Are you more of a night or morning person?
I am definitely a morning person now. It wasn’t always that way. There was a time when I pushed myself late into the night, convinced that productivity came after midnight and that mornings were an inconvenience to be conquered. I would stay up long past what was sensible, fall asleep too late, and then drag myself into the day with the dull ache of not quite being rested.
But somewhere along the journey—age, experience, gentler wisdom—I shifted. I haven’t set an alarm for over a decade. My body does the waking for me, long before the sun even hints at rising. And over time, this has become a kind of quiet ritual: the slow unfurling of the day before anyone else is awake.
Mornings are when I am most alive. Creativity sparks in a way it simply never does at night. Ideas come freely, unforced. This is when I write—an hour most days, enough to keep the imagination supple. It’s also when strategic thinking flows. Clarity arrives with the first light.
Then comes the walking ritual. At least thirty minutes with the dog, moving through the cool air. The morning is fresh, generous even. We often meet playmates along the way—dogs and humans—and it strikes me that this too is part of the rhythm: starting the day with connection, breath, and the uncomplicated companionship of a creature delighted just to be moving.
By the other end of the day, my energy begins to fade. I don’t even attempt screens because I know I will fall asleep before the opening scene finishes. Instead, evenings have become their own set of gentle rituals: small acts that close the day, quiet gestures of winding down before bed comes early and without drama.
Some people divide the world into night owls and early birds, as though it were simply a matter of preference. For me, becoming a morning person has felt more like discovering the right tempo for my life—one that honours creativity, energy, stillness, and the slow choreography of ordinary rituals.
The Afterword 
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