. Political systems worldwide lurches towards authoritarianism whilst democracy feels like… well, is in fact increasingly performative.

AND THE MEDIA? Bloody hell, they're making it worse. Every outlet fighting for microseconds of attention in our infinite scroll hellscape, sensationalising every crisis for profit, turning genuine human suffering into content to drive engagement metrics. The 24-hour news cycle has become a perpetual anxiety machine designed to keep us refreshing, clicking, consuming. Numb, hopeless, too overstimulated and exhausted to take meaningful action and bury free thinking in mass graves. 

Image from https://www.sl.nsw.gov.au/stories/spreading-fire-fake-news

Here’s my brain fart moment: we're supposed to be progressing as a civilisation, right? Technology advancing, knowledge expanding, supposedly getting better at this whole "being human together" thing. Yet it feels like we're devolving—more divided, more cruel, more willing to abandon each other when things get difficult.

Are we measuring progress all wrong? There's a story (possibly apocryphal, but powerful nonetheless) about Margaret Mead being asked what marked the first sign of civilisation. The student expected her to mention tools or pottery, but Mead reportedly said it was a healed femur—a broken thighbone that had mended. In the wild, she explained, a broken leg means death. You can't hunt, can't escape danger, can't survive. But a healed femur means someone stayed. Someone cared. Someone carried the wounded person to safety and tended them through recovery.

Civilisation, in other words, isn't about technological advancement or economic growth or any of the metrics we obsess over. It's about—the apparent radical act—of not abandoning each other when life gets shitty.

Back to the film. In this liminal space between collapse and possibility, there's an opportunity that Tim's story illuminates: when everything feels uncertain, the only thing we can truly control is our attention. What we choose to notice. How we choose to show up. We get to choose. Wild right? Free will and all that. 

I'm not suggesting toxic positivity or pretending everything's brilliant when it's clearly not. I'm talking about something more nuanced—the ability to hold complexity and ambiguity without being crushed by them.

The Glimmers and the Grit

Living fully means paying attention to both the glimmers and the grit. The moments of unexpected joy and the legitimate struggles. The friend who texts at exactly the right moment and the systemic problems that make you want to slap the world with a chair, to its face.

This isn't about balance—that word suggests some sort of cosmic scales that need evening out. It's about integration. About being human enough to feel the full spectrum without needing to resolve the contradictions.

We live in a world where people are simultaneously more connected and more isolated than ever before. Where we have access to infinite information with our little phones but struggle to distinguish truth from manipulation. Where we can witness suffering in real-time across the globe but feel powerless to meaningfully respond. Where progress feels like a moving target that keeps shifting away from human flourishing and towards metrics that serve systems rather than souls.

Some days, living fully looks like dancing in your kitchen to fergalicious so your steak cooks perfectly. Other days, it's sitting with yourself without immediately reaching for distractions. Sometimes it's acknowledging that the world is genuinely ablaze right now whilst still choosing to notice the stranger smiling at you across the train car. It's holding space for both rage at injustice and awe at unexpected kindness, possibly within the same hour.

The “Radical Act” of Presence

Some learnings from watching Tim figure this out (and from my own fumbling attempts at conscious living): presence isn't passive. It's not about floating through life in a zen-like trance, pretending you're above the messiness.

Real presence is active engagement with whatever's actually happening. It's choosing curiosity over judgement when someone disagrees with you. It's noticing when you're holding your breath and remembering to exhale. It's allowing yourself to be moved by small things—the way light hits water, a stranger's unexpected kindness, the perfect timing of a terrible joke. I know you probs don’t want to hear this, but it’s eating a whole meal without facetiming your bestie or watching something whilst you scroll on your phone! 

It's also knowing when to step back, when to say no, when to protect your energy for what matters most. Not today Big Brother, not today. 

About Time doesn't offer a neat framework or a productivity hack. Instead, it presents something more valuable: permission to treat ordinary life as extraordinary simply by showing up to it fully. Also, whilst on this topic, I highly recommend the book Stoner by John Williams. Chef’s kiss. 

Image from https://openlibrary.org/works/OL3511459W/Stoner

This means different things for different people. For some, it's putting down the phone during conversations. For others, it's learning to sit with uncertainty without immediately problem-solving. It might be saying yes to spontaneous adventures or no to perceived obligations like helping someone move out of their apartment.

The key isn't finding the "right" way to live fully—it's developing your own practice of paying attention. Of showing up. Of choosing, again and again, to engage with life rather than simply endure it. I know this is all easy to say and much harder to practice, but try it with me? Promise it’s a step in a more fulfilling direction. 

You Only Die Once

The film's quiet revelation is this: we spend so much energy trying to control outcomes that we miss the actual experience of being alive. We're so focused on getting somewhere—on progress for progress's sake, on growth that serves algorithms rather than humans, on moving forward without asking where we're actually going—that we forget we're already here.

In a world obsessed with advancement without direction, and ignorance to consequences, with measuring everything except what matters, Tim's father teaches him that the secret isn't having unlimited do-overs—it's recognising that every moment is already a gift that deserves our full attention.

Perhaps the most radical act in our current moment isn't to optimise or accelerate or disrupt. Perhaps it's to slow down enough to notice who needs a healed femur—who needs someone to stay, to care, to not abandon them when things get difficult. Perhaps true progress is measured not by our technological capabilities but by our willingness to bind up wounds and tend each other through recovery.

Perhaps it’s slowing down enough to realise that the person in need is in fact you. 

You only die once, but you live every single day. The question isn't whether you have enough time—it's whether you're actually present for the time you have.

So what would it look like to live today as if you'd chosen to travel back in time to experience it again? What would you notice that you usually miss? How would you show up differently to the conversations, the mundane tasks, the quiet moments between obligations?

The superpower isn't time travel—it's the decision to be here, fully and intentionally, for whatever today brings.

Because this day, right now, is the only one guaranteed. The past is over, and the future doesn’t exist yet. The time is now.

Until next time, 

Nhiyc

Life is really weird. REALLY weird. We can cope with the weird, thrive in it even as long as we’re present and as long as we have community. :)