Facets of a Morning Routine

The alarm cuts through the silence of my tiny apartment at 6:30 a.m., a grating buzz that pulls me from a dream I can’t quite remember. I slap the phone to snooze, but the weight of the day ahead—work, emails, the endless to-do list—nudges me out of bed. The floor is cold against my bare feet as I shuffle to the kitchen, where the coffee maker hums to life. The smell of brewing coffee is the only thing keeping me grounded in these early hours.

I live alone in a one-bedroom I rented sight-unseen when I moved to this city two years ago, chasing a job that promised more than it delivered. The walls are thin, and I can hear my neighbor’s dog scratching at their door, a sound as familiar as the creak of my own floorboards. I pour the coffee into a chipped mug—one of the few things I brought from my mom’s house—and sit by the window, watching the street below come to life. Delivery trucks rumble by, and early risers hurry to the bus stop, their breath visible in the chilly morning air.

My phone pings with a text from my sister: You okay? Miss you. I type back a quick I’m fine, miss you too, but I don’t send it right away. I stare at the words, feeling the ache of being 300 miles from home. It’s not just the distance—it’s the way life here feels like a treadmill, always moving but going nowhere. I hit send and sip my coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue.

The morning routine is mechanical: shower, brush my teeth, throw on jeans and a sweater that’s starting to pill at the elbows. I glance at the mirror, noting the shadows under my eyes. Work stress, late nights scrolling through my phone, and the nagging sense that I’m not where I’m supposed to be—they all leave their mark. I grab my bag, check that I’ve got my keys, and head out the door.

The subway is packed, as always. I squeeze in next to a guy in a suit who smells like too much cologne and a woman reading a dog-eared paperback. I plug in my earbuds and let music drown out the screech of the train. At the office, I’m greeted by a stack of reports and a passive-aggressive email from my boss about a missed deadline. I mutter an apology to no one and dive in, the hours blurring into a haze of spreadsheets and meetings.

Lunch is a soggy sandwich from the deli downstairs, eaten at my desk while I scroll through social media, envying lives that look shinier than mine. I linger on a photo of my high school friend’s new baby, feeling a pang of something I can’t name—maybe joy, maybe jealousy, maybe both. By 5 p.m., I’m drained, but there’s a yoga class I signed up for, so I drag myself to the studio. The instructor’s voice is calm, but my mind wanders to bills, groceries, and the date I canceled last week because I was too tired.

Back home, I heat up leftover takeout and call my mom. Her voice is warm, full of stories about the neighbors and her garden. I don’t tell her how lonely the city feels sometimes; I just listen and laugh at her jokes. After we hang up, I sit on my couch, the TV flickering with a show I’m not really watching. The apartment is quiet, but the weight of the day lingers. I tell myself tomorrow will be different, but I know it’s just another loop of the same routine.

Yet, in that quiet, there’s a small comfort. The coffee will brew again tomorrow. The subway will rumble. My sister will text, and my mom will call. It’s not the life I imagined, but it’s mine, stitched together by these small, stubborn rituals that keep me going.