The dawn slowly burns away the remnants of the night. It’s already hot, but most of the world still sleeps—for now. Soon, they’ll rise. They’ll fall into motion, surrendering to the bustle, the pursuit of progress, the comfort of productivity. There’s a kind of faith in the checklist, in the belief that doing enough will make you feel like enough. But I don’t begin my day that way. I don’t chase. I listen.
I write. Not to perform. Not to perfect. But to return to myself. The page is where I can be honest, messy, contradictory, and human. There’s no audience. No need to edit the ache or organize the confusion. I write what is, as it is. The act alone brings me back.
When I write, I unearth what I’ve buried: grief that’s gone unnamed, anger I’ve swallowed, hope that feels too fragile to speak aloud. The words don’t always come clearly. Some days they’re sharp and certain. Other days, they drift, soft and uncertain. But either way, I leave lighter.
I don’t write to resolve. I write to reveal. To confess the parts of me I usually keep hidden—even from myself. I spill what I can’t carry. I give shape to what I feel. I name the fear, the guilt, the longing. I write until I remember: none of this needs to be perfect. It just needs to be present.
The page doesn’t ask me to be fine. It doesn’t demand clarity or closure. It simply holds space. And in that space, I breathe. I stop performing. I stop pretending. I remember who I am beneath the noise, beneath the roles, beneath the pressure to produce and please.
So, no, I don’t start the day by rushing into it. I begin by slowing down. By sitting still. By listening. I begin by writing. By breathing. By being.
That’s not just self-care.
That’s survival.
It’s 5am …
Memoirs of Madness 