Time Is Sacred: Living with Intention in a World That Pulls You in Every Direction
We live in a culture that glorifies busy.
We wear burnout like a badge of honor, fill our calendars to the brim, and call it productivity. But somewhere along the way, many of us stopped asking one essential question:
Is this how I want to spend my time?
Time is the one resource we never get back. Once it's gone, it’s gone. And yet, we often give it away so freely—to people who drain us, to tasks that don’t align with our values, and to distractions that numb us instead of nourishing us.
I’ve learned this lesson the hard way.
In the past, I said yes when I should’ve said no. I overextended myself to be liked, to be needed, to be useful. But I also lost touch with people I love. Life got busy, and I let too much time pass between visits, between phone calls, between connection. There are friendships I cherished, family I adore, people who were once part of my everyday—and now, years have slipped by.
Hospice has changed the way I see time.
It has stripped away the illusion that we have “someday.” In those final days and weeks with patients, everything becomes sacred—the stories, the silences, the simple act of holding someone’s hand.
I've sat at countless bedsides and listened to regrets spill out in whispers: “I wish I had visited her more.” “I thought we had more time.” “Tell him I love him.”
And I've realized—I don't want to be the one saying those words.
So I’ve started making the calls. Scheduling the visits. Saying the things that need to be said while there’s still time to say them.
I’m reconnecting with people I’ve gone too long without seeing—not out of guilt, but out of love. Because if hospice has taught me anything, it’s this: nothing is guaranteed except the moment we’re in right now. And that moment is more than enough to change everything.
Intentional living starts with the courage to pause.
To reevaluate.
To say no without guilt.
To say yes with purpose.
It means putting the phone down and being fully present. It means carving out time not just for rest, but for relationships—for laughter over coffee, for spontaneous road trips, for family dinners that linger a little longer than usual.
It means realizing that the people we love are not promised tomorrow—and neither are we.
This world will always demand more of you.
But you don’t have to answer every call.
You don’t have to be constantly accessible, constantly available, constantly “on.”
You get to choose.
And that is a power worth reclaiming.
Because your time is sacred.
And how you spend it is how you spend your life.
Reconnecting with Cary: A Visit Eight Years in the Making
Recently, I had the chance to reconnect with someone who has been a constant in my life for over 25 years—my dear friend, Cary.
Cary has always been a safe space for me. One of those rare people you can just be with—no pretenses, no performance. Just comfort, trust, and the kind of friendship that doesn’t demand explanations. Life pulled us in different directions, and somehow, eight years had slipped by since we last saw each other.
In recent years, Cary has faced his share of health challenges. But in true Cary fashion, he didn’t let that stop him from living fully. He retired and began traveling the country in his RV, exploring hidden corners of America with his America the Beautiful pass through the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. It’s so like him—turning life’s curveballs into a grand adventure.
I drove down to Georgia to visit him, and from the moment we hugged, it was as if no time had passed at all. We talked, we laughed, we shared stories old and new. It was healing. For both of us.
Hospice has taught me how fleeting these moments can be. But this visit was a gentle reminder that they’re also within reach—if we’re willing to make the time. We can get in the car, make the drive, knock on the door. We can stop waiting for the “perfect time” and choose now.
Because sometimes, a soul needs to be seen. To be reminded that you still matter to someone.And sometimes, that simple act of showing up is all it takes to remind you that you’re still alive, too.
JP: A Love That Never Let Go
Some stories never really end. They just pause—waiting for the right time, the right season, the right hearts to come back around. There’s a certain kind of love that never quite goes away. Even when the relationship shifts. Even when the years stretch out between visits. That’s the kind of love I’ve always shared with JP.
We’ve been in each other’s lives for over 22 years. What started as a passionate relationship quickly proved to be a complicated one—full of fire, intensity, and moments of joy that often clashed with equal parts frustration. We used to say we had a four-day maximum—any longer and we’d be at each other’s throats! He lived in New York, I was in Boston, and somehow we kept finding our way back to each other throughout the years, even if just briefly. But it was messy, complicated, and often too intense to hold onto for long. Our relationship became a rhythm of hellos and goodbyes, always threaded with love, but never quite finding steady ground.
