Before I Finish My Coffee Conversation
Written By : Hannah Corbett
I already wrote something for this week's newsletter. It’s more structured, more polished, more “on brand.” But the thing is—I haven’t been able to stop thinking about time. About how impossible it is to hold onto. About how it slips through your fingers while you’re busy refreshing your inbox or waiting for your oat milk latte or rewatching your favorite show for the third time just to feel something familiar.
I used to think a year was a long time. Like, impossibly long. A full orbit around the sun.
Enough time to completely reinvent yourself—cut your hair, fall in love, get your heart broken, move to a new city, find a new favorite song, maybe even change your mind about everything.
But now? A year feels like nothing. A blink. A moment I forget to notice until it’s already behind me.
I’m one of the last of my friends to turn 26, and for some reason that’s felt heavier than I expected. I’ve been clinging to 25 like it’s the last chapter in a book I’m not ready to finish. There’s something about it—25. Old enough to know better. Young enough to still not always care. Standing in this strange middle place where you're building a future but still leaning on the past.
The other night, my best friend and I were talking about that newLorde song. Someone made a TikTok about it—about this one lyric: “Since I was 17, I gave you everything, now we wake from the dream.” And the guy in the video said it’s like she never really moved on from 17, and when we were seventeen everything was happening for the first time and felt so huge. And I get that way too well.
There are pieces of me still rooted in that version of myself. Still standing on the threshold of my college dorm rooms. Still dreaming on subway platforms as the wind blows by from the fast train. Still writing in journals about boys who didn’t love me back and futures that felt too far away to chase yet.
I think part of that is just how I’m built. I hold onto things. I romanticize everything. I make meaning out of crumbs. I replay moments like movie scenes in my head long after they’ve ended. And yeah, sometimes that backfires. Sometimes I get stuck in memories that were never meant to last. But other times, I think it’s my favorite thing about myself.
I’ve been thinking about Friends lately—how in season one, Rachel is 25 or 26. And over the next ten seasons, everything changes. Her job, her friends, her apartment, her entire sense of self. And it hit me: in ten “seasons” from now, I’ll be 35. That’s wild. And maybe a little terrifying. But also kind of comforting.
So many plot twists ahead. So many new characters to meet. So many versions of myself.
Right now, I’m in this chapter—25. And I know one day I’ll look back on this moment and it’ll feel blurry around the edges, maybe a little softer than it really was. But I hope I’ll remember the feeling. The energy. The ache of becoming. The thrill of not knowing what’s next.
I think that’s the trick with time—you can’t catch it, but you can pay attention. You can notice the small things. You can show up for your own life. You can write it all down.