It’s 12.05.2026 and I’m waiting. Waiting is a difficult activity for some, too easy for others. Some people spend their whole lives waiting for something - a better opportunity, a better moment, a better job - or for someone: first for their parents at day care, then for a right partner, eventually for their first child. Some people wait to start living, all the way until death. Some people can’t stand waiting and miss everything that happens while they’re rushing toward what’s next.

Waiting doesn’t come easily to me, yet I find myself waiting for a few things and people. The most important person I’m waiting for is my daughter, who was supposed to be born last Thursday - as it turns out she’s also waiting for something, probably for the ‘right’ moment. I’m also waiting for my partner, waiting for her to return from the pregnancy mix of states: exhaustion, joy, anticipation, hope and fear. I’d miss the daily smile, and the gentle mischievousness that colors our conversations.

I’m also waiting for a few parcels at the pickup machine - a charger for my phone, my watch and headphones, filament for the 3D printer so I can continue to fill the waiting time for my daughter with waiting time for the next drawer organiser. In this waiting of mine there’s a lack of control, of agency - and yet it’s a completely liberating activity. I don’t have to do anything, because after all, I’m waiting.

This reminds me of my first years at work, and the shock I felt hearing “well, I sent an email and I’m waiting.” It used to drive me nuts - by “this” I mean the act of surrendering power and control over the situation. I’ve done all I can, I sent the email and now I wait.

I’ll probably never truly make peace with waiting. I can’t imagine waiting for my daughter to start preschool, or waiting for some interesting job offer to come to me on its own. I think a fair amount of what I’ve managed in life I owe to an almost unbearable allergy to waiting.

I prefer writing about waiting to waiting itself.