What Are You Doing With Your 4000 Weeks?

A story about childhood time, present time, and the one thing that still change our perception of time.

When I read 4000 Weeks by Oliver Burkeman, it wasn’t a loud realization. It was quiet, almost sneaky, but it stayed with me.

If we live to around 80 years old, we will have gone through about 4000 weeks.

Just a number. A number that somehow feels big and small at the same time.

In the pace we live today, that number sounds a bit like a bank account slowly draining without us even realizing.

But if you look at it differently, each one of those weeks is like a tiny lifetime. A full chance to be here, to feel something real, to create something new, to exist fully.

Time isn’t something stored away for later. It is already happening. Right now. As you read this, as the world outside keeps moving, as the light sneaks through the window and rests on some random wall you barely notice anymore.

Thinking about that took my mind way back to a different time, a time that feels like it belonged to another life even though, if you look at the calendar, it wasn’t that long ago.

When I was a kid, time felt completely different.

It was like a living thing of its own, something soft and slow and big. It shaped the day gently, stretching it out in ways that today seem almost impossible.

I remember waking up early to go to school, the faint morning light slipping through the window, the smell of breakfast floating from the kitchen, my mom’s voice somewhere in the background.

Even the short walk to school felt like an adventure. Same streets, same houses, but somehow each stone, each bark of a dog, each gust of wind felt new.

Time stretched itself. It didn’t run. It opened wide, waiting for us to live inside it.

At school, each class felt endless. The teacher would explain something while the clock on the wall stubbornly refused to move.

Each minute had a weight you could almost touch.

Waiting for recess was like building up to a celebration. It wasn’t just a break; it was an event.

And when recess finally came, time changed shape again. It ran faster but stayed full.

We played football on the court where letting a goal in meant you were out, and being out wasn’t an option if you loved the game as much as we did.

Every match, every sprint, every goal was a small lifetime packed into minutes.

Back to class after that, facing another long sequence of minutes that felt like entire new chapters in the story of our day.

By the time the morning ended, it was hard to believe it was only noon. We still had so much day left.

Home meant lunch with the family, a table full of noise and overlapping conversations. Then came the couch, a light nap while the TV played something in the background. That half-sleep, half-awake moment felt endless, warm, and safe.

And after waking up?

The day was still just getting started. The video games were waiting. The backyard matches with friends were waiting. The scraped knees, the shouted goals, the quick laughs, everything felt like it mattered.

Later, my mom would call us in for coffee. Sometimes there was fresh chocolate cake, and those afternoons smelled like pure happiness. But even after that, there was still time.

More sunlight. More games. More running around until our clothes were dirty and our bodies tired.

Eventually, we’d get called in for showers, but even that wasn’t the end.

After the shower came TV shows, movies, more conversations with family, more everything.

There was so much time. Honestly, it is hard to believe today that all of that fit into just one day.

Now we blink and it’s dark outside.

We blink again and it’s already Friday.

The month is gone.

The year slips away faster than we can hold on.

But here’s the thing: time didn’t change. What changed was how we show up inside it.

When we were kids, we lived in the present without even trying. It wasn’t a skill. It wasn’t a goal. It just happened.

Every moment was whole. No distractions, no background worries about the next task, no split attention between ten different places.

Today, we carry mental checklists while brushing our teeth. We scroll through other people’s lives while barely paying attention to our own.

We let notifications steal the corners of every experience.

Social media doesn't make it easier.

You see classmates starting companies, friends switching to newer, bigger cars, family members traveling again while you are stuck in the same old traffic jam.

It messes with our heads. It messes with our perception of time.

Reading 4000 Weeks brought me back to something simple and real.

Time is still relative. It bends and stretches based on how present we are.

And even on the busiest days, even when life feels too packed and fast and noisy, we can still find our way back.

Maybe it doesn’t start with some radical lifestyle change. Maybe you don’t need to promise yourself to live every single day as if it were your last.

Maybe it just starts with one thing. One tiny, real, fully lived moment.

If your day still has a little space, maybe you can do it today. If not, tomorrow is still perfect.

Pick one thing. One conversation where you really listen without planning your reply. One cup of coffee where you feel the warmth, smell the aroma, and let the taste fill your senses. One song you listen to completely without skipping, without checking your phone. One page of a book read slowly, imagining each scene unfold in your mind.

Just one thing. Just one real moment.

And when you do it, you’ll see something quietly magical happen. Time slows down. It expands. It holds you there for a little longer.

Like when we were kids. Like it still can.

Maybe that’s the real mission: to live life in pieces that feel whole again. To turn rushing into presence. To turn busyness into meaning.

We’re not going to get extra weeks. We can't stretch the number.

But we can stretch the meaning of every week we still have.

Like back when the sun was different.

The wind was different.

The cold, the heat, everything was different.

Except it was not different. We were.

And that’s what really matters.

So today, or maybe tomorrow, choose your one thing.

Live it like time has been waiting for you to show up. Because maybe, just maybe, it has.