Next Thing You Know: The Power of Time

I am really relating to this song recently. Not just because it is a beautiful song, but because it captures something I have been thinking about a lot lately: how life should be, and how strangely my life is beginning to feel. There is something about the phrase “next thing you know” that feels almost terrifying when you really think about it. Because that is how life happens.

You think you have time. Then suddenly, you don’t. You think you’re just meeting someone. Then suddenly, you’re falling in love. You think you’re just going on a date. Then suddenly, you’re imagining what it would be like to build a life together. You think you are nowhere near the next chapter. And then somehow, you’re standing right in the middle of it. The song begins with something so ordinary. You’re single.

You’re not necessarily looking for anything serious. Then you meet someone. You make her laugh. You stay up talking until two in the morning. You tell your friends you’re definitely not moving in together. And then, inevitably: “Next thing you know / There’s a U-Haul trailer.” I think that is what I love about it. It understands that most of life isn’t planned as dramatically as we imagine. Nobody sits down at twenty and writes:

At 21, I will meet the person I want to marry. At 22, we’ll move in. At 23, we’ll get engaged. At 24, we’ll have a baby. At 25, we’ll buy a house. At 26, everything will be perfect.

Life doesn’t work like that. Sometimes you are just living. And then something happens. And suddenly your entire idea of what comes next has changed. I think that is why I have been relating to this song so much recently. Because when I think about what my life is supposed to look like, I don’t necessarily picture some perfectly organised five-year plan.

I picture moments. I picture coming home to someone. I picture having a family.  picture a house that is probably slightly too messy. I picture children running around. I picture Christmas mornings. I picture sitting in the garden in the summer. I picture somebody else’s shoes by the front door. I picture a kitchen that somehow becomes the place where every important conversation happens. I picture the ordinary stuff.

And maybe that is what makes the song so emotional. It isn’t really about the massive moments. It is about how quickly ordinary moments become your life. One minute you’re saving money. Then you’re standing in a jewellery shop. “Getting down on one knee on her mama’s porch / Just praying she doesn't say no.” Then you’re married. Then you’re on your honeymoon. Then suddenly years have passed.

And you are looking at the person beside you wondering how you got here so quickly. There is something both comforting and frightening about that. Because I think we spend so much of our lives waiting for the next thing. Waiting to finish school. Waiting to turn 18. Waiting to go to university. Waiting to get a job. Waiting to meet someone. Waiting to fall in love. Waiting to move out. Waiting for the next stage.

And sometimes I wonder whether we are so busy waiting for our lives to begin that we forget they are already happening. Perhaps that is why the idea of “next thing you know” feels so significant. Because you don’t always realise you are living through the beginning of something until you are already looking back at it. The person you thought was just someone you were dating becomes the person you build a home with. The house you thought was temporary becomes the place your children remember growing up in. The baby you thought you had years to prepare for suddenly becomes a teenager asking to borrow the car. And then you’re standing at the front door at 11:01 wondering where they are. “It’s 11:01, wondering where they are.”

That line might be one of the most painfully ordinary lines in the entire song. Because that is life. Not the wedding. Not the engagement. Not the announcement. The waiting. The worrying. The school runs. The late nights. The first steps. The first dates. The first car. The things nobody puts in a montage because they seem too ordinary to be important. But they are the important bits.

And perhaps that is what I want my life to be. Not perfect. Not Instagram-worthy. Not some carefully curated version of adulthood where everything happens at exactly the right time. Just full.

Full of people I love. Full of memories. Full of stupid arguments and even stupider jokes. Full of dinners that go on too long. Full of holidays. Full of birthdays. Full of children who grow up far too quickly. Full of someone beside me when life gets difficult. Full of the kind of ordinary days that I will eventually look back on and realise were some of the best days of my life.

And maybe, at the moment, I am beginning to understand just how quickly those days can arrive. Because there is something strange about being young and simultaneously feeling like life is moving incredibly quickly. You can still feel like a child in some ways. And yet suddenly you are making decisions that will affect the rest of your life. You meet someone. You fall in love. You start imagining a future. You think about children. You think about where you’ll live. You  think about the kind of family you want.

And suddenly the future doesn’t feel like some distant place anymore. It feels like something you could actually walk into. And that is terrifying. But it is also exciting. Because perhaps we aren’t supposed to know exactly how it happens. Maybe you aren’t supposed to know when you’ll meet the person. Maybe you aren’t supposed to know when you’ll move in. Maybe you aren’t supposed to know when you’ll get engaged. Maybe you aren’t supposed to know when you’ll have children. Maybe you’re just supposed to live.

And then: Next thing you know. I think we put so much pressure on ourselves to have everything figured out. We compare timelines. Someone is engaged at 22. Someone else has a baby at 24. Someone buys a house at 25. Someone moves abroad. Someone starts a business. Someone gets married. Someone is single. Someone is travelling. Someone is still trying to work out what they want for dinner. And somehow we have convinced ourselves that there is a correct order.

But there isn’t. Life isn’t a checklist. There isn’t one age where you’re supposed to fall in love. One age where you’re supposed to get married. One age where you’re supposed to have children. One age where you’re supposed to have your career sorted. People’s lives don’t move in straight lines. Sometimes things happen earlier than expected. Sometimes later. Sometimes they happen in a completely different order. And sometimes the thing you thought you wanted isn’t what you want anymore.

Maybe that is okay too. The song isn’t really telling us to rush. If anything, it is telling us the opposite. Pay attention. Because it goes quickly. The child taking their first steps becomes the teenager asking to borrow the car. The teenager becomes an adult. The adult starts their own family. And suddenly you have a garden full of grandchildren.

“And you tell them stories every chance you get / About how fast this life down here can go.” And that is the part that gets me. Because one day, all of this will be memory. The people we love will be older. The children will be grown. The houses will change. The jobs will change. The relationships will change. We will change.

And we won’t realise which ordinary Tuesday was actually the last Tuesday before everything changed. We won’t know which holiday we will eventually talk about for years. We won’t know which conversation will become a memory. We won’t know which person we are meeting for the first time will eventually become one of the most important people in our lives. That’s the terrifying thing about time. It doesn’t announce itself. It just keeps going.

Next thing you know.And perhaps that is why this song feels so relevant to me right now. Because I am starting to realise that the life I have always imagined isn’t necessarily some distant future waiting for me. Maybe parts of it are already happening. Maybe I’m already living some of the chapters I once thought were years away. Maybe the person sitting beside me now could be someone I am still sitting beside years from now. Maybe the ordinary days I am living now will eventually become the stories I tell. Maybe the things I think are small aren’t small at all. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is life. Not the perfect version. Not the finished version.

Just the beginning of a thousand little things that will eventually become a lifetime. And I think that is what I want to remember. I don’t want to spend my life waiting for the next thing. I want to notice this thing. This person. This moment. This version of my life. Because one day, inevitably, I will look back and realise: I was already there. I was already living it. I just didn’t know it yet.

Next thing you know, you are somewhere you never imagined you’d be. Next thing you know, you love someone. Next thing you know, you have built a home. Next thing you know, the baby is walking. Next thing you know, they’re driving. Next thing you know, they’re leaving home. Next thing you know, you’re telling your grandchildren about the person you were before any of it happened. And maybe that is the whole point.

Life doesn’t usually arrive as one huge, dramatic moment. It arrives quietly. One decision. One person. One conversation. One ordinary Tuesday at a time.

Until you look around and realise that all those little moments you weren’t paying attention to have somehow become your life. So maybe I don’t need to know exactly what happens next. Maybe none of us do. Maybe I just need to enjoy where I am. Love the people who are here. Make the memories. Take the photographs. Say the things I mean. Go on trips. Have the stupid conversations. Fall in love. Make mistakes. Build something. And let life surprise me.

Because the next thing you know… you might already be living the life you once hoped would happen.

Written by, Poppy Gibbs