How I Trained Myself to Love the Quiet Before Sunrise

There was a time in my life when mornings felt like an ambush. The alarm would shriek into the darkness, and I’d hit snooze again and again, hoping to silence not just the sound but the day itself. I used to think early mornings were for overachievers and rigid routines — things that didn’t feel like me.

But that was before life whispered something different. It didn’t happen all at once. It began slowly, quietly, like the very hours I would come to love.

The Noise That Never Stopped

In my early twenties, I lived in a city that never slept — and neither did I. The noise was constant. Cars honking. Notifications pinging. Thoughts racing. I didn’t realize how addicted I had become to the chaos. It filled every corner of my mind, and I convinced myself that this was productivity — staying busy, moving fast, never stopping.

But when the noise became my normal, I stopped hearing myself. I didn’t know what I wanted. I was exhausted but couldn’t rest. I was surrounded by people but felt alone. Something was off, but I didn’t know what.

It wasn’t until a particularly rough night — after scrolling aimlessly for hours and crying over things I couldn’t name — that I found myself awake at 5:00 a.m., sitting by my window, staring into the fading night.

The world outside was still. The sky was just beginning to shift from deep navy to soft lavender. No horns. No pings. Just silence. And for the first time in a long time, I felt something like peace.

Choosing the Quiet

I didn’t suddenly become a morning person after that night. But I remembered how that moment felt — and I wanted more of it. So, the next week, I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m.

It was painful. I’m not going to lie. My body resisted. My brain told me I was being ridiculous. But I got up anyway. I made tea, wrapped myself in a blanket, and just sat. No phone. No to-do list. Just me and the quiet.

At first, it felt awkward. Unproductive. Like I was wasting time. But over the weeks, that feeling changed. The silence began to feel like a gift — a space I could step into before the world demanded anything from me.

In those quiet mornings, I started journaling. Not long, polished entries — just a few lines about how I felt, what I dreamt about, what I hoped for the day ahead. I watched the sky change colors. I listened to birds I never knew lived outside my window. I began to notice how different the air smelled before sunrise.

I started hearing myself again.

What the Quiet Taught Me

The quiet before sunrise became a kind of mirror. In that stillness, I met myself without the layers — no makeup, no filters, no pressure to perform.

I learned that I had been afraid of silence because I was afraid of what it might reveal. But once I made space for it, I discovered how much I had been missing.

I realized how much of my life had been reaction — to emails, texts, tasks, other people’s expectations. But the quiet gave me room to respond instead of react. To choose instead of chase.

I found creativity in those hours. Inspiration. Direction. I found myself writing more, dreaming more clearly, and making decisions from a place of calm instead of panic.

I also began sleeping better — not because I was waking up earlier, but because I was going to bed with less noise in my mind.

A Morning Ritual, A Lifelong Gift

Now, the quiet before sunrise is sacred to me. It’s when I stretch, breathe, reflect. Sometimes I just sit with a cup of coffee and let the silence hold me. Other times I write, or pray, or simply watch the sun climb into the sky.

I don’t always feel motivated. Some mornings I still want to roll over and forget the world. But I remind myself of what that quiet gives me — a head start on peace, a foundation of presence, and a moment of truth before the day begins.

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Moral of the Story:

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is nothing at all. In a world that praises hustle and noise, choosing stillness is an act of courage. The quiet before sunrise isn't empty — it's full of answers you can’t hear in the chaos. Make time to meet yourself there.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi