When I was 27, I almost learned to play the piano.

I’d gone to a dinner party, and the host—a film editor, not a musician—sat down at an old upright and played something slow and emotional. It wasn’t flashy. He used both hands, sure, but he wasn’t showing off. It sounded like he was speaking with the keys. I remember thinking: I want to do that.

The next morning, I looked up local music teachers in the Yellow Pages. Then I paused.

It would take years to get good. I imagined scales, clunky fingerings, early lessons spent on “Chopsticks.” I was already behind, wasn’t I? Weren’t musicians supposed to start as kids, in musty practice rooms and Suzuki classes?

So I didn’t sign up. I closed the phone book.

I’m 64 now. That was 37 years ago. I could’ve played piano for 36 of them.

But I didn’t. The time passed anyway.

I’ve felt that little pang more than once—the sense that something will take too long, so why bother? But the joke’s on me. Time doesn’t care what I start or when. It just keeps ticking along.

I’ve repeated this pattern a lot:

• I put off writing a novel in my 20s, thinking I didn’t know enough. Forty years later, I still didn’t. But I had forty fewer years.
• I watched friends switch careers, launch startups, build things from scratch, while I stood on the edge of the pool waiting for the water to warm up.
• There are so many things I didn’t learn properly in high school, but I told myself it‘s too late to learn physics or chemistry or coding or Spanish or ancient history. I’m not sure where I learned that.
• I delayed getting serious about my health until the signs became too loud to ignore. Then I got a trainer, a urologist, a quarterly appointment with my dental hygienist. It was late but not too late.

I started investing in my twenties—barely knew what I was doing, but I opened an account, picked some index funds, and let the engine run. In hindsight, it was one of the smartest things I did. Not because I was smart, but because I started.

I’ve seen so many people wait until they “understand it better,” consuming articles, books, podcasts, cocktail party chatter. But understanding comes after action, not before. The real magic takes years to show up—but only if you give it those years.

And yet, when I did start something, even haltingly—learning to draw in my 30s, building a business in my 50s—the results weren’t instant, but they were profound. Not because I got good fast, but because I gave myself the gift of accumulating time. One drawing became a dozen, became a hundred, became a part of my life.

It’s not laziness. It’s logic. Time feels like a cost. I worry I’ll waste it, or I won’t finish, or I’ll never get ‘there.’

But what if time isn’t the obstacle—it’s the opportunity?

You don’t plant a tree because you’ll get shade tomorrow. You plant it because one day, someone will sit beneath it. Maybe that someone is me. Maybe it’s the version of me who’s grateful I began, no matter how long it took.

So here’s what I try to remember when I hesitate: I will be 65 eventually. Or 75. Or 95. I can either get there having started… or not. But the time will tick on anyway. It’s inexorable.

And if I do start—whether it’s art, music, health, education, or anything else—I might be surprised. I might find that the joy isn’t just at the finish line. It’s in all the mornings I show up. All the pages, the practices, the stumbles, the moments I almost quit but didn’t.

Start late, I tell myself. Start again. Start over.

Just start.

Your pal,

Danny