I Tried to Be a Morning Person and Accidentally Became a Philosopher Instead
Let me preface this by saying I am not a morning person. My relationship with mornings is best described as “civil but distant.” I acknowledge their existence, but I don’t want to engage. But recently, I decided to turn over a new leaf — or at least take a half-assed glance at one — and attempt to become a morning person.
TL;DR: It didn’t go as planned.
The Grand Plan
My strategy was simple, I thought: wake up at 6 a.m. when my partner normally gets up, do something active to wake up my brain (maybe couple’s yoga? Definitely not jogging), and spend my newfound hours transforming into an unstoppable beacon of productivity.
It started fine, by which I mean the alarm went off, he got up, and I stared at the ceiling for a solid 20 minutes contemplating the decisions that led me here while the snooze went off 4 additional times. Why am I doing this? I thought, pulling myself out of bed physically but not emotionally.
So Now What?
Once up, I realized I had no idea what morning people actually do. Was I supposed to stretch? Stare at the horizon with purpose? Light a candle and manifest something? The only guide I had was the sound of my cats meowing at me to feed them and my partner with his solid morning routine, and they ALL seemed skeptical of my sudden early-bird ambitions.
Without caffeine as a crutch (I’m intolerant to coffee, womp womp), I turned to my fridge for inspiration. There, while sipping juice that felt offensively cold at such an hour, I had my first philosophical breakthrough: mornings are a rehearsal for the rest of your day, which is a rehearsal for the rest of your life. Woah.
Productivity vs. Overthinking
Fueled by cranberry juice and boredom, I decided to tackle my to-do list. That’s when I discovered an unexpected side effect of early mornings: overthinking.
It started innocently enough. I stared at my Macbook screen and thought, What should I do first? Then: But why am I doing this at all? Then: What’s the point of doing anything? What’s the point of being anything? Before I knew it, I was standing in my living room, cradling a Squishmallow, whispering “Am I holding the Squish, or is the Squish holding me?”
It’s Too Early For This
Breakfast was no better. As I absentmindedly spread almond butter onto my gluten free bagel, I found myself pondering the nature of time. If my bagel is eaten at 6:30 a.m., does it taste better than if eaten at 10:30 a.m.? I concluded that it doesn’t, but the experience is seasoned with the smug satisfaction of eating it early.
But then came the deeper question: Why do we measure success by how early we rise? The classic “early bird gets the worm” saying started to feel less motivational and more stupid. I don’t want a worm. I want five more hours of sleep.
An Epiphany (Sort Of)
By the third day of my experiment, I realized mornings didn’t magically make me more productive — they just gave me more time to fill with existential spirals. But here’s the surprising part: I kind of liked it. There was something oddly comforting about starting my day with thoughts bigger than my to-do list.
Mornings have become less about doing and more about being. I didn’t always conquer my tasks, but I did conquer my skepticism about waking up early and got to spend an extra couple hours with my partner before he left for school.
Morning Person-ish
So, did I become a morning person? Not really. Most days, I still roll out of bed with the grace of a bowling ball. But occasionally — just occasionally — I’ll get up early and embrace the quiet stillness of a new day, even if it means accidentally pondering the meaning of existence while trying to keep a muffin out of the paws of my tuxedo cat.
Because mornings don’t have to be perfect. Sometimes they’re just about surviving to another day, even if all you do is sit in the quiet (or chaos), overthink toast, and wonder what the worm symbolizes.
