Me vs. Mornings

If mornings were a person, they would be that one friend who always shows up uninvited, too early, too loud, and way too enthusiastic for someone who hasn’t had coffee yet.

Every night, before bed, I make the same promise:
“Tomorrow, I will wake up early. I will be productive. I will live my best life.”

And every morning, my body responds with the same energy:
“Absolutely not.”

The war begins the moment my alarm rings. My alarm tone is supposed to be “gentle sunrise,” but when it goes off at 7 a.m., it sounds more like “haunted flute played by a ghost with bad intentions.”

I hit snooze.

I always hit snooze.

Snooze is my toxic soulmate.

By the time I finally peel myself out of bed, I’ve already lived through 17 internal arguments, 4 identity crises, and one dramatic speech about why waking up before noon should be illegal.

You know how morning people wake up smiling?
I wake up looking like I lost a fight with my pillow — and the pillow definitely won.

I stumble to the bathroom, turn on the light, and immediately regret it. The mirror shows me a person who looks like they’ve been dragged through five centuries of disappointment and one group chat argument. My hair somehow forms a shape that can only be described as “emotional turbulence.”

Then comes the most dangerous mission of the entire morning:
Walking to the kitchen.

Every object becomes a weapon.
The corner of the bed? Toe assassin.
The chair? Ambush expert.
The floor? Slippery traitor.

When I finally reach the kitchen, I open the fridge hoping for a breakfast that looks like those healthy Instagram influencers eat — you know, the people who wake up at 4 a.m. by choice and run 10 miles “for fun.”

Instead, I’m greeted by half a tomato, a yogurt that expired during the Jurassic period, and a leftover slice of pizza that may or may not still be alive.

So, naturally, I choose coffee.

Except making coffee in the morning is like performing surgery while half-conscious. There are steps. Buttons. The possibility of messing up and ending up with warm brown water instead of caffeine.

I once put the coffee pod in upside down.
The machine made a noise like it was filing a complaint.

But nothing compares to the moment the caffeine finally hits.

I go from “zombie recently resurrected”
to
“human, but reluctantly.”

Even then, my brain is still buffering. I’ll try to have a normal conversation and say things like:

“Where is the… thing… that does the thing?”

“Yes, I am fine, just loading.”

“My brain is still under construction.”


Sometimes I try to be healthy and go on a morning walk. But walking in the morning is just advanced level standing. I once waved at a neighbor but because my brain wasn’t fully awake, it looked more like I was trying to swat an imaginary bee.

The neighbor now avoids me.

Then there’s work.

Mornings and work do not mix. Every job I’ve ever had wanted me to be awake, focused, and functional before 9 a.m. — as if that’s a normal thing for a person whose spirit doesn’t enter their body until noon.

Zoom meetings are the worst.
I keep my camera off not because I’m shy — but because my face takes 5 hours to download.

My coworkers sound so alert, so cheerful, so alive.
Meanwhile, I’m trying not to yawn so widely that I accidentally summon a demon.

Despite all of this, every once in a while, I meet a morning person. Someone who says things like:

“I love waking up early! It’s peaceful.”

Peaceful?
At 6 a.m.?
At that ungodly hour, the world is not peaceful. The world is suspicious.

Morning people are built differently. They wake up before the sun, drink water, stretch, read books, cook breakfast, and start checking things off their to-do list before I even open my eyes.

Meanwhile, my biggest morning accomplishment is not tripping over my own foot. Again.

But here’s the truth I never admit:
Every once in a while — maybe once a month, maybe once a decade — I accidentally wake up early and see the sunrise.

And it’s beautiful.
Quiet.
Soft.
Almost magical.

For a brief moment, I think:
“I could do this every day.”

And then the next morning, I wake up at 11:43 a.m. with my phone under my face and a notification that says:
“You missed your 7 alarms.”

Mornings and I have a toxic relationship.
They show up too early.
I show up too late.
We disappoint each other daily.

But at least we’re consistent.

And honestly?
That’s the closest thing to a healthy relationship I’ve ever had.