The Shape My Joy Takes I: The Art Of Waking Up Slowly

This is a collection of essays not about surviving—but about living. Not about pain—but about presence. These are not reactionary—they are revolutionary in their refusal to look back.

This is a 10-part series of personal essays. Check back each day to read the next essay.

Want more softness, strength, and quiet joy? Click here to read the full Shape My Joy Takes series.

There was a time when mornings meant battle. Alarm clocks screamed me into consciousness, and my heart raced before my feet even touched the ground. I’d bolt upright, mind already spiralling through things I hadn’t done, hadn’t said, hadn’t fixed. I used to think that was normal. That anxiety was just the price of being alive.

But I don’t live like that anymore.

Now, I wake slowly.

No alarms. No demands. Just the gentle nudge of light through the sheer curtains and the quiet rustling of my husky stretching at the foot of the bed. Her sighs are deep and knowing, like she’s already decided it’s a good day. I believe her.

There is a rhythm to my mornings now. A kind of sacred pacing. The world doesn't get to rush me.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, eyes still closed, hands resting in my lap like I’m holding something precious. Because I am. I'm holding peace. And I refuse to drop it for anyone.

The floor is cold under my feet. The kind of cold that makes me feel alive. I pad softly through the house—quiet enough not to wake the cat, who is always judging me from a sun-warmed windowsill.

I start the kettle.

There’s no rush to the brewing, either. It’s a ritual. One I honour daily. The spoon clinks gently against ceramic as I stir in oat milk. The warmth of the mug anchors me. I don’t gulp. I don’t multitask. I savour.

Sometimes there’s music. Something low and jazzy, or a record from our wedding road trip, crackling in the background. Sometimes, there’s silence. The good kind—the kind that doesn’t echo with absence but glows with presence.

I water the plants. I talk to them. I light a candle, even if it’s already bright out. I believe in unnecessary softness. I believe in rituals that exist only because they make me feel good.

And then, when the world finally starts asking things of me—emails, edits, errands—I respond gently. Or I don’t. Some days, the to-do list stays untouched, and I count the hours by how many cups of tea I’ve finished or how many times the dog has made me laugh.

There is no gold star for productivity here. No one applauds how fast I move. No one punishes my pauses. And that, I think, is the whole point.

Because I didn’t claw my way out of survival mode just to replicate it in prettier packaging.

I live slowly now. Not because I have to—but because I can. Because I made it through the years when I couldn’t. Because peace, when chosen, is an act of defiance. And joy, when sustained, is a revolution.

And so I wake slowly.

Not because there’s nothing to do.

But because there’s everything to feel.