Last Friday, I was sitting at Changi Airport in Singapore, ready to fly to Bangalore — a flight I was looking forward to, because it was taking me “home”.
Everything was as planned. I arrived early to the airport to check out the famed butterfly garden and waterfall. Check in was smooth. Immigration, smoother. My mind was already in Bangalore.
And then I saw it. The blinking message next to my flight number on the Flight Information Display System.
I expected the usual: “FLIGHT DELAYED” — a phrase we’ve all come to accept with a mix of frustration and surrender.
But instead, I saw something I’ve never seen before.
Just one word: RETIMED.
Retimed? I actually chuckled when I saw it. It felt like such a carefully crafted word – clever, too clever — not harsh reality, just a neutral shift. It felt like a sly branding move — a way to soften the blow. But something about that word stayed with me.
I wasn’t frustrated.
I wasn’t on edge.
The tension I normally feel when things don’t go to plan…never arrived.
That word — retimed — reframed the delay.
My plan to get home on India’s Independence Day hadn’t failed. It had simply shifted.
As I eventually boarded my flight, I completely forgot about it. Till I found myself standing in front of students in India.
The past few days, I’ve spoken to hundreds of high school students. Bright-eyed. Ambitious. Overwhelmed.
They asked thoughtful questions — about careers, AI, the future.
But beneath it all, I can feel the anxiety:
Am I on time? Am I doing enough? Am I already too late?
Their questions are dressed in curiosity, but stitched with panic.
The panic isn’t always loud — but it’s present.
A nervousness about falling behind. About missing the next “flight” before they even know where they’re going.
They look around and see friends applying early, influencers launching startups, teenagers becoming coders, creators, change-makers.
Everyone seems to be going.
And so they assume: I must be late.
They carry timelines like burdens.
And honestly, I get it.
I’ve felt that too.
We’ve raised an entire generation to believe they are only valuable if they move quickly.
Admit early. Choose fast. Excel instantly.
And now, in the age of AI — where algorithms move faster than thought and automation outpaces effort — the pressure has only increased.
They’re told they must move faster to survive.
But no one’s teaching them how to handle forced stillness.
No one’s helping them see that speed is not the same as direction.
That stillness is not failure.
That detours are not death sentences.
That waiting — honest, reflective, patient waiting — might be the most human thing we have left.
I tell students:
The goal is not to beat the machine.
The goal is to be more human than it can ever be.
And humans don’t operate on fixed schedules.
We pivot.
We pause.
We recalibrate.
We grieve.
We grow.
We begin again.
That’s not delay. That’s retiming.
If you’re a student right now — or a parent, or a counselor, or simply someone who feels like they missed a step — remember this
You are not behind.
You are not lost.
You are not too late.
You are simply being retimed.
And that can be a gift — if you let it be.
How to Retime (without losing yourself):
1. Change the word.
Start by changing the story. You are not delayed. You’re being retimed. The language you use becomes the lens through which you see your life. Choose it with care.
2. Zoom out.
From close up, every setback looks like failure. From a distance, it’s often redirection. Give yourself enough space to see the arc, not just the dot.
3. Stop racing shadows.
Other people’s progress isn’t your deadline. Their timeline is not your template. The more you compare, the more you disappear.
4. Honor the pause.
Use the waiting. Learn. Read. Ask new questions. Be uncomfortable. Reflect deeply. Growth without movement is still growth.
5. Design your new departure.
The old schedule expired. Good. This is your chance to set a new one — one that honors who you are now, not who you were told to be.
So as I wrap up this week, between visits and flights and conversations that linger long after I’ve left the room, I’m holding onto this thought — and maybe you will too:
The flight still exists.
The journey is still happening.
The gate will open.
And when it does
You won’t be late.
You’ll be right on time.
Retimed. Not delayed.
Ex Cogitatione, Progressus.
Girish
