You’re not behind on your life—you’re on a different timeline

Most people believe there’s a correct timeline for life’s major milestones—education by 25, marriage by 30, kids by 35. We’re told that deviating from this schedule means we’re behind, failing, or missing something essential about being human. The unmarried are “still single.” The childless are “not yet parents.” The unconventional are “finding themselves,” as if the found life only exists within prescribed boundaries.

But what if some of us aren’t late to our own lives? What if we’re playing an entirely different game?

Last month, at 3 AM, a WhatsApp photo announced my brother’s transformation. Lachlan’s exhausted face, his wife’s tears of joy, and between them: Hannah. Six pounds, three ounces, already commanding the universe to reorganize around her needs.

I stared at that photo in the darkness of my apartment and felt something I hadn’t expected. Not the baby fever everyone predicts for the childless at 43. Something more unsettling—the recognition that I’d been living my entire adult life as if it were a dress rehearsal, waiting for the real performance to begin.

Bernice Neugarten called it the “social clock”—that internal schedule we carry for major life events, inherited as invisibly as eye color. It’s cultural programming so deep we mistake it for instinct, for truth, for the only way to be human.

In Chinese culture, there’s a term—“剩男” (shèngnán)—”leftover man”—for unmarried men over 30. It’s commonly used in Singapore, where the marriage rate here has been declining for decades.  Yet the stigma persists. Hawker center aunties ask why such a “handsome ang moh” hasn’t settled down. Property agents show me family-sized condos “for the future,” as if my timeline is just delayed, not different.

But being “behind” implies you’re traveling the same path, just slower. What I’ve learned, turning 44 later this month, is that some of us are navigating entirely different territory.

For nine months, I watched Lachlan’s countdown through our daily business calls. We co-run Brown Brothers Media from different countries, but during Hannah’s gestation, we were operating in different universes. While he researched cribs and memorized developmental milestones, I was living in suspended animation—everything in my apartment chosen to be temporary, nothing too permanent to abandon.

“You ready?” I asked him two weeks before Hannah arrived.

“Nobody’s ready,” he said. “But that’s not the point. You become ready by doing it. You can’t think your way into being a father.”

Meanwhile, I’d been overthinking in loops while life moved forward. Analyzing whether I wanted kids. Analyzing what wanting them would mean. Analyzing the analysis itself.

Here’s what shifted everything: I’d been asking “Do I want children?” when the real question was “What do I think children would give me that I’m not creating elsewhere?”

Psychologists distinguish between means goals and end goals. We think we want the promotion when we really want respect. We think we want marriage when we want deep connection. We think we want children when we’re seeking meaning, legacy, love that outlasts us.

One humid afternoon, sitting in my regular kopitiam while uncles debated politics over beer, I mapped what I imagined family life would provide: purpose beyond myself, enduring bonds, creating something that outlasts me, the particular weight of being needed.

Then I examined my actual life. The hectares of degraded farmland we’re restoring in Brazil—land that will bear fruit for generations. The business employing people across continents, providing livelihoods I never imagined creating. The relationship I’m building with someone who’s teaching me that home isn’t about mortgages or fixed addresses but about choosing to stay present even when you could leave.

Different structures meeting similar emotional needs. Not identical—there’s a specific intimacy to raising children I’ll never know, a particular vulnerability in shaping another human that remains foreign. But the gap between what I have and what I imagine I’m missing was smaller than I’d believed.

This isn’t consolation-prize thinking. It’s recognizing we’ve been sold one model of meaning when dozens exist.

I explored these questions in depth a couple of years ago when I was approaching my 42nd birthday, grappling with the same societal pressure and personal uncertainty:

Lachlan and I weren’t supposed to diverge. Same parents, same Brisbane suburb, same assumptions about how life unfolds. We shared bedrooms, friends, and until our twenties, trajectories.

The split was subtle until it wasn’t. Christmas 2019: he announces his engagement while I announce another international move. The family’s joy for him was immediate and uncomplicated. Their response to me? Polite concern dressed as enthusiasm.

