The Girl Who Was Always Running Out of Time and Other Stories

The Girl Who Was Always Running Out of Time

There was once a little bear named Small Bear who was always running out of her time.

Or at least, that’s what she thought.

Every morning, she’d open her eyes and say,

“Oh no! I’m already behind!”

She brushed her fur too fast, gobbled up her breakfast, and hurried to tie her little red scarf.

“I’m running out of time!” she whispered, again and again.

Small Bear looked and looked for time all of the time.

She searched under the table where her crayons rolled.

She peeked behind the curtains and under the rug.

She even checked inside the cookie jar—just in case time was hiding next to the crumbs.

But time was never there.

"I need to make more time," Small Bear told herself all of the time.

So she got very, very busy.

She started drawing pictures and trading them for pebbles.

She made tiny jam sandwiches and sold them to the squirrels.

She even offered to clean everyone's houses for a price.

“Maybe,” she thought, “if I earn enough, I can buy more time.”

But the more she tried to make money,

The less time she seemed to have.

She was too busy to stop and play with the butterflies.

Too busy to laugh at the chipmunks tumbling down the hill.

Too busy to sit with Mama Bear while she knitted by the fire.

One evening, Small Bear sat alone on the front steps of the treehouse, her paws tired and her heart a little heavy.

She let out a long sigh.

All around her, the forest was quiet, but not that quiet.

There was the sound of tea cups clinking,

Of a wooden spoon tapping a bowl,

And—wait—laughter.

Small Bear turned her ears toward the open window.

Inside, Mama Bear was laughing so warmly her eyes sparkled.

And Papa Bear had flour on his snout from baking too many blueberry muffins.

They were dancing a little to the radio, holding hands and smiling like they had all the time in the world.

Small Bear didn’t say anything.

She just watched.

And felt something shift inside her.

She suddenly realized something.

Time wasn’t lost.

It wasn’t hiding in her backpack or in her pocket.

Time wasn’t something she had to buy or catch.

Time was here.

In the sound of Mama Bear’s giggle.

In the way Papa Bear tapped his paw on the floor to the beat.

In the soft night air that smelled like cinnamon and stars.

Small Bear tiptoed back inside and curled up on the big soft chair next to them.

She didn’t need to do anything.

She didn’t need to earn anything.

She just needed to be there.

And time, gentle and warm, wrapped itself around her like a blanket.

From that day on, Small Bear still had big dreams and things she wanted to do.

But she never forgot where to find time.

It was in family.

In laughter.

In stillness.

In love.

All this time.

The End.

One day, while walking around a fancy furniture store, I saw a picture frame that stopped me in my tracks. It had this simple line written in beautiful calligraphy: “Live and love every wild and beautiful moment.” I stood there staring at it. It felt like it was speaking directly to me. That sentence captured everything I wanted this story to feel like—something true and something enduring, or something that stays with you long after the moment is gone.

I wrote this story from a very personal place. After losing my sister, Tintin, and shortly after, my brother, Emem, I didn’t know how to breathe through the days anymore. I was still grieving one loss when another hit me. It felt like the world was falling apart. It was dark. It was heavy. It was confusing.

But I remember the day my sister passed in front of me at the hospital. As painful as it was, I made a quiet declaration to myself in that moment. I told myself I would be the kindest version of me, no matter how broken I felt. I didn’t want to live from anger or resentment. I wanted to take that pain and turn it into something good. So I tried to replace anger with compassion. I let kindness speak where bitterness wanted to grow. I let empathy lead where pain had taken hold.

But at the same time, without really noticing it, I started living from fear. I was afraid of losing anyone else. I tried to control everything—plans, people, the future—because I didn’t want to feel that kind of loss again. It took me a long time to realize that no matter how hard we try, we can’t control life. We can only choose how we respond to it.

Little by little, I started coming back to love. Back to myself. I remembered the kind of person I’ve always been—the one who loves to make people smile, who finds joy in small things, who tries to make others laugh. That’s the version of me I trust the most.

While writing this story, my main goal was to serve God. To write from truth, from experience, and from real life.

I hope when you read this, you feel a bit of what I felt standing in front of that frame. A reminder to live fully. To love deeply. To be kind even when it’s hard. And to cherish every wild and beautiful moment, because life moves fast. And the most ordinary moments often end up being the ones we remember most.

I wanted the people who read my writings and even my book, My Journey, to be reminded that life is worth living fully, no matter how messy, uncertain, or wild it gets.