The Ritual That Holds My Mornings Together

There’s a moment every morning, before the emails, before the calendar, before I remember what needs fixing, when I stand in the kitchen, barefoot, and make coffee.

The water boils. The beans grind. I move slow, not because I have the time, but because I want to remember what time feels like.

This is the start of my day: not with productivity, but with presence. I make coffee. I start breakfast. I do something for someone else before the world asks something from me.

It’s simple. Deliberate. And maybe more sacred than anything I learned in church.

I didn’t always begin my days this way. There was a stretch of life when I’d wake up already running. Already late. Already behind. My mornings belonged to obligation, not intention.

But this small ritual? It shifted that.

Because when I serve the people I love, before I try to solve the world’s problems, I remind myself who I am.

Not just a worker, or a fixer, or a man trying to hold it all together. But a father. A husband. A human being who gives before he grinds. This ritual grounds me. It reminds me that gratitude isn’t a feeling, it’s a motion.

And every morning I make coffee, I start again.