‘It’ Girl Morning Routine

By Alison Hallie Napp

Illustration by Daisy Allen

Mornings carry a sense of melancholy as I wake up at dawn, gazing at the unoccupied pillow

next to me. Thoughts of you, of us, and the revelations I now hold, linger until my morning

alarm sounds. At times, I catch myself reaching for the spot where you used to nestle your

cheek on cold mornings, only to snatch my hand back abruptly, cradling myself instead. I

shut my eyes, shielding myself from the memory of you. Yet, the contemplation of how

unaccustomed I am to sleeping alone after all these months dominates my thoughts. I reflect

that it shouldn't be this way.

In my much younger years, I left innocence behind, navigating the infancy of my adulthood

and tending to the delicate healing of my inner child alone. With no sweet siblings in my cell

phone contacts and no parent I am particularly partial to, embarrassment sometimes shrouds

me. Acknowledging the roles of my own mother, father, and brother, I ardently believed you

were a reward and a saviour to my lifelong lack of stability, to the extent that I called you

‘home.’

Like most mornings, I must convince myself that even though you turned out to be nothing I

would ever want, you were exactly what I needed. This perspective shifts my gaze from the

darkness of my duvet to the light of the new day outside my window. Trying to spot good

omens—like birds' nests and Florida license plates—an intrusive memory creeps in, and the

retrospective of the blatancy of your lies contorts my face into a painful cringe.

I make a choice, crack my neck, and stretch my arms to the pink-painted ceiling. I choose to

believe that, instead of causing senseless pain and deception, you played a crucial role in

revealing the unsettling reality that there are people who casually throw around words like

“love,” “marriage,” and “forever” without sincerity, while feigning such.

Picking the sleep out of my eyes, I persuade myself that I should be grateful for the lesson;

your dishonesty forced me to reconcile with the importance of listening to my gut, which

speaks to me from my belly. Lowering my arms, I hug myself to my coquettish comforter and

breathe in gratitude that I now trust my inner voice. In recent months, amidst the heartbreak,

hurt, and humiliation, I've come to realize that, despite my inherited doubts, I trust the person

who has kept me alive in those places devoid of kindness.

The weight of the air filling that same person’s lungs reminds me that much of my ongoing

work involves repairing the damage accumulated during the tumultuous first quarter of my

life so that I may be happy and unburdened. That sometimes seemingly impossible feat is not

possible by missing the idealized version of a person who never truly existed. I compel

myself to outgrow the immature stunts of my twenties, my performative tendencies, my

mania, and I sit up straight in my bed.

It's time for the person I am becoming to get out of bed. “Yes,” I tell myself. “These facets of

my being will never fade entirely, but I can tend to ghosts with gentleness and graciousness.”

I rub my knees and know that I can hope. I touch my toes and know that no matter how much

of me I take back to bed at any given night, each day’s efforts bring me closer to becoming

someone whom I want to inhabit wholly.

Staring at the edge of fluff and flowers and pink that is my bed, I reflect, as I often do. In my

childhood home - with admittedly similar sheets - the struggle to rise each morning was a

daunting task. The fatigue, even as a child, of soothing and silencing the echoes of pain

within me, groaning all night with hunger and hurt, left my eyes tired and red at the

beginning of each day. I pull myself to the edge, swinging my legs out of bed in one

determined movement, preventing that moment from extending itself into a whole morning.

I feel my body, all its fatigue, and the weight of having to lift all of me on my own again.

This work is exhausting. In my wall mirror - decorated with faded bronze angels and

scratched glass - my eyes reflect the weariness of another night of silencing the echoes of old,

still hurting I’s inside. I look at the me, who is only older every day, and decide to work for

that person again. I make up my mind another day to convert the spaces of my body and mind

into a home for myself, adorned with tools that were never present in my parents' toolboxes.

Despite these challenges, or perhaps because of them, I aspire to one day have not just a place

inside me that is safe but something bigger to invite others into as well. I want to make

enough of a home in myself so that I can befriend others with an open heart and still see them

for who they really are before they intend to reveal themselves. This way, I may avoid

another absolute disappointment of a false forever found in another. Like you.

But, I see it almost, at least in the minuscule moments of it. A dozen thrifted champagne

coupes, each filled to the gold brim with spilling sparkling wine. All held by a ‘we’ I do not

know yet. We celebrate with drunk, clumsy clinks of our drinks and laugh as we all lick our

dampened wrists. There is so much laughter. There is bad dancing and good food. There are

our babies and wedding rings. I see myself and one other person making a different, smaller,

more intimate ‘we’ the next morning at the same place, sharing coffee and sleepy

conversation. I can’t see their faces, but I know how this place will feel one day when I know

it; a place of love. A place of true calm. It will be a place that feels safe and not scary when it

is silent.

So, day by day, through caring for my past and present selves, I am learning to give myself

permission to self-soothe without self-harm and express my emotions without fear. Making

myself motivated and able, I embark on constructing an unbreakable foundation, creating a

comforting place from the ground up, inviting my phantoms to stay in peace as I expand

inwardly. Eventually, I envision making myself a safe and stable place for me to inhabit first,

before I can create something outward that I may invite others into to enjoy empathy,

patience, and love. These two homes are equally of my making and imagination. Family

woven from the threads of my being is the only family I will ever know. I am equally

dedicated to both.

Each morning, as I perform a floor routine of mental gymnastics to get out of bed, I stand

still, contemplating the day ahead, realizing that I am learning yet another strength about

myself. As I go to brush my teeth, I almost think I want to thank you for causing me pain

through which I cope with more strength than even I have ever known was in me.