Whenever I visited New York City, JP would go into full tour guide mode—his joy was in showing me everything. Times Square lit up like magic, the Statue of Liberty standing tall in the harbor, the Empire State Building piercing the sky. We wandered Battery Park, South Street Seaport, bargained on Canal Street, and took in the heartbeat of the city together.
There were late nights walking the streets of Manhattan, his hand wrapped around mine as if letting go wasn’t an option. Dinners at Caliente Cab Co., my favorite Mexican resturant in Greenwich Villiage. There were quiet mornings, coffee in hand, out on his terrace or curled up on the couch in old sweatpants, no makeup, no masks—just real. Just us.
But nothing compared to the moment he took me to Ground Zero.
It wasn’t just a tour stop—it was sacred ground.
JP had been there. On 9/11.
He was working in lower Manhattan that day for the NYC Transit Authority.
He doesn’t talk about it much. But I’ve seen the weight in his eyes. He witnessed tragedy most of us can’t even fathom. And though the dust has long settled, the scars remain. Emotional. Spiritual. Invisible to most, but not to me.
He showed me the site with quiet reverence, his voice low and his heart heavy. I could feel it—this man has carried things no one should ever have to carry. And yet, he still found a way to love. To live. To laugh with me through street vendors and subways. To make me feel safe in a city that had once brought him to his knees. That kind of strength leaves an imprint.
We had this rhythm. This pull. We were always unfinished business.
But in early October 2005, everything stopped.
I got word that JP had been involved in a horrific car accident. He was on a ventilator, in critical condition, suffering from a traumatic brain injury, undergoing multiple surgeries—and fighting for his life.
I remember the moment like it was yesterday. It felt like a gut punch. I couldn’t breathe. Tears fell uncontrollably as the thought gripped me: What if he doesn’t make it? What if I never get to tell him how much he meant to me?
I carried his picture with me and prayed over it, day and night. I stayed in contact with his sister, desperate for updates. Every day was a question mark, every hour a quiet plea to God. And then, finally—an answer.
He was off the ventilator. He could talk.
I braced myself before making the call. I knew that he had suffered a brain injury. What if he didn’t remember me? What if everything we’d shared had been lost?
The phone rang. Three rings.
He picked up, and on the other end I heard a raspy whisper, just barely audible.
I said, “It’s Kimberly.”
There was a pause. A breath.
And then—
“Hi, Doll.”
I don’t think I exhaled until that moment. The relief washed over me in waves. He knew me. He remembered us. And in that moment, I knew—he was going to be okay.
From that day forward, I never took our connection for granted again. Even when our paths diverged. Even when years passed without a visit. The bond remained. Strong. Unshakable. Eternal.
In 2011, my life took a beautiful turn when I met the man who would later become my husband. It was a different kind of love—steady, grounding, safe. Where the fire with JP had often burned uncontrollably, this love offered warmth, stability, and deep peace. It was what my soul needed in that season, and I cherished every moment of it.
He loved me well. Through my imperfections, my passions, my sometimes stubborn heart—he showed me what partnership truly looked like. We shared a life built on faith, friendship, and purpose. Our time together, though not nearly long enough, was a sacred gift that continues to shape who I am today.
And in one of those full-circle moments that only life can orchestrate, he even met JP.
I remember the day. There was no tension. No rivalry. Just mutual respect.
They liked each other.
My husband saw what I had always seen in JP—a big heart, a quick wit, a fiercely loyal friend. And JP respected the man I had chosen to share my life with. There was something healing in that meeting—an unspoken acknowledgment that each had played a meaningful role in my life, in very different ways.
