It’s 5 AM. It’s early. Really early—for me, anyway.
I needed to wake up early to get ready to travel. I’d packed yesterday. The process went smoothly. All is good.
This feeling of being up early is familiar. Where everything feels quiet. Slowed down. Like the world hasn’t caught up yet. And you’re just there—watching, waiting, breathing.
That moment where you can sit down, exhale, and feel time stretch a little.
Late
I don’t like being late.
I don’t like the frantic feeling of rushing. Of moving without control. That loss of stability, knowing it could’ve been prevented with a bit more planning.
When I’m hurrying, I’m not upset at the weather. Not annoyed at other people. If I’m upset, it’s almost always at myself.
(Black Swan events aside, there’s usually something I could’ve done.)
I get that life happens. I accept it—wholeheartedly. I just don’t like it.
Even being one or two minutes late to a meeting—that still bothers me. If I’m late because the last meeting ran long? That’s on me. I’ll apologize. I’ll do better next time.
As the saying goes—one I genuinely (try to) live by:
“Better to be an hour early than a minute late.”
It’s not about blame. It’s about how I want to show up.
Ahead
The flip side of being late… is being early. Finishing ahead of schedule. Packed, ready, waiting—with time to spare.
In those moments, when you’re done but others aren’t, there’s a choice. You can move ahead. Or you can go back and help. I always go back.
This happened often during my time in the kitchen. I would prep my stuff, then help others prep theirs. I’d cut bins of zucchini, red peppers, tomatoes—whatever was needed. Because once you were done, your job wasn’t just to stay ready. It was to keep the whole line ready.
Same thing when we travel. Yesterday, I finished packing early. My partner was just getting started.
Behind
I didn’t ask, “Do you need help?” I just helped.
I kept track of what was packed and where. Categorized the list in my head. If she asked whether something was packed, I had the answer. If she needed something from another room, I’d go get it.
I didn’t pressure her to go faster. I didn’t jump in with systems or suggestions. I mirrored what she needed, how she needed it. It was the same process I had already done—for myself. But now I was doing it again, with her, at her pace.
And that’s what I’ve come to understand:
When you’re early, helping isn’t about speed. It’s not about getting others to move like you. It’s about being there. Quietly. Helpfully. Without judgement.
The tips and tricks can wait. The “should haves” don’t help. The only thing worth asking is:
“How can I help?”
And then—do just that. No more, no less.
Match their rhythm. Carry what you can. Let them lead.
Choice
That’s the gift of being early—not just the peace you get for yourself, but the presence you can offer someone else.
So if you ever find yourself ahead—done packing, done prepping, just… done—remember: you’ve been given a choice.
You can move on. Or you can stay, and help.
Walk with them. Not ahead. Not behind.
Together.