Find Your Hour

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world.”

E. B. White

There's a bike path near our house that winds through a park, along a pond and a creek, surrounded by trees. In the early morning, the path is empty, the dew still glistening on the grass. There are a couple of small wooden bridges that make just enough sound as my tires roll over them—a brief disruption to the quietness before everything goes smooth and silent again.

I remember the first time I just kept riding. Thirteen miles without thinking about turning back. The sun was peeking over the horizon, casting everything in that golden light that only exists for a few minutes each day. The world felt like it was standing still while I was in motion. And in that moment, everything made sense.

Not in a way I could explain or write down. Just clarity. Everything and nothing at the same time.

The everything is how important those moments can feel—bigger than the small tasks that surround me, the ones that sometimes seem massive. It puts life in perspective. The nothing is the fact that sometimes it takes nothing happening, that morning stillness, for me to see how big the world actually is.

I'm a sucker for sunrises. Everything just seems to make sense when I see them. And I can see them most clearly, sometimes the only time I can see them clearly, during those magical morning hours.

I didn't always wake up this early for myself. It started as necessity. I used to leave the house by 6:30 a.m. to get to work and beat rush hour traffic, which meant waking around 5. Getting to the office early gave me time to catch up on emails, do focused work with no distractions, get things done before meetings started piling up.

When hybrid work started, I just kept waking up at 5. But instead of immediately diving into work, I used the time for me. It started with meditation. Catching a sunrise. Or just enjoying a cup of tea while looking out the window.

Then I started working out. That was hard at first—making it a habit, pushing myself when I'd rather stay in bed. But over time, something shifted. My body started craving it. It became a needed part of feeling like I'd achieved something before most people were even awake.

There's something rational about it too. Working out clears my head for the day ahead. Gets the dopamine and endorphins going. And catching that sunrise? Vitamin D straight from the source. It's not just emotional, it's biological. My body and mind both need it.

Last Tuesday, I woke up at 5 a.m. Took my time drinking a protein shake, taking my multivitamins, putting on my knee brace and workout clothes. Went to the gym. Came home and iced my knee while listening to music and playing fetch and tug with Max and Domino. Took a shower. And when I walked into the living room, you were there, Lyla, greeting me with that big hug, just like the dogs had greeted me with all their excitement.

I was able to do so many things that I would have never made or had time for later in the evening.

Here's what I've learned: without that morning hour, I feel like I'm running to catch up with the day. Like I'm playing a game from behind. And typically, I never catch up. There's just a feeling that I can't get everything I want to get done, so everything feels rushed. Nothing feels like enough.

But when I start the day having already done something for myself—worked out, caught a sunrise, listened to music, just thought or wrote—I feel like I'm starting from ahead. I've already taken care of me. Now I can take care of us.

It took me a long time to understand why that matters so much.

There are so many hats you have to wear as you go deeper into adulthood, Lyla. Parent, partner, employee, friend, sibling. The hat that usually gets deprioritized or completely eliminated? "Me." The person you are when no one else is watching or needing something.

And honestly, I'm happy—truly happy—to deprioritize "me" for "us" after 7 a.m. and until I go to sleep. Our family is that important to me. But I need those morning hours first. Even if it's just an hour or two, the incremental gains that come from continuously doing, building, and making time for myself compound exponentially when it's done day after day.

You know I wake up early. And I love you to death, but I hope you never join me. Not because I don't want to spend time with you, but because if you do wake up early someday, I hope you make it YOUR time instead of "our" time. That time is too valuable to share, even with people you love.

Here's the reality though: even if you try to carve out time for yourself, things pop up. Many times things pop up. That's why first thing in the morning is so valuable. Rarely are things popping up before people wake up. You have to accept that there are certain times you "control" more because there are fewer opportunities for disruption. My morning routine is heavily influenced by that. It's not just about choosing mornings—it's about choosing a time when the world isn't asking anything of me yet.

Maybe you'll be someone who needs this hour. Maybe you won't. But if you ever feel like you're losing yourself in all the roles you play, in all the people who need you, remember: it's okay to carve out time to remember who you are.

It doesn't have to be mornings. It doesn't have to be exercise or sunrises or bike rides. It just has to be yours. And it has to be a time when the world is less likely to interrupt.

I can give everything else away—my time, my energy, my focus—as long as I've had those morning hours first. As long as I've seen the sunrise, felt the world stand still, remembered what clarity feels like.

Find your hour. Protect it. Make it yours.