Time Slows Down When You’re Having Fun

Written By : Hannah Corbett

Last Tuesday was the longest day of my life. Not in a dramatic way. Not in the everything-went-wrong way. Not in the kind of way that makes you desperately Google “is it acceptable to go to bed at 7:14 PM?” It was long in the rarest sense— the kind of long that feels luxurious. The kind that makes you aware of yourself moving through the day instead of just trying to get it over with. 

It made me think about the phrase we repeat so casually: time flies when you’re having fun. I’ve said it. You’ve said it. Your yoga instructor has said it while you were actively suffering in chair pose. But lately, I’m not convinced it’s true. Because when I look at the moments in my life that feel the richest, the fullest, the most alive, they’re never the ones that go by in a blur. 

Whenever I go on a weekend trip, just two or three nights away, it always feels longer than the calendar suggests. I come home with inside jokes, new routines, and at least one outfit I am suddenly emotionally attached to. It doesn’t feel like I escaped for a couple of days. It feels like I briefly moved somewhere else and lived an entire personality there.

And I’ve started noticing that the same phenomenon happens in ordinary life too.

Not on my most productive days. Not on my most efficient days. Not on the days where I drink three coffees and convince myself that replying to emails is a personality trait. It happens on the days that are full in a softer, more human way. 

Last week, my best friend came over and we decided to work from home together. We caught up between emails. We worked side by side. Made lunch. It was, by all definitions, a completely normal weekday. The kind of day that usually disappears.

Then suddenly, without warning, it was 5 PM.

We had a loose plan: drop my new puppy at my parents’ house, stop by her house so she could change, then go to the studio for back-to-back barre classes, one at 5:30, another at 7. Which, in theory, made us ambitious women and excellent time management.

We lay on our mats afterward, questioning our life choices, when one of us checked the time. Forty-five minutes until the next class. Too short to go home. Too long to just sit in the studio lobby.

So we did something small that ended up feeling significant: we decided to walk to my parents’ house and hang out there until it was time to head back.

It was an unremarkable decision. Which, in hindsight, is exactly why it mattered.

On the walk over, we joked that we were going to “let my mom shmooze us.” Which is code for: she will feed us, pour us drinks, and emotionally adopt you if you stand still long enough.

We walked in, and within thirty seconds she asked, “Do you want wine?”

Obviously.

The 7 PM class was quickly cancelled. Not with any guilt. We stood around the kitchen island. Talked about nothing important. Talked about everything important. Snacked. Poured another glass. Sat. Stood. 

Then my boyfriend called and said he was making dinner and asked if my friend wanted to come too.

Another easy: obviously.

At this point, the night had officially entered its “why stop now?” mood.

We stayed at my parents’ house for over an hour and a half, and it felt like 5 hours. Then we went back to my house. Hung out more. Ate dinner. Talked some more. 

By the time I finally got into bed, I felt like I had lived multiple chapters inside one day. Not in a chaotic way. In a full way. The kind of full you can’t track on a to-do list.

And lying there, replaying everything, I realized something:

Time doesn’t fly when you’re having fun.

Time expands.

Time stretches when you’re present. Time stretches when you stop treating your life like a checklist. Time stretches when you allow the day to take shape instead of forcing it into a rigid itinerary you made during a burst of misplaced motivation.

The days that disappear are usually the ones where I’m halfway somewhere else. Scrolling. Multitasking. Thinking about what’s next. Mentally writing emails while someone is talking to me.

The days that feel long are the ones where I’m actually in them. Where I notice the walk. The way the kitchen smells. The sound of laughs from another room. The comfort of sitting with people who don’t require you to be impressive.

None of what happened that night was impressive.

There was no big event. No milestone. No curated moment. And yet, it felt rich.

Which makes me wonder if we’ve been slightly misled about what makes a life feel big.

We’re taught to chase peak experiences. Bucket-list trips. Grand gestures. Once-in-a-lifetime moments. But most of life is not a highlight reel. Most of life is Tuesday. Maybe the secret isn’t trying to make every day extraordinary. Maybe it’s learning how to make ordinary days feel inhabited. Take the longer route. Let plans change. Choose connection over convenience. Cancel the class if the conversation feels better.

Because the days that feel the longest tend to be the ones you’ll remember the most.

Not because time flew. But because, for once, it didn’t.