So I’ve been thinking a lot right now around the concept of being a “late bloomer.” As I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, time is a mind f*ck– namely because it’s the one area over which we feel we have no power, where we are “losing” something we can’t ever get back. So, of course we’re going to have a lot of baggage around it in all of its forms. Holding the belief about oneself that one is a late bloomer (or what I consider to be a more accurate term, not time appropriate– because sometimes you can also be “too early” to the party) is just another insidious manifestation of our feeling “not right” or “wrong” in some way. And what’s funny is that we are the ones who set up the benchmarks of what is “normal” on the time scale in the first place.

Time is just a measurement, of which we have many of earth. We earth beings are obsessed with measuring all aspects of the material world. Just ask any woman about her weight or a man about how many inches he’s packing, or the square footage of your house or closet, or the net worth of one’s bank account and you’ll get an idea of the significance that we place on everything measurable… Of course there is going to be a connection between worth and time, not only when it comes to aging, but whether or not you’re doing it right.

I know I personally missed just about every milestone a “young lady” is supposed to hit at a certain moment in her life. Every one of them. That’s including my birth date (I was three days “late,” and thank you for the train schedule, doctor), the rites of puberty, dating, individuating from my parents, sex, adolescent rebellion (which for me took place in my twenties), leaving home, having a relationship, deciding to get married, and eventually getting married. Yes, everything. Except, of course, for the ones for which is was freakishly precocious and had my parents rushing me into therapy at an early age (such as an existential fear of death and a propensity for spiritual exploration at the age of 7. Oops). I have never been “on time” in my life. I was so NOT “on time,” in fact, that for many of pivotal events, I was often left wondering if they would ever happen to me at all. Spoiler alert– some still have not. And sometimes I wonder how many of them were subtly (or not so subtly) self-perpetuated out of fear of not being “normal.” How lovely might it have been if I could have relinquished my fear of being “wrong” and actually focused on what there was to learn from my own unique experience?

Who says what is “on time”? Certainly not spirit. It’s mainly other humans trying to categorize and compartmentalize the complex intricate phases of a human life into hard lined data or statistics.  We are obsessed with finding rules and making sense of things. Since the beginning of recorded history, it seems we noticed certain rites of passage in a person’s life and note how many other people fell into those same time frames (do ya think it could have anything to do with the subjects being in the same demographic and the influence of cultural and peer pressure?) From there, we have committed to forcing (again subtly or not so subtly) these “objective” findings onto ourselves and each other, psychically policing each other into a fabricated sense of what is “normal,” which in turn placates us with a false sense of control. We self-perpetuate these statistics and averages, and if you don’t fit into them, there’s something very wrong with you. Things are polarized into what is “acceptable” what is “almost acceptable” and what is “other,” or more importantly, what is dangerous.

By these standards, I am proud to say have never been “normal.” But if you even look at the terms “average” and “statistical,” they actually have a somewhat negative connotation in and of themselves, and that’s something to pay attention to. I’ve noticed that the word “statistic,” taken on its own, has actually become something I normally DON’T want to be a part of, as it usually comes with the undertone of objectifying me into a number among thousands of other faceless, generic examples of some socially accepted cliche. That, or it’s used to illustrate odds stacked against me in some way (or maybe that’s just my experience in being a woman over a certain age in this society, when we’re force fed the fact that “statistic” is synonymous with “bummer, dude”). So riddle me this, if I’ve always been so abnormal, why am I supposed to buy into being a statistic as well? Honey, those are two culturally mandated shit sides of the same stick and I ain’t drinking that Kool Aid. I have said before and I’ll say it again, statistics are only important if you’re interested in becoming one of them. Maybe you will line up with statistics in some areas, maybe you won’t, but either way, if you keep an eye on being “on time,” your eyes are off your own beautiful road and you’re seeking answers by glancing sideways at someone else’s individual journey.

Personally, my intention is to try my best to keep focused and interested on living life to its fullest from this point out, free from self-judgement about whether I’m coincidentally doing it “on time,” or solely based on my own intuition and internal guidance. Once again party people,  I am inviting you to do the same. If you’re so inspired, please reach out in my “contact” section or email me at and tell me something you want to relinquish your attachment to being “on time” with. I’d love to hear your experience. Or, of course, feel free to just reach out and say hi.

I the meantime, send you so much love.