Bridge Year Costa Rica – Fall 2024

If I were to create a Venn diagram of the world’s population, time would be the single point of overlap for every individual—24 hours a day, no more, no less. But even though we all receive the same daily allotment, the perception of time is far from uniform. We experience time through the lens of our cultural, societal, and personal values, creating the illusion of having more or less of it; this perception may be more rhetorical than practical, reflecting how we choose to value and engage with the hours we’re given.

“Time is money,” we often say, a phrase that underscores the American fixation on productivity.  In America, time is viewed as a finite commodity that can be bought, sold, and maximized like any other resource. We invest it with the expectation of returns, constantly seeking to turn every minute into something profitable. This is more than just a byproduct of capitalism; it’s a deeply ingrained cultural philosophy. It’s not enough to simply exist; we must produce, achieve, and grow, all while battling against the ever-encroaching limitations of time.

This mindset is evident in the rise of quick, bite-sized content—like one-minute TikToks—that offer fleeting moments of pleasure. We’re trained to chase these brief bursts of serotonin, squeezing satisfaction out of every second. I’m not immune to this. In fact, I’m guilty of fully embracing this way of life, trading my time like a high-demand commodity that’s never in sufficient supply. This constant urgency to use every moment efficiently paradoxically makes time feel even more limited.

In stark contrast, my experience in Costa Rica has offered a different perspective. Here, the rhythm of life slows down, embodied in the cultural embrace of “¡Pura Vida!” This phrase is more than a casual greeting; it’s a philosophy that encourages living in the moment and appreciating life’s simple pleasures. A leisurely coffee break, or cafecito, becomes a ritual, a moment to savor rather than something to rush through. Time here feels more abundant, not because there’s more of it, but because there’s an acceptance that it’s beyond our control.

Adjusting to this slower pace has been a challenge. I miss the comfort of constant busyness, my safety net of endless to-do lists and structured schedules. My family and friends joke that I’m “going crazy” without it, and in some ways, they’re right. Being perpetually occupied kept me grounded; it was a measure of productivity and purpose that I relied on. Without that constant activity, I’ve had to confront the unsettling quiet, and it’s been uncomfortable.

While I’m inclined to believe that our surroundings shape our perception of time and our relationship with it, I also think that these cultural narratives are not immutable. It has been a reminder that time, no matter how we choose to perceive it, is something that cannot be altered or negotiated. I’m still grappling with this duality. I can feel the tug of my familiar American mindset, urging me to fill every hour, to do more, to be more. At the same time, I’m learning to appreciate the slower cadence of life here, to understand that not every minute needs to be productive in the traditional sense. Perhaps the real lesson is learning to let go, to allow time to just be, without always needing to control or conquer it.