The Lies We Tell Ourselves About Time

And why you brain would rather keep you predictably unhappy than unpredictably transformed

Photo by Sumit Saharkar on Unsplash

Last week, a reader left a comment that lodged itself under my ribs and stayed there.

It was quiet. Almost an afterthought. But it carried the weight of a whole lifetime.

“I used to write every day… and I loved it. It helped me feel better. But I stopped. And I don’t think I have 20 minutes anymore.”

I read it twice.

Not because I didn’t understand the words, but because they felt familiar in a way that made my chest ache. I know this sentence. You know this sentence. It’s the sentence of every human who has ever walked away from something that once made them feel alive.

And here’s the part that won’t let me go:

This sentence has nothing to do with time.

People don’t abandon writing because they’re busy. People abandon writing because, somewhere along the way, they abandoned the version of themselves who wrote.

Let’s talk about that.

The Lie We Tell Ourselves

Most of us walk around with “I don’t have time” like it’s a medical diagnosis.

We don’t have time to write. We don’t have time to rest. We don’t have time to do the things that soften us, ground us, reconnect us.

But every one of us has lived through this truth:

If there’s a crisis, a deadline, a crying child, a broken pipe, a sick parent; we find time.

Time is never the barrier. Time is elastic. Time expands and contracts based on identity, urgency, and emotion.

What my reader was really saying wasn’t “I can’t find 20 minutes.” It was:

“I no longer see myself as the person who sits down to write.”

And that changes everything.

The Invisible Drift Away From Yourself

Here’s what I’ve learned from years of coaching, writing, and reading thousands of comments from humans trying to change their lives:

We don’t stop writing because we’re lazy. We stop writing because we drift away from the self who used to write.

This is called identity drift.

It’s subtle. It happens during seasons of overwhelm, caregiving, loss, burnout, survival mode. It’s the slow erosion of inner space. The disappearing of a part of you that used to feel accessible.

And here’s the cinematic truth:

Identity drift is the moment you realize the room you once wrote in has gone dim, not because you turned the lights off, but because you forgot where the switch is.

And then one day, when you try to return to the page, it feels like walking back into a house where you used to live, but the key doesn’t quite fit anymore.

That’s when the sentence shows up:

“I don’t think I have 20 minutes.”

But time is not the problem. The emotional distance is.

Why Your Brain Avoids Even the Good Things

Let’s talk neuroscience; the kind that changes how you see yourself.

Your brain isn’t avoiding writing. Your brain is avoiding the emotional exposure required to meet yourself again.

Writing isn’t typing words. Writing is metacognition: witnessing your own mind. It requires honesty, presence, emotional coherence.

Your limbic system (your alarm center) registers this as risk. Not because it’s dangerous, but because it’s vulnerable.

And here’s where the science becomes startling.

A medical study found that when cardiologists told their seriously at-risk heart patients they would literally die if they didn’t change their diet, exercise, or smoking habits… still only one in seven was able to make the changes. One in seven. (Kegan & Lahey, “Immunity to Change”)

Think about that. Even when the stakes are life or death, most people still can’t change. Not because they don’t want to. Not because they don’t understand.

But because their nervous system is trying to protect them from the psychological and emotional threat of becoming someone different.

This is the part no one tells you:

Your brain would rather keep you predictably unhappy than unpredictably transformed.

Transformation is metabolically expensive. Identity change is destabilizing. The familiar self, even if stressed or depleted, feels safer than the possibility of becoming someone new.

So when you’re already carrying too much: emotionally, physically, mentally your brain goes into conservation mode. It cuts off anything that isn’t tied to immediate survival:

Creativity. Reflection. Introspection. Joy. Play.

Writing feels like a luxury the nervous system cannot afford.

And then there’s the RAS (Reticular Activating System) the brain’s filter for what matters and what doesn’t.

