The First Morning

I wake up before the sun most days. Not because I have to, but because I like to start before the world makes noise. For me, silence is not empty — it’s medicine. At 53, I have learned that the quiet is where the real answers live.

For many years, I didn’t know that. I lived in a kind of constant reaction. Moving houses, changing schools, changing towns, changing jobs, changing everything. I’ve had more jobs than candles on my birthday cake, and I’ve lived in more houses than I can count without a cup of tea and a notepad.

People think that means instability.
For me, it means aliveness.

I love change. I love challenge. I love the way life shifts under my feet and asks me, gently or sometimes very loudly:

“Are you awake yet?”

Some mornings, I wasn’t.
Some years, I wasn’t.

There were long seasons when I numbed everything with alcohol. And I was very good at it — the disappearing, the pretending. When you manage a pub, there are no questions asked about the glass in your hand. Everyone is too busy numbing their own shit.

But one quiet night, I realised that the thing I poured into my glass was the same thing that was pouring life out of me. Some people can drink. Some people can’t. I am one of the latter. So I stopped. It has been over three years now.

Sobriety gave me my sunrise back.

In that same silence, I also met the griefs that were waiting patiently for me.
I lost my father to colon cancer.
I lost a half-brother I didn’t meet until adulthood to suicide.
I lost friendships I never really had time to grow.
I lost pieces of myself in a marriage that became more about survival than love.

But I gained something too — a sense that life is still kind. Even when it breaks you open.

My husband struggled with depression. Some people judge that word too harshly. I don’t. He didn’t choose his wiring any more than I chose mine. We raised two beautiful, free-spirited children, and we did the best we could with what we had.

I don’t carry hate.
Not even for what hurt me.

My greatest peace has come from accepting that life is not tidy. We want straight lines — but life is made of curves. It bends us, sometimes breaks us, always teaches us.

And through it all, I have found tiny treasures:

☀️ A slow sunrise.
🪷 A hot bath.
🌿 A massage on a Tuesday afternoon, just because.
🙌 The freedom to not have an opinion about everything.
🙏 The permission to simply live my best life.

I am not covid vaccinated. My views are often not mainstream. And I do not need them to be. I am not here to convert anyone. I am here to explore. To learn. To stay open. To follow peace.

I am a Pisces, in the messy, emotional, intuitive way — though labels never quite fit.

My daughter is my closest companion. My son is a gentle spirit, walking his own road. And sometimes, when I’m making tea in the early hours, with the house still dark and the air full of possibility, I realise:

My life has been lonely, but never empty.

I have been restless, but never lost.

I am still here — curious, sober, soft, wiser, hopeful.

And today is just another beautiful beginning.