Soft Mornings & Becoming New

Lately, I’ve been building a life that starts slow. Not because I have the luxury of endless time, but because I finally realized I deserve to meet myself gently in the morning.

There was a time I rushed into every day like I was behind before I even opened my eyes. But now? I let myself start soft.

Most weekday mornings, I wake up at 7 a.m. and take my Adderall—not a second earlier because, let’s be honest, 6 a.m. can absolutely go to hell. Then I crawl back into bed and cuddle with my cat, Star, who might be the best thing to ever happen to me. She’s adorable, warm, and totally unbothered by the world’s chaos. We stay there in that quiet space while my meds kick in. It gives me a moment of stillness. Early enough to get moving when I need to, but slow enough that I feel like I’m living with myself, not racing ahead of her.

Once I’m up, I brush and floss. Oil pull, because receding gums are real and Martha Stewart says it’s worth it. Then I throw on a face mask—almost every morning now. It sounds indulgent, but it’s not. It’s a declaration: "Hey, I care about me today."

While the mask does its thing, I stretch. Nothing wild, just soft movement, enough to feel my body again. Enough to say: I’m still here. And I deserve to feel good in this body, in this moment, before the noise of the day begins.

Everything changed after I got diagnosed with ADHD last year. Suddenly, my entire brain made more sense. All the systems I had set up over the years started to click into place—not as failures or weird quirks, but as coping tools. And since then, I’ve been slowly optimizing my life around what works for me.

The biggest shift wasn’t productivity. It was permission.

Permission to be soft. To go slow. To choose peace over pressure.

My mornings now reflect the person I’m becoming. Someone who doesn’t need chaos to feel alive. Someone who doesn’t wake up already apologizing to the world. I used to think I needed the noise. The momentum. The party. But the truth? I just didn’t know how to stop. I didn’t know who I was without it.

But I’m learning.

I’m leaving behind that version of myself who thought the party never ended. Who wrecked herself trying to be the glue that held everything together. Who confused being needed with being loved. I partied all over the world. I made the memories. I danced the nights away. And I don’t regret that.

But now, I’m letting myself become something else.

More sober. More intentional. Still fun, but no longer spinning. I can still picture the day I’ll drink ten Guinnesses in Ireland—because yes, that sounds magical. But it won’t be about escaping. It’ll be about celebrating.

Being kind to myself in the morning shapes how I move through everything else. It makes me a little gentler with the people I love. A little more grounded when work gets chaotic. A little more available to joy. It doesn’t fix everything, but it shifts the foundation.

And some of it’s invisible. Like my incense burner. Most people probably think it’s just there for the vibes. But to me, it’s sacred. It’s where I send my thoughts to the people I’ve lost. It’s where I say thank you. It’s how I remember that I’ve been deeply loved in this life, and that love still lives inside me.

If you’re in a heavy season, and mornings feel impossible, here’s what I would say: slow down. Take it all the way down. Don’t rush to feel better. Don’t push to "fix" it. Wake up, take your time, and just breathe.

Put your hand on your heart and remind yourself over and over again that you are beautiful. That you are enough. Even if everything else feels like it’s falling apart. Especially then.

Soft mornings won’t save the world. But they might just save you. And that’s more than enough to start with.