I woke up and forgot to be here

A slow morning, a screen that stole it, and the quiet decision to come back to myself

Where’s my phone?
I haven’t even opened my eyes yet.

Still sleepy. Still lucky to wake up to another day.
I open my eyes—6:00 a.m.
A soft yawn. Air filling my chest.
The sunlight hits the wall at just the right angle. It only does that in this room, early in the morning. Facing north.

Before I even realize it, my phone is already in my hand.

How did I get here?
Two minutes awake and I’m already scrolling.

First, someone crying because they lost someone.
Then a puppy.
Then war.
Then a breakthrough in cancer research.

It’s a pendulum.
Grief. Gratitude.
Hope. Horror.

I scroll like I’m bracing for something.
Holding my breath between clips.
Like the next swipe might be the one that changes my day.

The room is still quiet.
I hear footsteps outside.
I want to get up.
But I don’t.

I scroll.
And I scroll.

Thirty minutes go by.
I blink. I breathe.
How did I let it happen again?

I think about all the mornings I could’ve had.
On the porch, sipping coffee.
Joking with someone I love.
Writing a page in my journal.
Touching the day before the world had a say in it.

But instead, I lay there.
Face lit by a tiny screen.
Reading about people living their lives… instead of living mine.

I don’t even know when this started.
Six months ago? Maybe more.
Just a small habit that grew teeth.

I think about the kind of person I want to be:
Someone who doesn’t pick up their phone until noon.
Someone who knows peace is quieter than the feed.
Someone who belongs to the moment, not the algorithm.

These apps are clever. They were made to take.
They don’t knock. They slip in.
Like a charming thief in the night.
And suddenly, your peace is gone and you’re not sure where it went.

But that morning, something shifted.
I realized: I don’t want to keep reading about life.
I want to feel it. Touch it. Interact with it. Chase it.

This is the only one I get.
Life is too fragile to hand over the opening act of every day.

I wanted slow mornings.
I wanted to feel awe.
I wanted to be drunk in love with life.
And that doesn’t happen on a screen.

So one beautiful morning, I made a quiet promise.

No phone. Not first.
I got up. Made the bed.
Listened to birds arguing outside my window.
Watched the sunlight shift across the floor.
And walked out of the room, with my phone still sitting on the nightstand.

It’s been a year now.

I don’t need a new morning routine to love my life.
Just this,
The quiet.
The warmth.
The knowing that I’m still here.
That I still get to wake up and be a person, not a product.
Not a headline.
Not a reaction.
Just… me.
In the room.
Alive.
And maybe that’s enough to start with.