Water droplets raced across the window as our plane accelerated into the winter night. Flickering outside, a lonely red light blinked against the silhouette of a wing. I couldn’t see the horizon nor the people working on the tarmac. It was in that moment, buckled in place, surrounded by sleeping passengers, suddenly aware of the new year, when I faced an old realization. No matter where I am, I cannot escape the feeling of time flying.

For many years, when someone asked me, “how was your week?”, I often replied, “good, not much happened, how about you?”— quickly deflecting the attention from myself to another. For some reason, those questions--how are you? how was your week? what are you up to?--asked out of courtesy and good-nature, made me feel shame, as if I had done something wrong and they were confronting me about it. Assessing my life was a painful process because I graded my day based on my accomplishments and productivity.