Right on Time
Right on Time
A woman who walks with time does not rush toward greatness
—she simply arrives.
It was 7:13 a.m. in Chicago when Janelle slipped into her best blazer and paused in front of the mirror. The city outside her apartment window pulsed with early ambition—buses growled down Michigan Avenue, heels clacked on sidewalks, and the skyline shimmered like a dream half-awake. Today was her first day at Sterling & Wolfe PR, and she’d earned it. Not by luck. Not by charm. But by staying up late, showing up early, and speaking up even when her voice trembled.
But still, there was that flutter in her chest. The city was louder, bolder, faster than anywhere she’d ever lived. And she was just… Janelle. From a small town with a big résumé and an even bigger case of imposter syndrome.
She reached into the top drawer and pulled out the new shapewear she’d bought for this occasion. Not to hide anything—but to remind herself, in its gentle embrace, that she was held, supported. Armored, even. The kind of hug that came from no one else but herself.
A quick glance at the clock: 7:19 a.m. “Right on time,” she whispered.
The office at Sterling & Wolfe buzzed with purpose, the lobby ticking with too-white smiles and perfectly synced phone calls. A massive grandfather clock stood near reception, its polished brass pendulum swinging like the breath of the whole company.
As Janelle introduced herself, something happened—not dramatic, not loud. Just a gentle shift. A widening in her smile. A clarity in her voice. The shapewear didn’t make her someone she wasn’t; it helped her stand tall in the skin she’d fought hard to be comfortable in.
By week’s end, she'd joined the social committee, landed a surprise compliment from the CEO, and found herself laughing over after-work drinks with Marcus from IT—who wore vintage watches and had the kind of quiet eyes that saw everything and judged nothing.
At a coffee shop on Sunday, he noticed the way her gaze lingered on an old cuckoo clock hanging above the counter.
“Do you like clocks?” he asked.
“I do,” she said. “They remind me not to wait forever.”
He nodded, smiling softly. “You’re not the type who will.”
And she wasn't.
Weeks became months. Confidence bloomed, not all at once, but steadily. Every clock she passed became less a reminder of urgency, and more a celebration of presence. Her shapewear became like a lucky charm—not because it changed her figure, but because it had walked with her into the fire and back out the other side.
In a city that moved like a metronome, Janelle had learned her rhythm.
