I woke up before my alarm again. I always do. The early morning is the only time I have to myself, and I cling to it like a lifeline. The house is silent, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. I sit in my chair by the back window with my coffee, staring out at the first light creeping over the horizon.
For a few precious moments, I let myself breathe. Just breathe. In these quiet minutes, it feels like the weight of everything--of my past, my never-ending to-do list, my responsibilities as an adult and parent--isn't pressing down on me. The world isn't demanding anything from me yet. No texts, no calls, no arguing kids, no responsibilities. Just stillness.
I love mornings. Not just because they're quiet, but because they belong to me.
In the early hours, I can think without interruption. My thoughts aren't tangled up in schedules and work tasks, in the constant demands of motherhood, in the complicated history of thoughts. Mornings are when I remember who I am outside of all that.
Sometimes, I read. A chapter, a few pages--whatever I can fit in before the noise starts. Sometimes, I journal, writing out my frustrations, my hopes, my reminders to myself that I am doing my best, that I am enough. Sometimes, I just sit and sip my coffee, staring out at the world waking up.
It recharges me in a way nothing else does. It's the only time of day I don't feel stretched too thin, pulled in ten different directions. In these moments, I don't have to be a mother, a homemaker, a wife--I just get to be.
And that peace, even if it's temporary, carries me through the day.