By Kate Stockrahm
I’ve been waking up before dawn lately.
I rise though the sky is still a deep black – the type of darkness that could mean it’s 1 a.m. as easily as it could be 5 a.m.
Our house (which still seems strange to say even after months of living here) is near-silent, save for the hum of warm air being forced from unseen vents and Baci’s soft “meow” from somewhere down near our duvet-covered feet. (He decided long ago he’ll never use one of the several, actual cat beds we bought him.)
At my movement, the small, fluffy mass of fur and limbs will pull himself up to lay on my chest in the dark, expecting at least a few minutes of chin scratches before I’m allowed to leave bed or turn on a light.
When it seems Baci will permit it (this usually entails a scratchy-tongued kiss on my nose), I gently lift him back down to the corner of the mattress and open the window shade roughly halfway, as quietly as I can manage.
The window is just about level with the top of our bed, so the small cat is able to survey the full expanse of trees and grass on the vacant lot next door – which he does while softly purring in contentment. We’ve started to call this move Baci’s “TV time,” as it truly looks like he’s watching a big screen while settled on his belly, paws hanging from the side of the bed and eyes darting back and forth at birds, squirrels, and the occasional white-tipped tail of a rabbit hopping by.
I go start a pot of coffee (a brand that’s cheap and already-ground) before cleaning up the remnants of the evening before: blankets that need folding before returning to the linen closet, a couple of half-consumed cups of water, the books that never seem to make it back to our nightstands after we fall asleep reading on the burnt-orange sectional that takes up a whole wall of our front room.
By now the coffee is ready, and I pour it into one of our 3,000 mismatched mugs while thinking “we should really get rid of some of these” and knowing we won’t because I’ve thought that for years now. Then I carry that coffee – today’s mug says “Picolas Cage,” accompanied by a bad drawing of Nicolas Cage as a pickle – back out to the living room and sit down to type the truth out in this column:
I’d rather be sleeping.
This morning scene has become common only because I’m so behind on everything, not because I’m thrilled to start my day before the sun comes up.
I’m behind on the mundane stuff of life (this is the first year ever that I filed a tax extension); on work (because there’s always more to do in news); and even the fun stuff (Jordan, if you read this before I call you: I promise we’re finally meeting up for brunch this month).
In all honesty, I’ve been making bargains with myself for a couple of months now. I’ll skip the gym to go to the grocery store, I’ll make that meeting but ask that someone else take on an action item, I’ll get Baci’s food but order it from Amazon (again) because I don’t have time to go to the pet supply place just eight minutes up the road.
This is not who I am… or at least, this is not who I planned to be.
I’ve always been organized and driven – the kind of person who wakes up early because she wants to, not because she has to. And perhaps I should unpack this with a therapist instead of dumping it into the pages of a monthly magazine. But going to therapy would also require scheduling those appointments, and, well, you see where I’m going with that.
But while I’m working to catch up on life and work and fun – albeit in the wee hours of the morning while my cat “watches TV” – I will say this strange time before dawn has its charms.
I get to cuddle with Baci, a soft little ball of fur who doesn’t judge that I haven’t yet done the laundry; I open the rest of the shades to see our neighbor, Troy, walking his two adorable, long-haired chocolate brown Chihuahuas down the block and smile; I get to ease into the day as I type up this column and silently consider which mugs I can donate without my boyfriend noticing – uninterrupted but for the first chirps of the birds Baci’s been eying for the last 30 minutes.
And while I’d still rather be sleeping – if only to be more rested for the day still ahead of me – I admit I’m grateful for now knowing what these hours can hold, and that someday soon I might choose them instead of require them.
Editor’s Note: This article first appeared in the April 2026 print edition of East Village Magazine.
