In my old life, I liked mornings, but I wasn’t a “morning person.” I would routinely stay up late watching TV or reading in bed and say yes to dinners that started long after nightfall. My relationship with mornings was casual—I’d occasionally enjoy a sunrise but I certainly never set an alarm to see one. Then I had children, whose needs demanded an early start, and I spent years stumbling out of bed at their first sounds, making breakfast, and building block towers before I’d fully woken up. Now they’re older, which means they’re less likely to need me before dawn. And yet I’ve found that I can’t shake the early-rising routine.

This is partly because my morning hours have come to feel sacred: They’re the only portion of the day reserved for just my own needs—and for a parent, that kind o

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