I've Stopped Treating Mornings Like Enemy Territory

Like a lot of highly introverted or neurodivergent people, I considered myself a night person for most of my life. And no, I don't simply mean a person who happened to stay up late.

I mean a night person. Very important distinction there.

I loved nighttime because doing so felt Creative™. It felt interesting and very much like the natural habitat of writers, artists, movie lovers, deep thinkers, and even just people who occasionally find themselves researching medieval plague doctors at two in the morning for reasons that make perfect sense at the time.

But mornings? Those had a serious image problem.

I associated mornings with awful things like alarm clocks, meetings, and disgustingly cheerful people who somehow manage to discuss goals before they'd even finished their coffee. And really, I still have my issues with those things, but that's an entirely different conversation.

Rain still sounds better after dark, and a quiet house at eleven o'clock carries a kind of magic that three o'clock in the afternoon could never quite replicate. But I've also apparently grown up at some point along the way and stopped treating nighttime like the only part of the day worth romanticizing as a result.

Mornings Have Better Publicists These Days

Nobody handed me a copy of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Dawn Enthusiasts or anything. I just finally realized that there are actually very good practical reasons why people actually get moving by a reasonable hour in the morning and prepare to hit the sack before it gets too late at night.

I also noticed how the garden looked before the day fully woke up, and I caught myself enjoying the cool morning air coming through the open window. (It felt different than it did at night.) And one day, I realized I genuinely look forward to having coffee at my kitchen table while the neighborhood slowly assembled itself.

Birds deserve special mention here, as well.

Every morning, they conduct what appears to be a series of urgent municipal meetings. Somebody always sounds outraged, while somebody else seems positively determined to interrupt. My favorite scrub jay can't wait to beat the finches to the feeder, so he can hog all the dried mealworms to himself.

And sunrise light behaves differently from afternoon light. The air feels different, as does the world. Everything exists in a wonderful state of possibility because almost nothing has actually happened yet.

In other words, I spent years assuming the only interesting parts of the day arrive later. But as it turns out, days almost always start with a pretty strong opening act.

An Unexpected Defense of Normal People

This realization also led me toward a conclusion I resisted for an embarrassingly long time. A lot of ordinary routines become ordinary in the first place because they work. (I know. I'm just as shocked as you are to hear that statement coming out of my mouth.)

For decades, I viewed conventional schedules the way a conspiracy theorist views government documents. Surely there had to be something else going on beneath the surface, because millions of people couldn't possibly all be independently settling into the same general pattern for practical reasons.

Then I experienced the evidence for myself, as I've done with so many things I've changed my mind about over the years.

Starting work earlier just feels good. So does finishing work before dinner instead of going right back to my desk and trying to concentrate on a full stomach. Having the evening fully available for movies, books, conversations, or simply sitting around doing absolutely nothing in particular also feels good (and correct from a creative standpoint).

Human beings have spent thousands of years refining their go-to daily rhythms. And every once in a while, they accidentally get something right.

Turns Out Rebellion Has a Shelf Life

For years, I assumed I disliked mornings because they were too bright and way too people-y. But looking back, I know I actually disliked being told I should like mornings.

A similar thing happened with so-called "granny hobbies" like gardening. As a child, gardening seemed like something adults did while also discussing mind-numbing topics like mulch and property lines.

Now I the highlight of my day is often the spare moments I spend wandering outside to inspect my tomato plants and daydream about summer BLTs. (I also have very strong opinions about rosemary.)

Time eventually gave me enough distance to decide what I actually enjoyed, and my relationship with mornings apparently followed a similar path. Once I separated the experience itself from all the shitty social expectations attached to it, I discovered something pleasant waiting there, as one so often does.

More Hours Worth Living

When I was younger, I still felt like I had infinite stretches of time ahead of me, so large portions of the day felt like territory I simply tolerated on my way to somewhere better.

But these days, I can find something worth enjoying almost anywhere. (Now that I'm on my Death Tour, I feel like I kind of have to.) That said:

• Morning offers cool air and wide-open possibilities.
• Afternoon provides momentum and energy.
• Dusk remains one of the most beautiful transitions on Earth.
• Night still carries mystery, comfort, and atmosphere.

In a way, I feel like I've unlocked an entirely new section of the world to enjoy. Life just feels richer when more of it becomes available.

And none of this has anything whatsoever to do with productivity.

You still won't find me waking up at five in the morning to optimize my personal brand before sunrise, and you probably never will. The internet already contains plenty of people eager to explain how they transformed their lives through strategic hydration and relentless discipline.

And I wish them well.

But I'll be over here drinking coffee in the garden while simply appreciating the fact that daylight has finally joined the guest list.

Moonlight Still Has Visiting Rights

Nighttime remains my favorite time of day.

I love lamp light, rainy evenings, and old movies after dark. And a quiet house at the end of the day still feels like a priceless gift, especially with there being so much to love about our rehabilitated home these days.

But mornings have officially earned citizenship in the same country.

The younger version of me would probably look at my current routine and immediately snort. Then, she'd accuse me of becoming practical, suggest I had crossed over to the other side, and mutter something about turning into a narc before asking me to explain my now-rabid enthusiasm for birds and tomatoes.

And I wouldn't even argue with her. I would invite her outside for a morning coffee first thing, though. The air would still feel cool, and the garden would be waking up. Some bird would almost certainly be yelling about something.

After a few minutes, she might even get it.

Because nobody actually replaced that diehard night person she used to be. They just gave her some bonus territory to roam around in when she feels like a change of scenery.