If you used to be someone who wrote, but now see yourself as someone who’s “too busy,” “too tired,” or “not creative anymore,” the RAS stops surfacing cues to write.

You walk past your journal without noticing. You scroll past writing prompts. Your brain literally filters out what no longer matches your identity.

Not because you don’t have time. Because your brain believes writing no longer belongs to your current identity.

This is not avoidance. This is not laziness. This is not failure.

This is protection.

When the Work That Used to Work… Stops Working

So many people tell me:

“I used to journal.” “I used to meditate.” “I used to write my way out of stuck places.” “I used to feel better when I did this.”

But now those practices feel impossible.

I know this drift intimately.

For years, I did all the “right” things: journaling, visualizing, meditating, affirmations, gratitude lists. I had a whole transformation toolkit that once worked beautifully.

Until it didn’t.

It was that I had changed, but my practices hadn’t.

The version of me who used to journal was solving different problems, carrying different fears. She had the bandwidth for deep excavation.

But the woman I had become?

She needed something that…

• matched her emotional bandwidth

• anchored her identity forward, not backward

• didn’t require an hour she didn’t have

• didn’t overwhelm her nervous system

• felt safe enough to return to

I needed a threshold, not a discipline.

That’s how Future Scripting was born, not to teach others, but to find my way back to myself.

When I understood why it worked, the neuroscience of mental rehearsal, the identity rewiring, the safety of writing from five minutes ahead instead of five years behind, I knew I had to share it.

Because if you’re recognizing yourself in this, you don’t need more discipline.

You need a way back to yourself that honors who you’ve become.

You Just Need One Sentence That Feels Like Home.

Sometimes we say “I don’t have time” when what we really mean is:

“I don’t know how to return to myself without falling apart.”

Writing isn’t hard. The passage back to writing feels hard.

So let’s make the entrance smaller. So small your brain can’t reject it.

Try this:

Sit down. Put your hand on the table. Take one breath. Write one sentence.

Just one.

A sentence like:

“Five minutes from now, I’m sitting with my pen and my shoulders soften.”

or

“The version of me who writes again feels like a warm room I forgot I loved.”

or the most powerful question I know:

“What if I became the kind of person who writes—even for one minute?”

You don’t need motivation. You don’t need discipline. You don’t need goals.

You need a sentence that feels like coming home.

A Simple Practice to Try Today

Here’s a tiny Future Scripting practice to reopen the door.

Set a 3-minute timer.

Now write from 5-10-15 minutes in the future:

“I just sat down and wrote one sentence. My shoulders softened. My breath slowed. I remembered what this feels like.”

Don’t write about writing. Write about the after.

Your brain loves remembering how good things feel. It builds desire, not pressure. Safety, not shame.

That’s what brings you back.

Begin Again

The sentence “I don’t think I have 20 minutes” was never about time.

It was a signal. A whisper from a part of you that hasn’t stopped wanting more — only stopped believing it was allowed.

Your brain isn’t sabotaging you. It’s protecting you from the emotional risk of returning to yourself.

But here’s the truth:

You don’t have to return all at once. You don’t have to rebuild the old version of you. You don’t have to write every day.

You only have to write today.

One breath. One sentence. One tiny act that reopens the door.

The reader who wrote to me didn’t say, “I don’t want to write.” She said, “I don’t think I have time.”

Maybe the real question isn’t whether you have 20 minutes.

Maybe the real question is: What happens when you give yourself 20 seconds?

Not tomorrow. Right now.

Write one sentence below: “Five minutes from now, I’m someone who wrote today.”

Let’s begin there.

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Want to go deeper?

I’m teaching this method with Neera Mahajan in a live workshop on Saturday, December 13th, 2025 at 4 PM PST / 7 PM EST: “20 Minutes to Solve Your Hardest Problems.”

We’ll walk you through the exact process, step by step.

If you try this, I’d love to know—what’s your identity question? Drop it in the comments. Sometimes sharing it out loud is the first step to making it real.