Nobody Sees the Quiet Things
Let me tell you about my Saturday morning.
I woke up at 6am. Made coffee. Wrote in my journal. Did the stepper (just because its raining and i can not go for a walk). Then I went to visit my dad. Nobody saw any of that. Nobody clapped. Nobody gave me a medal for being upright and functional before 7am on a weekend. The cats watched me with the level of enthusiasm they reserve for things that are not breakfast, which is to say none at all. And yet. Here I am.
I read Robin Sharma's 5am Club a while back. The idea that the morning belongs to you before the world takes it. That the quiet hours before everyone else wakes up are yours to build something, think something, become something.
I believed it immediately.
What I did not tell you is what my mornings looked like before that.
For about six months I was waking up at 3pm. Hungover. Not the fun kind of hungover where you laugh about the night before. The kind where you lie there calculating whether you have enough energy to reach the glass of water on the nightstand. The kind where the afternoon light coming through the curtains feels personally offensive.
That was also me. The same person writing this now.
The distance between 3pm hungover and 6am walking before the world wakes up is not a motivational poster. It is not a five step plan. It is not a glow up.
It is a hundred quiet decisions that nobody saw.
The night you choose water instead of wine. The morning you set the alarm even though you know you will want to throw it across the room. The day you buy a journal and feel ridiculous writing in it and do it anyway. The stepper in the corner of the room that you ignore for two weeks and then finally get on.
None of it is dramatic. None of it makes a good story in the moment. It only makes a story later, when you look back and realise the quiet things were actually everything.
I visit my dad on Saturday mornings now.
He died a few years ago and I still have not fully figured out how to exist in a world where he is not in it. But I show up. Every Saturday. Because showing up is the only language I have left for how much I loved him.
He used to call me every single day. "Haloooooo! I welcome you!" Every day without fail.
I think about that a lot on my morning walks. About what it means to show up consistently for someone. About how the quiet, unremarkable daily things are actually the whole point.
He taught me that without ever trying to teach me anything.
So if you are reading this at whatever time you woke up today, whether that is 6am or 3pm or somewhere in between, here is what I want you to know.
The quiet things count. The routine nobody sees counts. The fact that you are still here, still trying, still making coffee and putting one foot in front of the other counts more than you know.
You see it. Even when nobody else does.
And that is enough.
rise · believe · fly 🪶
From the Ashes She is for the woman in the middle of it. Not after. If this found you today, you are exactly where you are supposed to be.
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