A couple of days ago, I started reading Joan Didion’s 1968 collection of essays Slouching Towards Bethlehem. Now my mornings have a rhythm: wake up, go downstairs, make a pot of coffee, journal a few pages, bundle up to walk Uno, then read a chapter before sitting in front of my computer for too many hours of screen time.
What I love most is how pristine her prose is—like if she were still alive, she could be sitting at the table with me, sharing these stories as if we were just two friends hanging out. My second favorite thing is how completely she transports me to the ’60s. There’s a story about an unhappily married woman who killed her husband because she wanted to leave him. Sure, that happens today too, but Didion makes you feel what it would actually be like to live as that housewife—married too young, trapped, plotting. Her writing doesn’t just tell you; it brings you into the scene.
Right now, I’m reading the essay the book is named after—about her time on Haight-Ashbury, the hippies, the cost of LSD vs mushrooms vs uppers, all of it. But mainly it’s the conversations that get me. They take me somewhere else entirely before I have to cross the line that divides morning from day—before I open my laptop to job applications, Vanilla Thought planning, grad school essays, and whatever else grabs my attention.
I used to have a haphazard morning routine, but it became something sacred after I resigned from my previous role last spring. Before that, my boundaries were pretty much nonexistent. Like most people, I’d wake up to Slack messages and emails, immediately cycling through projects and to-dos that I needed to finish before EOD. It was less of a morning routine and more of a mourning routine.
I’ve learned my nervous system needs space in the morning more than any other time of day. I’ve realized that if I can carve out those first couple of hours for myself, the rest of the day can pretty much have me at its own will. I like seeing the moon, and lately Jupiter, when I start to open my blinds. I like watching the navy blue sky shift colors every time I glance out the window. I’m still in my pajamas, and the house is warm and cozy. I like the quiet. I like telling Uno how cute and perfect he is. I like taking time making coffee, choosing a special mug that brings me back to the moment I got it, savoring the first sip. By the time I’m done, I’m calmer, more grounded. I feel like I’ve done something for myself—because I actually have.
I know a leisurely morning routine is a luxury. Most of my friends and family have kids or babies, set schedules they can’t negotiate with. This time has been a total gift, and sometimes I wonder what my mornings will look like if/when I have a set schedule again. Will I go back to those heavy, half-open eyelids straining to read Slack messages in bed? Or will I protect my mornings and wake up earlier just to make sure nobody intercepts them?
I don’t know yet. But tomorrow morning, there’s coffee and another chapter of Didion, and I’m really grateful for that.
