I used to wake up early so I could get my training in before it was time to go to work.

At 4:00 AM, you could run straight down the yellow line of Main Street like you owned the place. No cars. No people. Just you, the hum of streetlights, and the quiet confidence that you were doing something most weren’t willing to do.

It felt like control.

It felt like I was taking the day before it had a chance to take anything from me.

Lately, now that I’m not racing… I’m still waking up earlier.

Not by choice.

Not with purpose.

Just… awake.

Most mornings it’s around 2:30 AM.

Up to take a pee… sometimes again at 4:30… just because.

At first, I treated it like a problem.

Maybe it’s my age.

One of those things you think you need to fix without really understanding why it happens.

Because that’s what we’re told now.

You’re supposed to sleep through the night.

Uninterrupted.

Efficient.

If you don’t?

That’s restless sleep.

Interrupted sleep.

Something’s off.

Something’s not normal.

But somewhere along the way… we lost something.

We lost the idea of what was once called “First Sleep.”

There was a time when waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t a problem at all.

It was expected.

People would sleep for three… maybe three and a half hours…

wake up for an hour or so…

and then return to what they called their second sleep until dawn.

And that time in between?

It wasn’t wasted.

It wasn’t frustrating.

It wasn’t labeled.

It was used.

People read.

They prayed.

They talked quietly with their spouse.

Some visited neighbors.

Some made love.

Mothers nursed babies.

Fires were tended.

Bread was started.

Meals were prepared.

The Bible was opened.

It was a different kind of hour.

A quieter one.

A more honest one.

In many ways… it was considered sacred time.

Not in a grand, ceremonial way…

but in the sense that nothing else was competing for it.

No noise.

No schedule.

No expectation to produce anything for the outside world.

Just a pocket of life… sitting there in the dark… waiting to be lived.

And somehow… we lost that.

We replaced it with language that turns the experience into a problem—

sleepless,

restless,

interrupted.

As if something that was once part of everyday human life…

is now a sign that something’s wrong.

The funny thing is, 2:30 AM doesn’t feel anything like 4:00 AM.

At 4:00, I was moving.

At 2:30… I’m still.

At 4:00, I had a plan.

At 2:30… there’s nothing to execute.

At 4:00, I felt like I owned the town.

At 2:30… it doesn’t feel like anything needs owning.

There’s no finish line at 2:30.

No miles to log.

No pace to hit.

No one to impress.

It’s just a quiet house… a soft clock glow… and a moment that doesn’t ask anything from me.

I used to think waking up at that hour meant something was off.

Now I’m starting to wonder if it’s something we’ve simply forgotten how to understand.

At 4:00 AM, I chased the day.

At 2:30 AM… I sit with it before it even knows I’m there.

Somewhere along the way, I learned how to wake up early and take control.

What I didn’t realize… was that life had been quietly waking me up even earlier—

not to take anything…

not to fix anything…

just to be there…

in a moment that used to belong to all of us.