The Ones Who Wake Me Up

This morning started not with a to-do list or the chime of an alarm, but with birdsong. A robin, first—sharp, clear, insistent. The kind of call that doesn’t just announce dawn but demands it. I lay still, listening, not quite ready to move but already held in something ancient and alive. There’s something about robins. They don’t wait. They arrive. Fierce little gatekeepers of the day. Red-breasted and unbothered by hesitation.

Then, moments later, a goldfinch. Softer, more melodic. As if the robin had opened the door and the goldfinch had wandered in behind with a melody in her mouth. I could feel the shift—the goldfinch didn’t command the day; she invited it. And I let her. Somewhere between her song and the weight of the duvet, I found myself wide awake and strangely okay with it.

There’s a rhythm to these mornings that no planner can replicate. A call to presence. A reminder that life doesn’t always begin with caffeine or cortisol. Sometimes it starts with birds. Sometimes the world nudges you awake before you’re ready, not to rush you, but to root you.

This is the life I’m leaning into more these days. One where nature is not just a backdrop, but a co-conspirator. Where the wild ones, the ones who don’t need permission to speak, remind me that I don’t either.

The robin says, “Begin.” The goldfinch says, “Be gentle.”Both are right.

And I am learning to listen.

— Sarah Hopton

Psychotherapy for the brave and the broken-hearted.

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