I was not built for mornings. The sun comes up and with a single turn of my head, I am at war. At war with the tasks that I did not finish last night. At war with the way my room does not face the sun. At war with my body. At war with my mind. I untangle from the blanket and slump onto the yoga mat. Mornings are like quicksand. If I don’t move carefully, I’ll be stuck in this grayness, this resistance until almost noon. I’ve decided I can outrun this. First, I get my heart moving. I plant my feet and twist my body, open my spine and then press it into the ground, clench my fists and let them open again. I get my hands moving. I grab a bag and stuff it with essentials for the day. I keep an eye on the oven clock. I can feel the weight gathering around my ankles. But I don’t stop; I stand while eating eggs and reconsider wearing running clothes out of the house. The season of slow mornings is over. Concealer and mascara. That is all I have time for. It’s 9:17. Maybe that clock is my saving grace, chasing me out the door, on to tasks more important than checking Instagram. I throw the bowl in the sink, check that the doors are locked, and slide into the driver’s seat of the borrowed car that will take me to firmer ground.