Time, Trails, and a Borrowed Ponytail Holder

This week, my husband and I went hiking in Sedona to celebrate our anniversary. In 2005, we started our relationship by walking and talking, and in 2011 we got married—literally at sunset under Cathedral Rock. 

We also, very romantically, forgot the rings. 

The minister, unfazed, slipped off his ponytail holder and handed it over, and just like that, my diamond was symbolized by something that had probably seen a few yoga classes and at least one bad haircut. 

And yet—it worked. Maybe even better. 

With the red rocks glowing and reflecting love and hope, we return to that same spot every few years to toast the unlikely magic of finding each other, holding on, and occasionally improvising when things don’t go according to plan. We look down into the bubbling Oak Creek at the foot of the mountain—still reflecting love, still reflecting hope. 

We spent the week hiking trails that felt undiscovered, asking each other questions, and sometimes drifting into our own thoughts—the kind of quiet that only a good hike allows. 

On the flight to Arizona, I watched One Battle After Another, which won Best Picture. I’ve always thought a film’s real test is how long it lingers after it ends. This one stuck. 

“Time doesn’t exist, yet it controls us anyway.” 

By mile nine of a very long hike, I was still turning over that line. 

In the film, it’s a code phrase used by the resistance—a quiet signal between people trying to move freely in a system built to contain them. That alone is interesting. 

But it stayed with me for another reason. 

Time has always been slippery. We “spring forward” in March and suddenly I’m riding my bike at sunset along Lake Peachtree City. Meanwhile, in Arizona, I’m three hours behind home, and they’ve simply opted out of daylight saving time altogether—like the whole state collectively decided, “No thank you,” and went back to minding their business, a little prickly, like the cacti lining the trails.

As a student, I learned quickly that time doesn’t work the way we think it does. You can’t store it, save it, or bargain with it. And yet somehow—it still runs the show. 

Deadlines. Schedules. The quiet pressure of the clock reminding you that you’re behind… or worse, running out. 

I can Botox all day long and tell myself a good story, but the truth is—time always wins. The problem isn’t time. Time doesn’t care. It’s not personal. 

The problem is my relationship with it. 

When I ignore that relationship, time starts to feel like an opponent—external, demanding, slightly annoyed with me. But when I pay attention—when I shape my day with intention, with rhythm, with space to think and write and breathe—it softens. 

It becomes less of a dictator and more of a companion. 

And maybe that’s the shift. 

Time is going to show up whether we invite it or not. The question is whether we fight it… or learn to walk alongside it. 

I’m aiming for walking alongside—with a little grace, a flexible schedule, and a backup ponytail holder, just in case. 

Because in the end, it’s not about keeping time. 

It’s about keeping the moments that mattered— 

even the ones held together with a borrowed ponytail holder.