Most of My Mornings Are Slow

It always makes me wonder how many things go unsaid in a single day — not just between people, but between us and the world.

Most of my mornings are slow. Not the curated kind of slow that ends up on someone’s Pinterest board — more like the kind where the dog noses my hand until I finally get out of bed, the coffee is a little too strong, and the light through the kitchen window feels like a small mercy. I scribble in a notebook while the kettle boils. Half-thoughts, phrases, things I dreamed but don’t quite remember.

I don’t follow a strict routine, but I do protect a kind of rhythm — quiet before noon, some kind of movement in the afternoon (usually a walk through the woods or along the lake), and writing whenever the words feel close enough to catch.

Some days the inspiration comes from a stranger’s face in a café — the way they stare too long at the same sentence in a book. Other days, it’s a line from an old poem I’ve underlined too many times to count. And sometimes, it’s just the ache I carry around — the kind that reminds me that stories can heal the things we didn’t know were still broken.

I write because I need to.

But more than that, I write because it helps me see. Not just the world as it is, but the world as it could be if we were a little braver, a little softer, a little more willing to listen.

By evening, I usually end up back at my desk. The dog asleep beside me. Music low. A candle burning down. And me, chasing the words again — not to escape life, but to feel it more fully.