Have you ever watched a clock tick by, each minute stretching like honey, while your stomach tightens into knots?

I have. My partner runs on what I lovingly (and sometimes not so lovingly) call “his own timezone.”

I joke about it, but inside (and sometimes it gets out), I’m screaming.

Five minutes late turns into fifteen. Then thirty.

Each passing minute makes my chest tighter, my voice sharper.

The jokes turn into snaps, then into fights.

My calm exterior cracks, and all that carefully contained anxiety spills out in bitter words I later regret.

When he’s late, my mind races back.

Back to seventh grade. Back to standing in the corner of my math class, burning with shame. Something happened at home that morning. I can’t remember what it was now, but I remember how it felt. Watching the minutes slip by. Knowing I couldn’t stop it. Knowing I would be late.

I was the perfect student before that day. Always on time. Always prepared. But none of that mattered. The teacher made me stand in the corner. So I did what I always do – I pulled out my math book and followed along. Standing there, trying to prove I was still good enough, still in control.

Now, years later, those feelings come rushing back when I’m waiting by the door.

Every time he says “just five more minutes,” I feel that old fear rise up. Sometimes it stays inside, churning my stomach into knots.

Sometimes it explodes out in a burst of anger that surprises us both.

I’ve learned something about why this hurts so much. That scared seventh-grade girl is still inside me, holding her textbook tight, trying to be perfect. Our old hurts shape how we feel today, how we react, how we fight.

What helps? First, deep breaths. Then talking – when we’re both calm, when the storm has passed.

One night, drinking coffee that grew cold, I told him how waiting makes me feel powerless. Like I’m that helpless kid again. He really listened. Then he told me about his own struggles with time. His lateness wasn’t meant to hurt me.

We’re trying to fix this together. He sets alarms now. I try to relax more. I warn him when I feel the pressure building, before it turns into a fight. Some days work better than others. But understanding why we react this way – that’s how we start to heal.

He’s still late sometimes. The clock still ticks. I still sometimes snap. But now I know it’s not about whether he loves me or values me. It’s just one of our things, like how he can’t fold clothes right or how I leave coffee cups everywhere.

I’m learning to let go – not just of control, but of that need to be perfect. I’m learning to apologize when my fear turns into anger. Sometimes life doesn’t follow our schedule, and that’s okay.

Love isn’t about perfect timing or perfect reactions. It’s about understanding each other. And that starts with understanding ourselves.