Me, My Life & Why Part 9

Part 9

I used to have a morning routine.

It was aspirational. Delusional. Held together entirely by guilt and dry shampoo.

Wake up at 7am.

Hydrate. Meditate. Affirm.

Stretch. Journal. Breathe. Become someone worthy of a high-functioning LinkedIn bio.

In theory.

In practice?

Wake up at 8:12.

Lie still, rethinking my entire life.

Scroll TikTok until I forget how light works.

Panic-shower. Cry-toast. Run out the door with one shoe half-on and a half-written email still open in my brain.

But I believed in the power of routine.

I read the books. Watched the reels. Bought the pastel highlighters.

Even tried the one where you write “I AM PRODUCTIVE” twenty times in a row like you’re trying to manifest your way out of executive dysfunction.

Reader: I was not productive. I was just annoyed and out of ink.

Then one day I stopped.

Not intentionally. I just… didn’t do the thing.

Didn’t wake up “on time.”

Didn’t journal.

Didn’t apologise to the day for not showing up like a corporate version of a Buddhist monk.

And nothing bad happened.

The sun still rose.

My toast still crisped.

The world, shockingly, did not crumble without my alarm clock performance.

So I kept going.

Woke up when my body was ready.

Ate when I felt like it.

Worked when I felt sparky , not when the clock told me to.

It was weird.

Unmoored.

Peaceful.

I wasn’t spiralling.

I was floating.

Not in a useless way.

In a “finally letting my nervous system take the wheel for once” way.

Routine, it turns out, was never mine.

It was a costume. A schedule-shaped mask I wore so people wouldn’t worry about me.

Look! I wake up early and do yoga! I must be fine.

Meanwhile, my soul was Googling “how to disappear respectfully.”

Now? No routine.

I sleep when I’m tired.

Sometimes that’s midnight. Sometimes it’s 4am after hyperfocusing on reorganising the snack cupboard and finding three open jars of peanut butter.

I eat when I’m hungry.

Sometimes it’s porridge. Sometimes it’s toast with butter and guilt. Mostly, it’s toast.

I move when I feel the need and not in a “daily step goal” way. More in a “danced aggressively to a sad pop song while waiting for the kettle” way.

It’s messy.

Imperfect.

Real.

I don’t do “Morning Routines” anymore.

I do vibes.

I do intuition.

I do “what does future me need today?” and then I try to meet her halfway with snacks.

Am I achieving less?

Maybe.

Am I smiling more for no reason and yelling less at my reflection when I forget to reply to an email?

Yes.

So I’m not anti-routine.

I’m anti-routine-as-worth.

Anti “your value depends on how many boxes you tick before 9am.”

Anti weaponised schedules that turn your entire existence into a self-optimisation spreadsheet.

Now, I start my day however it starts.

No apology.

No checklist.

Just me, and whatever version of myself crawled out of bed with the emotional range of a raccoon and the ambition of a house plant.

Because sometimes, the most productive thing you can do is nothing.

Or toast.

Or cry a bit, then laugh at the crying.

Whatever it is, it’s enough.