Wasted Time

I used to think

I wasted years.

On the wrong people.

The wrong choices.

The wrong version

of myself.

I counted birthdays

I barely remember.

Conversations

that led nowhere.

Dreams

I kept postponing

until they forgot my name.

I called it

wasted time.

But time

doesn’t disappear.

It leaves something behind.

A scar

that taught me

where not to bleed.

A goodbye

that taught me

what staying should feel like.

A mistake

I stopped repeating.

Even the years

I spent lost

were years

I learned the sound

of my own footsteps.

Would I take them back?

Some days.

Some days

I’d erase entire chapters

if I could.

But then I’d lose

the lessons,

the strength,

the quiet understanding

that came only

because I lived through them.

Maybe time

is only wasted

if it leaves you unchanged.

And I didn’t stay

the same.

I became someone

who knows

that healing

takes longer

than hurting.

That leaving

can be an act of love.

That starting over

isn’t failure—

it’s faith.

So maybe

I didn’t waste my time.

Maybe I spent it

becoming someone

I couldn’t have been

any other way.