Time, as I've just been reminded, is relative. I won't say whose relative, or which--that would be getting personal.
For the last nine months I've been writing full time. It doesn't feel like nine months--the first six passed without notice and I suddenly have to face the end of my year. Feels weird. I could point out the milestones each month, but somehow they passed without notice.
Writing for a living has been my dream as long as I can remember, but it was a someday-dream. One of those dreams that kept me from strangling my co-workers when they really got on my nerves. "I can handle this, because someday..."
And now? I know I can do it, so that part of the "fear-factor" is gone. I still love the writing. I know I can push through any barriers placed in my way. I could easily do this for the rest of my life, and enjoy it.
Of course, there's the income bit. Still working on that.