How My Mornings Usually Go

Some mornings, it’s as simple as making chai and standing quietly in the kitchen while the water boils. No scrolling. No planning. Just waiting. Letting my mind arrive before the day does. Sometimes I’ll have the noticias playing softly in the background while I sip my chai, half listening, half still waking up. I try, as much as I can, not to reach for my phone first thing. Not to dive straight into the noise. Those mornings feel slower, more intentional, like I’m easing myself into the day rather than being pulled into it.

Other mornings look completely different. I wake up and the first thing I do is put music on, loud. Spotify or YouTube blasting while I crank up my coffee machine and get everything ready to make the perfect drip coffee. The kitchen turns into a small concert. I sip my coffee, scroll through social media, catch up on the latest gossip, see what everyone else is doing. Those mornings are more chaotic, more indulgent, but just as real. I don’t always know which version of myself I’ll get when I wake up, and I’ve stopped trying to control that too much.

Writing fits somewhere in between all of this. It’s become a place I return to when I need clarity, but not in a rigid or disciplined way. Some days it’s just a few lines. Other days it turns into a full page without me noticing the time pass. And sometimes it’s simply sitting with one sentence, adjusting it, rereading it, waiting until it feels honest enough to keep. I don’t force it. I let it meet me where I am. Lately, I’ve also been toying with the idea of writing about more and more different topics, because my interests are so varied. And then, just as quickly, the doubt creeps in. I wonder if anyone else out there would actually care about my thoughts or opinions. I don’t always have an answer to that, but I keep writing anyway.

Food is another place where all of this shows up clearly. My mixed cultural background has shaped how I eat in ways I don’t even think about anymore. Some mornings I crave a pincho de tortilla, pan con tomate, or a tostada con aguacate. Other days I wake up wanting poha, upma, or a koki for breakfast. And then there are days when the lines blur completely. A butter chicken curry with a barra de pan feels like absolute perfection to me. It makes sense in my world, even if it might look strange to someone else. Food grounds me. It brings memory, comfort, and presence without asking me to explain myself.

I think what I’m slowly learning is that these rhythms don’t need to be perfect or consistent to matter. Some days are quiet and intentional. Other days are noisy and indulgent. Both belong. What matters is noticing them. Coming back to myself through small choices, familiar tastes, words on a page, or a moment of stillness in the kitchen.

I don’t need my days to look the same to feel anchored. I just need to keep paying attention.

— Raulito