Learning to Be Present When Time Is No Longer Promised
I used to think being present was a mindfulness exercise, something you practised when life was calm enough to allow it. For a long time, I have practiced what I thought was being in the 'now', appreciating what I have and who I am, not expecting more than what is now, but just being in the present.
To me, mindfulness is taking the time to see the multitude of colours that show on each leaf, as they all move ever so gently in the breeze. It's feeling the breeze just as a light touch of linen brushes against your skin from the soft flowing dress you choose to wear. It is stopping to hear nature's sounds, the rustling leaves, the humming bees, the twittering and songs of the birds resting nearby and just as, the sun glistens, from the wings of a dragonfly, you catch a sparkle that warms you with delight. That is what I thought mindfulness was.
But now I know better, mindfulness is more, and presence is not a luxury. It is a necessity when time is no longer guaranteed.
You see, my husband has cancer, and after 25 years of marriage, and almost two years of hope and treatment, we have now been told we have only a year left together. A sentence like that does not land neatly. It crashes. It fractures time into before and after, and suddenly every ordinary moment carries an unbearable weight. Time keeps moving, relentlessly moving forward, indifferently and I am forced to notice it in a way I never did before.
Every day still contains the usual things: work, errands, washing, conversations about university or tafe, jobs, money, dentist bills and what’s for dinner. Life does not pause to honour your grief. And yet, underneath all of it, there is the constant awareness that each moment is disappearing as it arrives. I find myself asking: How much of my life have I truly been present for? And how do I stay present now, when being present hurts so much?
Grief is not something that waits politely for the end. It lives alongside love. I grieve the future we will not have while still brushing my teeth beside the man I love. I grieve the proud moments that he will never have, like walking his girls down the aisle or becoming a grandfather, those quiet times we imagined would come once the girls have all left home and the decades that were meant to follow. At the same time, I am fiercely aware that he is still here. Breathing. Laughing. Holding my hand. And that matters more than anything.
Being present now is not peaceful. It is raw. It is choosing to sit in the lounge room and really listen to his voice, knowing I will one day ache for its sound. It is watching our beautiful daughters 17, 21 and 22, all who are navigating their own grief in different ways, while still needing me to be steady, reassuring, and strong. It is holding space for their fear while quietly carrying my own.
“Grief and love now live side by side
and learning to stay present,
even as time runs out,
has become the bravest
thing I will ever do.”
Some days, presence looks like falling apart in the shower so I can function at work. Other days, it looks like laughing unexpectedly and then feeling guilty for it. I am learning that none of this is wrong. Grief and gratitude are not opposites; they are companions now. I can be devastated and deeply thankful in the same breath.
We are taught to avoid thinking about the end. We plan our lives on the assumption that tomorrow will arrive as expected. When that assumption is taken away, you are left with a stark choice, live mentally in the future that you are losing or anchor yourself in the moment you still have. I do not always succeed, but I keep choosing the latter, again and again.
To be present is to notice the small things: the sound of our daughters’ laughing (or sometimes yelling when one takes another's t-shirt) and both of us looking at each other in that moment with a smile, knowing how much it warms our hearts hearing them. The way my husband still kisses me goodnight before we roll over to sleep. Being woken from the warmth of the sunrays as they peep through our window early in the morning, just as the gentle patters of Richie come (the little cat) as he walks over my body onto Matt's to say good morning, us both peacefully enjoying that quiet moment just before Richie screeches with a demand for food, to feeling the warmth of our Wally dog cuddling up close, protecting us both. These moments do not fix anything. They do not make the diagnosis easier. But they remind me that love is still alive here, now, even in the shadow of loss.
I am learning that being present does not mean being composed. It means being honest with myself about what this moment holds — whether that is joy, sorrow, exhaustion, or fear. It means letting go of coulds and shoulds, and resisting the urge to live in the what-ifs. None of those places offer comfort. This moment, imperfect as it is, is the only one I truly have.
Time is passing every second of every day. That is the part I cannot control. What I can choose is how I meet it. I can meet it distracted and numbed, or I can meet it fully — heart exposed, aware, and loving as deeply as I know how.
This season of life will change me forever. Things will never be the same, and pretending otherwise only deepens the pain. But today, my husband is still here. My daughters are still growing. I am still their mother, his wife, standing in the middle of grief and love, doing my best to hold both without dropping either.
Presence, I am discovering, is not about being calm. It is about being courageous enough to stay in the moment — to stay with the people you love, with the moment you are in, even when it breaks your heart.
And so I stay. One moment at a time.
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Beautifully written reflection Christine❤️
Thank you for sharing something so personal Christine. Your words are very moving. Thinking of you and your family ❤️
I kind of understand about grieving while still loving and being present. I felt like that with Mum's dementia. A beautiful piece in which to express your feelings.