Reclaiming My Mornings
Before the world arrives, I return to myself.
“Are you okay? You don’t seem yourself.”
A friend asked me that last week. Softly, but directly. And the thing is—she was right. I wasn’t.
I’d been feeling off-kilter for days. Tired, slow, unmotivated. The kind of fog that doesn’t scream for attention, but quietly blurs everything you care about. I’d blamed it on a headache at first, then a stiff neck. But the physical symptoms passed, and the dullness stayed.
I answered honestly:
“No, I’m not feeling great at the moment.”
That admission cracked something open. Not in a dramatic way—just a quiet self-check. How do I actually feel? Why am I feeling like this? What am I not seeing?
It didn’t take long to trace it back. The disruption was obvious.
My routines had been thrown off by a few things: a work trip to Athens, spending more time away from the boat, and a broken toilet that caused more headaches than I thought possible. I was waking up in unfamiliar places and not having time to do the things that centre me.
I’d kept up with journaling, but meditation, stretching, movement, regular sleep—and the quiet of the early hours—all slipped. I often joke with friends and family that I’m “delicate,” but in truth, I am sensitive to these things. The only difference now is that I know why.
Before, I’d just push through with a heavy heart and a clouded head. These days, I notice the drift—and more importantly, I know how to return.
The Sacred Hour
When I first stopped drinking back in 2020, reclaiming my mornings was one of the first things I worked on. What started as a productivity experiment—fuelled by articles on waking early—quickly became something deeper.
At first, it was about getting ahead with work: rising at 5am, squeezing every drop from the day. But what I discovered was quieter than hustle. I fell in love with the stillness. The calm of the house. The clarity of mind. The peace of being awake while the world slept.
Those early hours became sacred.
I happily traded late-night telly for early nights and 5am starts.
Not everyone understood it—or liked it. But I kept going.
These days, I rarely rise at five. My relationship with work has shifted dramatically, and with it, my need to push. But the mornings are still my favourite part of the day. They’re where I hear myself best.
The Rituals That Return Me
I start by making the bed. It feels good to begin the day with a job well done. I’m already winning. Then I pop the kettle on and let Woody out to sniff around and do his business. It’s often nice to stand in the morning air and breathe it in—especially on a crisp morning by the river.
Once the tea’s brewed, I settle down and read a little. The Daily Stoic is a staple, along with a few pages of whatever I’m currently exploring: a bit of philosophy, a poetic history of rivers, or something on better habits. It doesn’t really matter what it is; however, I save fiction for the evenings. I once read that your brain is more capable of learning in the morning, and I’ve always liked the idea that I’m expanding my mind while the world’s still asleep.
Next, I journal. This can take anywhere from five minutes to forty-five, depending on what’s going on in my head. These days, I use AI to journal—it’s more conversational, and it reflects things back to me in a way that deepens the process. It spots patterns. It asks thoughtful questions. It gently reveals where the tensions might be. Overall, it’s become a much more therapeutic and structured ritual.
This time on the sofa—tea in hand, Woody curled beside me—is the most peaceful part of my day. The world is still and quiet. I hear birds on the river, maybe the distant hum of a plane overhead. It’s soothing. A soft entry into the day.
When the tea’s gone, I get up and stretch for twenty minutes. I’ve cobbled together a routine over the years—bits of old-school physio, yoga moves I’ve picked up on travels. At 47, I’m no spring chicken, and I’ve learned I feel far fewer aches and pains when I stretch regularly. I usually finish with press-ups and squats to get the blood pumping and maintain a bit of strength.
Depending on time and mood, I might go for a run or do a kettlebell workout. I’d be happy if I managed this a few times a week, but the truth is it’s the part I’m best at avoiding. I know I feel better for it—but I’ve always resisted discomfort. It’s something I’m still working on.
Whether I run or not, my body has woken up by this point. Then I settle in and meditate using Sam Harris’s Waking Up app. Just the sound of Sam’s voice has become comforting over the years. I wouldn’t say I’m an expert, but I’ve been practising for over five years now. I can decouple from thought and stop identifying with it. Sometimes it’s just brief glimpses—but that is the practice: to continually catch yourself thinking, and watch the thoughts dissolve. When they do, what’s left is the open clarity of consciousness.
It’s a hard thing to describe. I used to roll my eyes when people talked about meditation or mindfulness. These days, I wish we were all taught it from a young age.
And that’s it.
Most mornings, I’ll take Woody for a walk or sit down to work—trying to get a solid few hours in before launching email and letting the world in.
Returning to Centre
Over the past five years, I’ve experimented with different techniques and running orders, but the core elements have stayed the same:
Open your mind. Recentre with yourself. Move your body.
That’s it.
The specifics won’t work for everyone, and they don’t need to. What matters is experimenting—finding what fits—and repeating it until it becomes familiar.
There are times when it all falls by the wayside, like it did these past few weeks. But I’ve learned not to punish myself for drifting. I don’t scrap the whole routine. I just set an alarm and begin again.
A good morning doesn’t solve everything.
But it recentres me.
It reminds me who I am, who I want to be—and how well I’m doing, even when I forget.