The Gospel of Sunrise
It starts with a checklist: meditate, journal, hydrate, stretch, affirmations, gratitude. By the time you’re done, it’s noon, and you’ve accomplished nothing except being awake. I am there too, setting my alarm for 5 a.m. because some guy on YouTube swore it would make me a billionaire. We call it self-improvement, but it’s the most exhausting way to start the day.
We’ve replaced mornings with marathons, and the only thing we’re running from is ourselves. The rules are simple: every minute must be optimized, every action must be intentional, and every sip of lemon water must be Instagrammed. We behave as if the sunrise is judging us, even though the only thing it cares about is rising.
The Performance of Productivity
Morning routines aren’t about starting the day; they’re about being seen starting the day. The fitness guy doesn’t just work out; he posts a time-lapse of his sunrise yoga. The entrepreneur doesn’t just drink coffee; she writes a thread about how it’s “fueling her grind.” The “authentic” mom doesn’t just wake up; she shares a photo of her “quiet time” with the caption, “5 a.m. club.” The problem isn’t the routine; it’s the theater. We’re all auditioning for a role in a play no one wants to watch.
My favorite genre is performative discipline. Today’s episode: someone brags about waking up at 4 a.m., as if sleep deprivation is a badge of honor. They’ll post a thread about “owning the morning,” conveniently leaving out the part where they spent three hours scrolling TikTok. The discipline is real, but the results are imaginary. It’s the human equivalent of running in place and calling it travel.
The Narcissism of New Beginnings
Every morning routine is a mirror, and we’re all staring at our reflections, wondering if we’re enough. Spoiler: we’re not, but this $299 productivity planner might help. The algorithm knows your insecurities better than your therapist. It whispers, “You’re falling behind,” and we believe it because the alternative is admitting we’re fine as we are. We optimize to feel complete, but the feeling expires faster than the coffee.
The joke is that we’re not improving ourselves; we’re performing improvement. The bio changes from “person” to “early riser” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to post a thread about “morning hacks.” We think this is growth, but it’s just branding with extra steps.
The exchange rate
Discipline converts to burnout at a rate of roughly one routine per existential crisis. Side effects include anxiety, insomnia, and the sinking realization that you’re just a walking to-do list.
The Panic of the Snooze Button
We laugh at toddlers throwing tantrums, yet we panic harder when the alarm doesn’t go off. No morning routine? Suddenly we’re philosophers considering the void. The day begins, and grown adults stare at their unoptimized schedule like they’re meeting God. We’re not lazy; we’re terrified. Without the routine, we might have to think about the life we’re structuring.
Routines are anesthesia. They numb the day’s bruises with infinite little rituals. Each checklist is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the body cannot breathe. We call it self-care, but it feels like speed dating with our own insecurities, and everyone is lying about their progress.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag the “lazy” for not waking up early, then post about “self-care” while answering emails at dawn. We condemn hustle culture while sharing our “morning routine” playlists. We mock influencers while secretly envying their discipline. The hypocrisy isn’t a bug; it’s the business model. We’re needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the sunrise and acting offended when someone points it out.
I am not above any of this. I have set an alarm for a time I had no intention of waking up. I have pretended to “own the morning” while secretly hitting snooze. I have mistaken rituals for meaning. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the routine slightly worse than satisfying, and people will chase the next hit. Serve guilt next to discipline so users oscillate between shame and structure, two emotions that never log off. Hide the finish line behind endless habits; the treadmill handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you woke up earlier, joined the trend, or downloaded the app promising to “simplify your life” by complicating it.
We supply the content for free. We even defend the system when critics ask questions. We call it “self-improvement” while the house counts our hours like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should wake up earlier instead of resting. Of course I should ask strangers if my routine is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a morning journal. It’s absurd, and somehow it’s Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend isn’t watching is very much watching, and we’re performing anyway. The neighbor you despise noticed your sunrise post. The coworker you admire saw your “5 a.m. club” story and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you post. There’s no such thing as a private morning, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we’re addicted to the ritual. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we’re doing it right. We could stop optimizing, but then who would notice? We could keep optimizing, but then who are we doing it for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here’s the mirror, held low and steady: we are the risers, the grinders, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled coffee. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we’ve had all day.