The morning light pours through the farmhouse windows like it has all the time in the world. Golden, generous, unhurried. It tiptoes across the wooden floors, up the coffee table, and lands squarely on my bare feet, propped, unapologetically, in the kind of pose that only happens when the we have nowhere to be and no one to see.

There’s a certain decadence in sleeping in past the alarm of tiny voices and cereal bowls. A luxury so small and fleeting it feels almost rebellious. The coffee tastes different on mornings like these, too. Richer, slower, as though it knows it doesn’t have to compete with the chaos of school shoes, backpacks, and negotiations over who gets the last waffle.

Laptop open, I find myself answering DMs with one hand and savoring my mug with the other, sunlight spilling over both. It had me asking myself: Are these the moments that define rest, or are they just the quiet bridges between the busy chapters? Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe the magic is in the in-between, the pause before the next sprint.

Because when the house is still, and the only sound is the hum of the espresso machine and the click of the keyboard, I remember that slow mornings aren’t just a luxury. They’re a reminder that in a life filled with beautiful chaos, sometimes the simplest thing we can do is sit still long enough to notice the light.