The Weight of Time

A reflection on aging, regret, and rediscovering purpose.

Author’s Note: I didn’t plan to write this. It came out one evening after hearing “Gone away” by The Offspring. Just a song — one that hit me differently this time. Maybe this piece is just for me. Maybe it’s for anyone who’s realizing, like I am, that life isn’t endless and that we don’t get back the time we trade away. Either way, here it is — raw and honest.

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I didn’t realize how quietly my youth had been slipping away until I saw the aged faces of those who shaped my world when I was young. We don’t notice time creeping up on us — like a frog in a pot that’s slowly heated. One day, we just feel it.

As I travel “over the hill,” I notice the small aches and pains that didn’t exist even a couple of years ago. My body — once just a tool I used to earn my income — now demands my attention. I never considered that it might fail me. I was still that invincible man from my twenties.

Now, as I recognize that the years behind me already exceed what most men lived 150 years ago, I feel a new kind of weight: regret. Not bitterness — just an awareness of how much more I could have done, and how much more I could have been.

When I was young, I was good at everything that interested me — guitar, piano, drums, science, Air Cadets — shooting, band, drill, you name it. If I was interested, I excelled. My report cards all said the same thing: “Christopher is very intelligent. If he would just apply himself, he could do so much more.”

Those words never really sank in. And now, thirty years later, I understand what they meant. Thirty years is long enough to master almost anything. Long enough to complete an honorable career in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces — my lifelong dream — and retire with a pension. It’s long enough to change the world.

Jesus lived roughly thirty-three years, and in that time, He didn’t just change the world — He saved it. None of us are Him, of course, but it’s a stark reminder of what can be done with a lifetime… compared to what we often don’t do with one.

So here I sit, a 46-year-old man, likely in the midst of a midlife crisis — though I only realized it while watching The Offspring perform an acoustic version of Gone Away. Dexter Holland was a powerhouse of energy in the ’90s — the best years of my life — and I always remembered him that way. Seeing him now, older, lined, and human, made me notice my own reflection: the lines on my face, different eyes, even the gray hair.

I’ve felt like I was twenty since I was twenty, but reality struck me like a train when I saw my youth performed by a sixty-year-old man. I’ve seen this happen before — the aging of my idols — but this time, it hit differently. Maybe it was the lyrics, maybe the rawness of that performance, or maybe it was the realization that every man, no matter how strong or young, eventually faces his own finality.

The feeling isn’t negative, though. It’s more like urgency. That guitar collecting dust in the corner? That book I never finished? Twenty-five years vanished while I told myself, “I’ll pick it up again later — I’m busy working.”

Why did I trade the things I loved for work? I can’t answer that. But I feel it.

The regret extends to my relationships too — my children, my friends, my family, even my God. Work always seemed to come first. I told myself the sacrifice was worth it, but now I see that what I gave up was irreplaceable. My little kids weren’t little for long — just as my parents warned me — and now they’re grown.

I’ve always said I live with no regrets, but I do regret the time I missed with them. I regret the choices that hurt people who loved me. I regret sacrificing irreplaceable moments for things that, in hindsight, didn’t matter nearly as much. Sometimes I look at old photos — their tiny smiling faces, often without me in the frame — and I feel a lump rise in my throat.

My eyes, now older, sting with emotion.

So why am I writing this — here, of all places — on a blog that’s usually political or focused on Alberta’s future? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s because after a young Dexter reminded me of my youth, I was forced to confront the reality that my own time has been passing, unnoticed, for decades.

But here’s what I do know: I’m not dead yet. I still get to decide which direction my life goes from this day forward.

In recent years, I’ve found purpose — advocating for change, for truth, for freedom, especially here in Alberta. Maybe, by the end of my life, the sum of all I’ve done will prove me worthy of the years I was given. Maybe my children will know that their father — though far from perfect — truly loved them, even when he didn’t show it enough.

Maybe the sacrifices, the words, and the work will somehow contribute to a freer, more prosperous Alberta. Maybe.

The most important thing we can pass on to our children is not money or possessions, but wisdom — the kind that only comes with the bruises of living. So if anyone younger than me happens to read this, take it as a warning: don’t squander your youth.

You probably won’t listen — I didn’t, when my parents said the same thing — but I’ll say it anyway.

Tonight, I write as a man who feels the sting of having not done enough. Tomorrow, I’ll wake as a man determined to live with faith, conviction, and gratitude — to use whatever time I have left to make it count.