I think about time a lot. Especially since moving to Los Angeles, where distances aren’t measured in miles, but in minutes. Time governs everything.

It governs everything in my work, too. As a software engineer in time-domain astronomy, I have to be ahead, ready to respond to short-lived events and trigger our telescopes. Time zones are always on my mind, as the telescopes I support are in Chile, Arizona, and Hawaii. Seriously, fuck daylight savings and changing clocks.

I received so much love and support after yesterday’s post. The messages from friends and family reminded me of how much time it’s been since I last checked in. For some, their last memory of me is frozen in time, at my lowest moments: the celebration of life for my mom or my sister. A still of me at my lowest.

For many of them, that’s the version they remember. But a lot has happened since then. I never shared the work I’ve done to heal and process. #31DaysOfGrief isn’t a cry for help—it’s a reflection. I truly appreciate the love, but I want you to know I’m doing well.

I hope this doesn’t come off as ungrateful for the check-ins.

Grief can disrupt time. It causes time dilation, making time feel relative and passing differently for the grieving. Sometimes it slows down, making the world blur by, or speeds up, pushing you from one moment to the next.

Testing time dilation

Zoomin' on Dumbo, bending space and time.

Grief made me hyperaware of a countdown. Most of my family and friends don’t live in California, so I only see them once or twice a year. I found myself calculating how many more times I might see them in my lifetime. It put so much pressure on those moments that I struggled to enjoy them.

To break this habit, I’ve started focusing on quality over quantity. I had to accept that I can’t be everywhere, all at once. Instead of thinking about “how many more visits” I have left, I focus on this visit and being fully present. This shift has made each encounter more meaningful. It allowed me to truly appreciate the time I have with the people I love. However, it’s easier said than done, and it gets harder as loved ones grow older.

But grief, strangely enough, has also taught me how to control time.

Just the other day, I had one of those moments I wanted to hold on to. My family and I were having a cozy night at home. Milly, our pup, was darting back and forth on the couch, chasing her toy while I played with her. Alexis watched us, smiling, as she decorated for Halloween. The Halloween Baking Championship played in the background. Penny, our cat, was curled up in the cozy reading chair.

Suddenly, I felt this wave of awareness wash over me. I realized this was a moment I wanted to remember. To ground myself, I focused on my senses: the feel of the rug under my feet, my clothes on my body, the sound of Milly play-growling back at me, and my breathing. For that moment, I slowed down time. I thought about how much I love this moment, this feeling. For that brief period, I felt like I had all the time in the world to admire my family.

We have the power to pause, appreciate, and fully be in the moments that matter. We get to set the reference point.