Six years of your life is a long time to do anything, and

The words of Busy Philipps — “Six years of your life is a long time to do anything, and especially in this business, where you get so used to being nomadic and moving on to different jobs.” — speak with the tone of one who has lived amid constant change and who understands the fleeting nature of stability. They remind us that time is both a gift and a burden, that to give years to one pursuit is no small offering, and that in certain paths — especially in the world of art and performance — permanence is rare, while change is the constant companion.

When she names six years of your life, she points to the reality that years are not simply numbers but portions of one’s soul, poured into labor, relationships, and purpose. To devote six years to one work is to weave part of yourself into it, to give it the breath of your days and the fire of your nights. Yet in professions where projects end and roles change, this long tether is unusual, almost against the rhythm of the craft. Her words carry the weight of sacrifice: to remain is discipline, to leave is necessity.

The mention of being nomadic is deeply evocative. The nomad moves from place to place, never planting roots too deep, always pressing forward into the unknown. This has been the life of countless peoples through history, from the tribes of the desert to the wanderers of the steppe. In the world of acting and performance, this nomad’s life is echoed — each job is a new camp, each production a temporary home, each cast a fleeting family. The heart learns to adapt, to cherish briefly, and then to release. To remain moving on is not weakness, but the survival instinct of the wanderer.

History mirrors this wisdom. Think of the samurai, who pledged themselves to service but often moved from one master to another, adapting to shifting times and loyalties. Or recall the actors of Shakespeare’s day, traveling from town to town, performing for peasants and kings alike, never certain where the next stage would rise. Their craft, like Philipps’ world, demanded both devotion and detachment: devotion to the art itself, detachment from the illusion of permanence. This balance between loyalty and freedom is the heart of the nomadic spirit.

Her words also remind us of the paradox of endurance: that what seems brief in the measure of eternity may still feel vast to the heart. Six years may be but a ripple in the ocean of time, yet to the individual who lives them, they are a mountain of memories, struggles, and growth. Thus, the ancients often warned that we must measure life not by the number of years, but by the depth of our living within them. Philipps shows us that time devoted, even in impermanence, still carries weight and meaning.

The lesson is clear: life is change, and change is the only constant. We must learn both to endure in one place when called to, and to release when the time comes to wander again. To cling too tightly to permanence in a nomadic world brings sorrow; to embrace change with grace brings freedom. The wise do not curse impermanence but walk with it, taking from each season its lessons, its joys, and its strength.

Practical wisdom follows. Reflect on the seasons of your own life. Where have you stayed long, and what did that time give you? Where have you been called to move on, and what did that journey teach you? Do not despise either path, for both are needed. Build deep roots where possible, but keep your heart light enough to journey forward when the call of change comes. Carry gratitude for the years you have given, and courage for the roads yet ahead.

Thus, Busy Philipps’ words endure as a reminder for all who labor in changing worlds: time is precious, impermanence is inevitable, and strength is found in the balance between devotion and release. Honor the years you spend, but when the time comes, walk forward with the spirit of the nomad. For in moving on, the soul does not lose; it gathers new horizons.