By Binta Jallo

I’ve always had an odd relationship with time. Like most people, I like control. Time feels unmalleable, heavy, rigid, unkind. And once it’s gone, you can’t get it back. As frustrating as it is to admit, I am 23 and terrified at the thought of growing older.

When I found out I was graduating university, I was queuing in Tesco with my older brother. A friend had texted to tell me our degree classes were out, so I’d checked my email. I scrolled and scrolled, refreshed and refreshed. And when I saw I’d gotten a first, I almost screamed in a supermarket.

It was all I’d dreamed of for three years, and something I’d worked incredibly hard for. But the satisfaction didn’t last long. The next day was Saturday. Sitting cross-legged in my bedroom, I remember trying to plan the perfect dress and how I was going to style my hair. But I was so terrified, I couldn’t stop crying. I’d hurtled past yet another milestone and now, where was I headed exactly? Already, precious time was slipping through my fingers. 

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Time may well be the enemy of all, but especially for women. The second we leave the womb, we’re told that our clock is ticking, both biologically and physically, and we hear it loud and clear. An aunt once advised my brother against marrying an older woman, even if there was merely a couple of months difference between them. ‘It just won’t work,’ she told him. ‘Women age much more quickly than men, so when you’re forty, she’ll already look like an old woman.’ Looking back, I think that’s a cover-up. Women don’t age quicker – we just don’t want them to age at all.  

Still, I think my issues with time are less about my appearance and more to do with productivity and success. As a teen, I polished a crystal-clear image of who I should be in my twenties: unreservedly happy having found my life’s purpose, doing a job I adored, living in a place of my own, with a lovely boyfriend. Having gotten older, I now know my list was incredibly unrealistic to begin with. But equally, I’m worried I don’t have half the things I thought I should by now. And worse still, my clock ticks. 

When Zadie Smith spoke about ageing in an interview once, she said that not wanting to grow older is like lighting a candle and expecting it not to melt. ‘But what interesting shadows we throw on the wall,’ she said. ‘How various are the ways that wax can melt, how many different forms and shapes it can take! Some pretty, some not so pretty…oh, it’s not easy, ageing, but it is consistently interesting.’ Hearing her say this felt like someone had turned on a light switch.   

When I started to dig deeper into my fear of ageing, I realised just how much I’d internalised the idea that success is a race. Unlearning this is harder than I thought it’d be. I try to catch the thoughts that count down the days to my next birthday, when I’ll have aged a year overnight. I can choose not to compare my own journey to that of friends on social media. I can try not to cross-check myself against the arbitrary success checklist my 14-year-old-self dreamt up. There is no finite space of time to achieve anything, and the sooner I believe this, the better. 

Most importantly, I think Zadie’s right. There might just be some beauty in changing, growing, shape shifting. The next time I have a panic attack about growing older, I’ll tell myself that time will never be soft or malleable. But I will be, always.