Even the most ordinary mornings are full of movement, memory, and quiet decisions.
Maybe we don’t need big moments to feel present—just enough space to notice the small ones.
I turned over in bed, wondering how long I’d been in that same position. My arm had fallen asleep, and my chest felt crunched. I took a deep breath, thinking about checking the clock, but I also wanted to roll back over. I usually toss and turn all night, but this time, I didn’t. Must be the progesterone doing its job.
I adjusted my pillows — only to realize one was missing. I patted around until I found it above my head. Did I slide down during the night? Did I fall asleep on my husband again? That usually throws off the pillow setup. I sat up, got the pillow back under my head… and then, of course, my alarm started to vibrate, lighting up the room.
Oh no — it’s going to wake him. I never let the alarm go off. I’m usually up before it. I tapped the dismiss button on my watch and sat on the edge of the bed, brushing hair out of my face — except it was stuck. Strands crisscrossed my mouth, nose, and eyes. What in the world? Did I drool? Then I remembered — my detox box sent me that nighttime serum that makes my face sticky. That explains it.
I grabbed my phone, picked up my clothes from the floor — we both agreed sleeping naked is non-negotiable — and tiptoed to the bathroom. I used my phone light to close the door slowly. The bathroom light stays off — his eyelids are basically transparent. He’s a night owl. I’m a morning person. Our compromise is to be in bed by 9–10, and I’m up between 3 and 4. He “sleeps in” until 6:30.
I turned on the closet light instead — it’s in the bathroom, which I always thought was a weird design choice, but it works and is quite convenient. I sat on the toilet, like usual, giving my body time to eliminate any bad decisions from dinner. Then I changed into yoga pants, a sports bra, and one of my many sweatshirts. I always tell myself I need to buy another one—I wear them year-round.
Then came the stealth mission: turn off lights, tiptoe across the tile (hoping my ankles don’t click), and open the bedroom door without setting off the vacuum-force door slam. The cat meowed her usual greeting — so I didn’t wake him, but I did wake her. Last obstacle: close the door behind me with just the right amount of pressure to keep the vacuum from yanking it.
Once it clicked into place, I exhaled. I hadn’t even realized I was holding my breath.
The kitchen was dark. I turned on the light and went through the usual motions:
Tea pod out. Decaf in. Brew on espresso.
Creamer in the frother. Start.
Swap in a chicory pod. 10oz of bold flavor.
Yeti from the dishwasher. Cream, coffee, done.
Spring water in a glass. Cat fed.
And now I’m downstairs, writing this, wondering…
- Is it out of respect for his sleep… or is there something comforting in the ritual of moving unnoticed?
- Is it desire for peace, control, or maybe even to feel needed in the stillness?
- Why do small creatures always seem to keep us on schedule better than alarms?
- Does waking early give me a head start… or just a moment to exist without anyone else’s noise?
- And what am I really trying to let go of — each morning, sitting there in silence, waiting?
Yoli's Write To Sanity 