Mornings and Me: A Love-Hate Story in Progress

They say, “The early bird catches the worm.” I say, “But I’m not into worms, I’m into warm blankets!” Yet here I am, standing at the edge of change, squinting at the sunrise like it’s a long-lost enemy I’m finally learning to befriend.

All my life, mornings have been mythical creatures—spoken of with admiration but never actually seen. Alarm clocks have been my nemesis, and snooze buttons, my enablers. My body clock believes it’s set to some European jazz time zone—smooth, unpredictable, and definitely not aligned with 5 a.m. India.

But change, they say, starts with one step. So I took mine—placed my alarm across the room. The next morning, as I zombie-walked to shut it, my brain whispered, “We could go back to sleep…” My soul responded, “Let’s sip chai with the sparrows instead.”

And so began my tryst with dawn. It’s oddly poetic—like the world’s whispering secrets before the noise begins. There’s a stillness, a silence, a serenity that’s sweeter than sleep. I watch people jog like they’re auditioning for a health ad, birds chirp like they’re judging me, and the sun rise with more confidence than I’ve ever had at 7 a.m.

“Waking up early is the art of meeting yourself before the world does.” I read that somewhere—or maybe I dreamt it during one of my half-awake mornings.

I still fall off the wagon (and the bed), but every day I rise early feels like I’ve won a tiny silent battle.

Thought to ponder:
“If the sun can rise every day without hitting snooze, maybe, just maybe… so can I.”

Now excuse me while I set an alarm—again—for my dreams and my day.