Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day

I’ve just come back from a few days in Rome, and everywhere I looked, I was reminded of how long things really take to build.

The Colosseum stood tall, worn, weathered, and yet still standing. You could feel the weight of time in the cracks of the stone. Everywhere you walked, there were ruins, columns, half-standing temples — signs of a city shaped over centuries, not years.

That old phrase, “Rome wasn’t built in a day”, suddenly made a lot more sense.

It’s easy to hear it and brush it off. But being there, seeing what it really took, gave it a new meaning.

It wasn’t just a reminder to be patient. It was a reminder of how real progress happens: slowly, layer by layer, over a long time.

Things That Last Take Time

Walking the streets, I was struck by the effort behind it all. The Pantheon took over seven years to complete. The Colosseum? Nearly a decade. And that’s not even counting the years of planning, funding, and vision that went into them.

These weren’t quick wins or short-term projects. They were long-term commitments, built by people who knew they probably wouldn’t be around to see the end result.

That kind of patience is hard to imagine today. We live in a world that wants everything fast — growth, success, feedback. If it’s not happening quickly, we start questioning whether it’s worth it.

Yet walking through Rome, I was reminded that real things, things that last, take time.

They take a strong foundation, a clear vision, and a willingness to keep showing up even when progress is slow.

It made me think about my own life. How often I fall into the trap of chasing quick progress; more growth, more validation, the feeling that I’m “getting somewhere.”

But when I really think about the most meaningful things I’ve built — deep relationships, creative work I’m proud of, real personal growth — they all took years.

And none of them came from rushing.

The Colosseum and the Cost of Glory

Growing up, my favourite film was Gladiator. I must’ve watched it a dozen times. Maximus fighting for his life and freedom in front of a roaring crowd really stuck with me. So standing inside the actual Colosseum was surreal.

I could picture the noise, the tension, the adrenaline. Imagine stepping out there knowing these might be your last moments, but also knowing that if you won, you might earn your freedom. It’s brutal and heroic all at once.

Then the tour guide said something that completely changed how I saw it:

“400,000 people died here. This place was a killing machine. ”

And it wasn’t a figure of speech. It was literally designed to kill for entertainment.

For sport. For the amusement of the crowd. For the glory of the Emperor.

This wasn’t a place of noble battle, it was a theatre for the bloodthirsty. People died horribly, and others clapped.

And the strange thing is, we still celebrate it. 

We admire the architecture. We pose for photos. But rarely do we stop to think about what actually happened there — the pain, the fear, the loss of life.

It made me realise how easily cruelty can be repackaged as culture.

How we can glorify something without fully acknowledging the suffering behind it.

There’s something in human nature that’s drawn to power, violence, and drama.

And as I stood there, I couldn’t help but wonder: Have we really evolved as much as we like to think?

The Moment of Reckoning

As I walked out of the Colosseum, something shifted. The feeling of awe had faded. What was left was something heavier, closer to grief.

I went there looking for inspiration. What I got instead was perspective.

It was one of those moments where the illusion breaks.

You stop admiring what was built, and start questioning why it was built, and at what cost.

That’s the part of the hero’s journey we don’t talk about enough. The part where things fall apart a bit. Where you see through the surface and can’t unsee what’s underneath.

For me, that moment hit hard. It made me realise how much I’ve been focused on moving fast, achieving things that look impressive from the outside.

But underneath that, how much of it really lasts? How much of it actually matters?

I didn’t leave the Colosseum thinking about Rome. I left thinking about myself.

What have I been building? And who have I been building it for?

Laying Stones That Matter

What Rome really reminded me is that the measure of a life isn’t just what we build, it’s how we build it.

Brick by brick. Day by day.

Some of those monuments were built to inspire. Others were built to control.

But they all started the same way: with an idea, and the decision to start laying stones.

We don’t need to be emperors. We don’t need to build cathedrals.

But we’re all building something. Through our habits, our choices, how we show up for others, and how we show up for ourselves.

And eventually, we’re going to leave something behind.

Not a monument, maybe. But a feeling. A memory. A way we made people feel.

The question is: when someone walks through the ruins of your life, what will they find in the foundations?

Final Reflection

Rome reminded me that every hero’s journey starts with inspiration, passes through discomfort, and ends with a shift in perspective.

So whatever you’re building, take your time.

Do it with care.

And if you ever find yourself in a season that feels messy or broken, don’t be in such a rush to move on.

That might be the exact place everything starts to change.

Adam