Borrow My Morning Routine

There's a part of my day that almost nobody sees.

Actually, that's not quite true.

Around thirty people see it every weekday morning.

Everyone else is usually still asleep.

People often ask me why I get up at five o'clock.

When I say 'ask' I actually mean 'accuse'.

At least, that's what it sounds like to me.

"But... why would you do that to yourself?"

I realise that voluntarily getting up before dawn can seem like an oddly specific form of self-punishment.

The funny thing is...

I love it.

Always have.

As a child.

Even as a teenager. (Yes, I know. Weird.)

I've always loved that feeling that the day is brand new. That anything could happen. That the world hasn't quite got going yet.

Very occasionally I'll wake up and think another hour in bed would be nice. And on the rare weekend I might even go back to sleep!

But honestly?

Most mornings I'm excited to get up.

It has nothing to do with discipline.

I'm not trying to optimise my life or become more productive.

I just love the early morning.

Over the years I've realised there's an entire world that exists at that time which most people never even know is there.

I remember travelling through Vietnam in my twenties.

At sunrise, while many tourists were still asleep, parks and street corners quietly filled with people practising tai chi.

Hundreds of them.

Maybe thousands.

No fanfare.

No audience.

Just people moving together as the city slowly woke around them.

If I'd stayed in bed, I'd never even have known that world existed.

How many moments like that have I experienced over the years simply because I happened to be awake?

The mist hanging over a lake.

A fox trotting down the middle of the road.

The first blackbird.

The distant sound of cowbells.

A sky that changes from indigo to gold in a matter of minutes.

There is so much I would have missed, without ever knowing I'd missed it.

My own morning routine is far from glamorous.

I get up, shower and get dressed.

Then I meditate.

In winter, I'm usually perched on the corner of the sofa with a blanket wrapped round my legs.

At the moment I'm outside in the garden.

The birds are already busy.

The sun has just started to warm the air.

I can feel it on my face.

It turns out those first few minutes of daylight are doing rather more than simply making me feel happy. They help to set our body clock, which affects everything from our energy during the day to how well we sleep that night.

Not a bad return for sitting quietly in the garden.

I drink my first coffee doing Wordle & Connections.

(No judging! I've been up and hour I'm allowed to touch my phone now.)

At 6:50 am I open Zoom.

The screen gradually fills with familiar faces.

Some have been practising with me for years now.

We chat.

We laugh.

We notice who's missing.

We celebrate birthdays, grandchildren, holidays and new jobs.

We've watched each other's lives unfold, one morning at a time.

It doesn't really feel like a class anymore.

It feels like a community.

Like a group of friends who've accidentally discovered the nicest way to begin the day.

Sometimes it feels like our own little shared secret.

For thirty minutes we wake up together.

We move.

We breathe.

We stretch out the stiffness of sleep.

Then everyone disappears into their own lives.

Work.

School runs.

Meetings.

Hospital appointments.

Walking the dog.

Looking after grandchildren.

Whatever the day has planned.

And then I roll out my own mat.

People sometimes assume that teaching yoga is my yoga practice.

It isn't.

Teaching fills me up in one way.

My own practice fills me up in another.

Sometimes it's ten minutes.

Sometimes it's an hour.

Sometimes I have something I want to explore.

Sometimes I simply listen to what my body asks for that morning.

No plan.

No audience.

Just me.

People often assume the magic is the yoga.

Or the meditation.

Or getting up early.

I don't actually think it is.

I think it's the space.

For one short while, nobody wants anything from me.

There are no emails.

No washing machine demanding attention.

No phone calls.

No scrolling.

No decisions.

Just birdsong.

Coffee.

A puzzle.

Movement.

Friends.

A little pocket of calm before the world starts pulling at my sleeve.

Repeated often enough, it's become one of the kindest things I do for myself.

This summer I'd like to try something a little different.

I'd like to lend that morning to you.

Not forever.

Just for six weeks.

I'm not trying to turn you into a morning person.

I know they're not for everyone.

But perhaps, just for a little while, you could borrow my routine.

We'll meet at 7am.

We'll move for thirty minutes.

You'll have recordings if you're away or if life gets in the way.

And then you'll get on with your day.

You might decide mornings really aren't your thing.

Or...

You might discover a part of the day you never knew existed.

A quieter world.

A gentler beginning.

A little shared secret.

And if that happens...

Well.

It might just change rather a lot.