I’ve always been an early morning writer.
I rise before dawn—refreshed, hopeful, simmering with ideas. I open the document, the cursor blinking at the end of the last sentence like a beacon.
I write. I let the words flow. Sometimes it’s easy; sometimes it takes work. But it has never, ever been out of my reach.
Until now.
I live with chronic pain. My latest flare—a bout of sciatica—has lingered for three months. At best, it’s a daily nuisance. At worst, it is crippling, both physically and emotionally.
Those sacred morning hours are no longer devoted to story. They are spent unraveling the stiffness of the night, managing medication, rotating heating pads in search of relief. My mind scatters. Pain makes focus slippery. The desire to write is still there, steady and insistent, but the ability often feels just beyond my grasp.
So I must adjust. I must recalibrate my writing habits in a way that honors my body. It isn’t easy. Writing rituals become sacred over time; they shape identity. To loosen them feels like loss.
But I am trying.
Later, when stability returns and the pain recedes, I’ll open the document again. I’ll stoke the embers of the story into a quiet flame. I’ll feed it carefully, patiently, until it grows warm and bright once more.