Why ‘Someday’ Is Killing Your Dreams

You Only Get 30,000 Days: Time is shorter than you think.

Let’s get something straight—life is short. Not in the Hallmark-card, “seize the day” kind of way. I mean statistically, mathematically, uncomfortably short. You get 30,000 days on this planet if you’re lucky. If you’re pushing 30, you’ve already burned through 11,000 of them. That’s one-third gone, never to return.

Let that sink in.

I had this realization at a diner last year, staring at a plate of cold, congealed pancakes, listening to an old guy in the next booth say, “Man, time just flies. Feels like yesterday I was 25.”

I almost choked on my coffee.

This man looked 70. Seventy.

I did the math in my head. That means he’d spent 45 years blinking. Forty-five years in a time warp where the weeks blended together, the months blurred into each other, and before he knew it, he was an old man at a diner telling some unsuspecting guy next to him that life flies by.

That was the moment I realized: I refuse to be that guy.

And if you’re reading this, so should you.

Most people act like they have infinite time.

They say: “I should do it someday.”

But someday is the biggest scam ever invented.

Someday is a mental pacifier, a soul-sedative designed to keep you comfortable, passive, and stuck in place. It’s a cosmic IOU, a vague promise that you’ll get to it later—when you’re ready, when the time is right, when life magically gives you the green light.

Except, here’s the cold, hard truth:

Someday is a lie.

It keeps you treading water while convincing yourself you’re swimming forward. It whispers comforting half-truths like:

• “I’ll travel when I have more money.”

• “I’ll start that business when life settles down.”

• “I’ll tell them how I feel when the time is right.”

• “I’ll take care of my health after this busy period.”

• “I’ll write the great American novel after I’ve figured out the story.”

I once told myself I’d learn to play the piano someday. Fast forward ten years, and the closest I’d come was aggressively air-playing along to McCoy Tyner in my car. Then, last summer, I met a woman who had just started learning at 60. She plunked out a few clumsy notes, grinned, and said, “Hey, even Beethoven started with Chopsticks.”

When I told her I’d always wanted to play but never got around to it, she gave me a look and said, “So what’s stopping you? Waiting for Mozart’s ghost to give you private lessons?”

Fair point.

The next day, I bought a cheap keyboard. I was terrible. But it didn’t matter—because for the first time in years, I wasn’t saying someday. I actually started something instead of just thinking about it. And, I was having fun doing it.

SOMEDAY IS HOW PEOPLE DIE WITH REGRETS

It’s how great ideas never get executed.

It’s how stories never get told.

It’s how relationships fade.

It’s how people wake up at fifty wondering where all the time went.

And the worst part? There’s no alarm that tells you when ‘someday’ has run out. No flashing red light, no warning label. Just the quiet realization that the opportunities you once had have vanished in the rearview mirror.

The only cure? Kill someday. Replace it with NOW. Start messy. Start imperfect. Start scared.

But for the love of everything, just start.

Remember when you were a kid and summer felt endless? When a single day felt like a lifetime?

Then, somewhere along the way, the years began to blur, each one bleeding into the next in a dizzying, disorienting haze.

That’s not just nostalgia—it’s neurology.

See, your brain doesn’t measure time in minutes or hours—it measures it by new experiences.

As a kid, everything was new—new faces, new places, new adventures. Your brain was a wide-eyed tourist, recording every moment like a documentary filmmaker.

That’s why childhood felt long and rich—because you were actually experiencing time, not just passing through it.

Fast forward to now:

• You wake up at the same time.

• Same commute.

• Same people.

• Same comfort shows on Netflix.

• Same routine, different day.

And your brain? It barely bothers recording anything. It just mutters, “Eh, I’ve seen this episode before,” and stops taking notes.

I once met an 85-year-old woman who moved to a new country at 80. She told me it made her feel alive again, like she’d gained extra years just by changing her surroundings.

She didn’t wait for someday. And she seemed more alive that most people half her age.

If you want time to slow down, you have to inject novelty back into your life:

Take a new route to work. Even a small change forces your brain to pay attention.

Eat something you’ve never tried before. Your senses kick in, creating a new timestamp in your memory.

Talk to a stranger. Different perspectives open up new neural pathways.

Sign up for something you know nothing about. A dance class, a coding workshop, an art lesson—anything.

Say yes to things you normally dismiss.

Every new experience stretches time, makes life feel fuller, richer, and longer.

Because in the end, time isn’t something you have—it’s something you make.

Most people live as if time is infinite. It’s not. The clock is ticking.

Right now.

You don’t need more hours—you need to make the hours count.

Break the routine.

Prioritize what matters.

Strengthen relationships.

Bet on yourself.

Make the damn move.

Because one day, your clock will hit zero. No do-overs. No extensions.

The only question left will be: Did you really live, or did you just exist?

And if you’re reading this, you already know the answer.

Now, go do something about it. And whatever you do, don’t wait until tomorrow. There is no tomorrow, there is only now. No past, no present, just this moment. Be here now.

Alright, let’s end with a joke:

Life is like a carton of milk—most people don’t check the expiration date until it starts smelling funny.

Don’t wait until your time starts curdling. Go do something today—before you’re stuck reminiscing about your “golden years” while yelling at kids to get off your lawn.

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Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.