Losing my husband was one of the hardest things I’ve ever walked through. Grief has a way of hollowing you out and reshaping everything you thought you knew about time, love, and legacy. But even in the sorrow, I remain so deeply grateful.
Grateful that I got to love him.
Grateful that I was loved by him.
Grateful for the time we were given.
He will always be part of me.
He will always be part of my story.
And I believe with all my heart that he would want me to keep living, keep loving, and keep opening myself to the beautiful, complicated, sacred messiness of life.
Recently, nearly a decade since we last saw each other, I made the trip to Florida where JP has been living for many years and is now retired. We sat with the past, revisited old wounds. We reminisced about our old rhythm, the chaos, the chemistry. We laughed about the four-day rule. We even argued once—because of course we did! But somewhere in between, we realized: the love never left. It was just waiting. Quietly. Patiently. Until we were both ready. And somehow—after everything—we found ourselves looking at each other with new eyes and open hearts.
We’ve decided to give it another chance.
Not with the urgency of youth, but with the clarity of time. With a deep knowing of what matters. We may not have all the answers. But what we do have is love. Still alive. Still real. Not as who we were then—but as who we are now. Wiser. Softer. Still fiery, but with a gentler flame.
There’s no need to prove anything anymore.
No trying to fix each other.
Just love. Still alive. Still true. Still ours.
And I’ve always been a sucker for a good love story.
Especially one that survived decades, detours, heartbreak, and healing.
Especially one that lets me say, after all this time—we’re not finished yet.
Next Stop: Texas — Because Time Is Sacred
These visits—these reconnections—have stirred something in me.
They’ve reminded me that love doesn’t always follow a straight line. That relationships, even the messy ones, matter. That showing up—whether it’s after eight years, ten, or twenty—is always worth it.
I’ve revisited memories. Reopened doors. Healed old wounds. And in doing so, I’ve reclaimed something I didn’t even realize I’d lost: the sacredness of time.
But I’m not done yet.
I’ll be continuing this journey—making plans to reconnect with other cherished friends, chosen family, and kindred spirits I’ve missed for far too long.
Because this season of life is about more than survival. It’s about revival.
It’s about living on purpose, loving without delay, and choosing to show up before the moment slips away.
Time is sacred.
And I’m going to spend it where it matters most.
About the Author:
Kimberly Overton, BSN, RN, BC-FMP, is a Registered Nurse, entrepreneur, and fierce advocate for medical freedom and informed consent. With a background in critical care and acute patient management, she bore witness to the systemic failures of a healthcare system corrupted by profit-driven protocols—protocols that led to medical murders disguised as care.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, Kimberly made the bold decision to resign from traditional bedside nursing, standing in protest against coercive mandates, the unethical use of Remdesivir, and the rollout of dangerous, ineffective COVID “vaccines.” This defining moment propelled her to establish Nurse Freedom Network, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit dedicated to empowering nurses, safeguarding patient rights, and exposing corruption within the healthcare system.
Today, she continues her mission at the bedside as a Hospice nurse, where she brings dignity, presence, and compassion to the end-of-life journey—honoring the sacred transition and advocating for comfort, truth, and informed decisions. Her experience in hospice care further reinforces the importance of understanding every medical intervention and upholding the nurse’s role as a protector of patient safety and peace.
Expanding on her mission, she launched Remnant Healthcare, providing holistic, patient-centered alternatives that honor medical autonomy, informed consent, and compassionate care. As host of Nurses Out Loud, Kimberly amplifies the movement for healthcare reform, medical freedom, and the unwavering defense of human dignity.
Originally from Boston, Massachusetts, and now residing in Hendersonville, Tennessee, her mission is to disrupt the broken system, hold the profiteers accountable, and reclaim healthcare on a foundation of truth, ethics, and respect for human life—restoring humanity to the healing profession.
📲Connect with me and find all of our platforms in one place:
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What a beautiful, heart-touching article. Thank you for sharing your heart in such a profound way. With blessings & gratitude ...