A Moment Before the Rush
There’s something gently powerful about the early morning hours—those quiet minutes before the world fully wakes up. The birds are the first to speak, rustling leaves whisper in the breeze, and if you’re lucky, you might even hear the hum of a distant kettle boiling in a neighbor’s kitchen.
One more subtitle
For years, I was a night owl, convinced that creativity only struck after midnight. But a single trip to a remote countryside cottage changed everything. There, without the distractions of screens and city noise, I discovered the subtle joy of dawn. The light was soft, not yet filtered by the harshness of the day. The air tasted fresher, as if it too was just born.
My first morning there, I stepped outside with a blanket around my shoulders and a mug of strong coffee warming my hands. The fog clung to the fields like a dream that hadn’t lifted. No alarms, no inboxes, no rush. Just time. And space. And breath.
Now, back in the rhythm of everyday life, I try to reclaim a piece of that magic. I rise earlier, even if it’s just by half an hour. I leave my phone untouched. I open a window. I watch. I listen. Some days I journal, others I water the plants or stretch in silence. It’s not about productivity. It’s about presence.
Mornings have become my quiet rebellion in a world that races toward everything. They remind me to pause and notice—to drink in the moment before it disappears.