“Sometimes I envy your freedom,” he told me that night, escaping to the backyard with beers while wedding talk dominated inside.

“Sometimes I envy your certainty.”

“What certainty? I’m terrified constantly.”

“At least you’re terrified of something specific.”

His fear had shape and edges—would he be a good father, a stable provider? Mine was formless, existential—was I missing something essential, or was I essentially different?

Two weeks before Hannah’s birth, I flew to Vietnam. Lachlan picked me up at the airport in a sensible SUV, baby seat already installed.

“Practicing,” he said, catching my glance. “Took me three hours to install that thing.”

That night, over beers in Vietnam’s humid chaos, dodging motorbikes on the sidewalk, his anxiety finally surfaced.

“What if I’m terrible at this?”

“Terrible fathers don’t worry about being terrible fathers,” I told him.

“By that logic,” he said, smiling slightly, “people who worry about wasting their lives aren’t wasting them.”

The insight hung between us like the moisture in the air.

“Thanks,” I finally said.

“Yeah, well. We’re all just making it up. Some of us just have smaller humans depending on our improvisation.”

When I finally held Hannah, her fingers locked around mine with that startling newborn strength—that grip that seems both desperate and assured, as if she’s simultaneously saying “Don’t let go” and “I’ve got this.”

“Feel anything?” Lachlan asked, hovering nervously.

“Yeah. I feel like an uncle.”

He laughed, exhausted but relieved. “That’s allowed, you know. Being exactly what you are.”

That evening, watching them navigate their chaos of bottle sterilizers and swaddle blankets, moving through their sleep-deprived choreography, I saw it clearly. They weren’t performing parenthood; they were becoming it, one feeding at a time. It was beautiful. It was theirs. It wasn’t mine.

And for the first time in twenty years, that landed as fact rather than failure.

Before leaving Vietnam, we sat on his balcony while Hannah slept. The city hummed below—ten million lives pursuing ten million timelines.

“Remember when we thought we’d do everything the same?” Lachlan asked.

“Neighbors with matching kids, barbecues every Sunday.”

“Instead, you’re the uncle who flies in from Singapore with presents that make too much noise.”

“And you’re the one who made me an uncle.”

We clinked bottles and let the comfortable silence settle between us.

Let’s be clear: having this choice at all is a luxury. My Australian passport, my education, the digital business that funds my life—these create options that aren’t universal. While I philosophize about timelines, others are simply trying to survive the only timeline available.

And as a man turning 44, I face some raised eyebrows but nothing compared to what women experience. Their bodies carry deadlines; mine doesn’t. Their childlessness gets pathologized in ways mine never will.

But privilege doesn’t invalidate the experience. It just means being honest about the conditions that allow for choice, while recognizing that choosing—really choosing, not just deferring—requires its own courage.

For years, I treated my life like a placeholder—something temporary until I figured out what I really wanted. Even my successes felt borrowed, as if I were house-sitting in someone else’s achievement.

But here’s what watching Lachlan become a father while I remain… whatever I am… has taught me: the life you’re living while waiting for clarity is your actual life. There’s no other version queued up, ready to begin once you’ve answered all the questions.

Hannah is one month old now. By conventional metrics, I’m 43 years “behind” on fatherhood. But I’m not behind on my own life. I’m finally living it—not deferred, not provisional, but fully inhabited.

The social clock keeps ticking for all of us. But I’ve stopped checking it against other people’s schedules. My timeline isn’t measured in trimesters or school years. It’s measured in projects launched, land restored, connections deepened across distance and difference.

Yesterday, Lachlan sent another photo: Hannah asleep on his chest, both of them collapsed on the couch. “Living the dream (haven’t showered in three days).”

I replied with my own: sunrise from my apartment, coffee growing cold while I write. “Living a different dream.”

“Both real,” he wrote back.

Both real. Not competing narratives but parallel ones. Not better or worse, just different games entirely.

And that might be the most radical thing any of us can do—stop apologizing for the life we’re actually living and start inhabiting it fully. Stop believing you’re behind and start recognizing you might be exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You’re not late to your own life. You’re living it on a timeline that was always yours to create.