Out of Sync

“You look older.”

Hearing those words from my 45-year-old English teacher when I was a sophomore in high school felt particularly insulting. I was torn between considering it a sentimental comment or if Ms. Sworn was trying to pick a fight. This moment—though small—was one of the first times I became hyperaware of how I was changing. She reminded me that time moves even when I’m not paying attention. 

I had always believed in growing pains. I thought that growth was something that you felt, that you would one day wake up seeing the world an inch higher or suddenly understand what empathy is  (granted, some people will never quite get there, no matter how old they are). Ms. Sworn made me realize how quiet the process of change can be, how, sometimes, you only recognize it when someone else points it out first. 

That feeling has only gotten stronger as I move between places more often. Each place runs on its own clock, leaving me slightly out of sync with every displacement. 

Ms. Sworn’s words stick in my mind most when I come back home from college. My room there has an unsettling stillness, like the air has been holding its breath until I walk in to stir it. Every time I enter, I go through the same ritual: I turn the fan on and wait a minute for the air to breathe life back into the room before stepping inside. My mom even told me that she keeps the light on in my room to make it feel less empty. 

The same bright pink candle sits on the table, half-burned, waiting for me to release the second half of Twisted Peppermint aroma into the room. The whiteboard above my desk still says:

“TO DO: 

Review AP Human Geo Vocab” 

and underneath it the mantra “Embrace new happies! 🙂 ” in faded expo marker. 

The room remembers me younger than I am. 

When I visit Vietnam every few years, my 4-year-old nephew Binh greets me taller and armed with a new English word I didn’t teach him. He’s even gained the sentience to insult me. To see in action the paradox of someone I thought would stay small forever grow faster than I can keep up is jarring. He measures his height against mine, the same way I measure time against my own room at home. But it’s strange that, for him, I am the unmoving benchmark. 

Time keeps shifting roles: who’s still, who’s moving, and who’s waiting. 

Over the summer, my parents and I hiked up Tianman Mountain. At the final stretch leading up to the Heaven’s Gate arch, they told me to continue without them because the incline was too steep. I didn’t think too much about it as I slowly ascended the stone steps towards the bright, blue sky. But when I finally turned back to look at the view from above, I saw their small figures sitting together on a bench, looking up at me from 999 steps down. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt like growing up meant trying to catch up to my parents. But from 999 steps up, time felt like it shifted. Suddenly, I was the one waiting for them. 

For a moment, we were living on different clocks, the same day at different paces. 

Time isn’t something that happens to you, but something that unfolds between people. I only notice it through the distance it spans and the widening gap from one life to another. I don’t move forward so much as I circle back. Growing up is paradoxical. I’ve started to realize that I’ve only ever understood time through comparison, measuring myself against what has stayed the same. But lately, I’ve started to see how the things I once counted on to stay still are quietly moving, too.

Everyone moves at a different speed. Binh racing ahead, my parents lingering behind, and me somewhere in between. Still, I find a strange comfort in that—a quiet reassurance that even if we’re not moving at the same pace, we’re all moving together. 

Now Ms. Sworn’s words, “You look older,” strike a different chord with me. I no longer hear them as proof that I changed, but as recognition that our clocks started to tick at different speeds. 

Kayla Le ’28 (kaylale@college.harvard.edu) is both desperately trying to catch up and anxiously waiting.