Morning Light

I have always been a morning person, long before motherhood, long before this season of life, back when mornings were claimed by horses and discipline and the kind of devotion that required waking at hours most people never see. For years, especially in the heat of summer, we worked horses at 3:00 in the morning, moving quietly through darkness so they would never have to labor under the weight of the sun, and I think those early hours stitched something permanent into me, a reverence for beginnings, for stillness, for the way the world feels before it fully wakes.

Now my mornings begin with my boys. Clover usually finds his way into my bed, his small body warm and familiar, while Murphy sleeps beside me, already curled close, and it’s Clover’s voice that pulls us into the day, soft but certain, asking, “Mama, is it up time?” There is no alarm, no rush, just that question, and the slow decision to begin.

Slippers, a robe or a cozy sweater, something soft against my skin, and I move toward the kitchen. I know I should reach for water first, and sometimes I do, but coffee is what calls to me most insistently, the ritual of it as important as the drink itself. I put something together for the boys, breakfast or, more often, a simple snack and we gather on the sofa while the house remains dim, the clock still early, the winter sun not yet ready to show itself.

Those first moments are slow and tender. We snuggle. We linger. We let the morning arrive in its own time. And then, gradually, the light begins to shift, first touching the trees, then stretching across the land, changing the shape of everything it reaches. The boys start to play, and I begin to move through the house, puttering gently, doing small chores here and there, waking the rooms one by one.

I always make the bed. I let it breathe first, air and light settling into the sheets, but I return to it with care, smoothing and straightening, setting an intention for the day ahead in that simple act. It feels important, like saying yes to order, yes to presence, yes to beginning well.

I am holding new intentions for my mornings this year. Last year was different, shaped by other rhythms and obligations, our days beginning later than I would have chosen, unfolding around schedules that were not entirely our own. This year, I want to rise earlier, to claim the morning again, to build new rituals and healthier routines, moving my body, going to the gym while the boys play nearby with a sitter, inviting new energy and new teachers into our days.

But no matter what shifts or changes, the light remains my favorite part. Watching it move steadily through the house, spill across the floors, catch on walls and windows, transform each room as it passes, and the moment the sun finally breaks through, it’s as if something inside me opens fully. My soul wakes. I am ready.

Morning light feels like permission.
A quiet promise.
A beginning I trust.