I wake up at 5am. Every day.
Not because I’m disciplined. Not because I’ve mastered some motivational morning routine. Not because I’m one of those people who cheerfully greets the sunrise with a yoga mat and a green smoothie.
I wake up at 5am because if I don’t, I lose the only part of the day that belongs to me.
Between 5 and 7am, the world is soft. Still. The house doesn’t creak with footsteps or voices yet. No one's asking anything of me. No one's texting. No one needs a ride or a favor or an answer. The to-do list hasn’t come looking for me yet.
This is the only time I feel like I can breathe without interruption.
But let’s be clear: it’s not peaceful in the romantic sense. I’m not serenely sipping tea and journaling affirmations. I’m usually halfway through my first cup of coffee before my brain even admits I’m awake, and the internal monologue is already sprinting—calculating time, reordering tasks, whispering don’t forget this, you still haven’t done that, when are you going to write today?
It’s not that I love mornings. I love what they protect.
The early hours aren’t sacred because they’re quiet. They’re sacred because they’re mine.
Before the rest of the house stirs, I can write. Or think. Or not think. I can exist without translating myself into the version other people recognize—functioning, responsive, put-together.
Before 7am, I’m allowed to just be a person with coffee breath and a hoodie that hasn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a questionable amount of time.
And maybe I don’t talk about it much, because it sounds weird to say aloud. “I wake up before everyone else so I can exist without needing to be anything for anyone.”
But that’s what it is.
I’ve carved this time out of necessity, not novelty. I’m not winning any self-improvement medals. I’m just trying to stay ahead of the day before it rolls me flat.
Because once the house wakes up—once the notifications start, once the schedules and expectations and emotional bandwidth taxes start coming due—I belong to the world again.
And I can do that. I will do that.
But not until I’ve had my two hours.
Not until I’ve re-centered whatever's left of me from the day before.
Because if I don’t? The version of me that the world gets is brittle. Sharp. Empty. And no one sees it, because I’m still showing up. Still making it work. But inside? I’m threadbare. And that kind of frayed doesn’t get better with a nap or a snack or a motivational quote.
So I get up early.
Not because I’m a morning person.
Not because I love the sunrise.
But because the silence at 5am is the only thing that doesn’t ask me to explain myself.
And in a life full of noise, that kind of quiet is everything.
