I can’t point to just one morning. I wish I could. I wish I could wrap this story in a clean little bow and say, “That was the day everything changed.” But truthfully? I’ve had many mornings where I almost didn’t get up.
Not because I was lazy. Not because I stayed up too late. But because life felt so heavy that the simple act of getting out of bed felt like too much. It wasn’t about sleep. It was about the weight of my story catching up with me again.
And I know I’m not the only one.
The Weight That Wakes Up With You
I grew up in chaos. Poverty, abuse, constant instability. Some mornings we lived in a car. Some mornings I didn’t know if we had food. There were people in and out of jail, drugs all around me, violence too close for comfort. Not in me—thank God—but around me enough that it could’ve been.
Faith? That was more of a rumor than a relationship. A couple months of church here and there. But mostly, I figured it out myself. I tasted all kinds of beliefs and worldviews before I started finding something solid. Something real.
Friends were rare. Trust was almost impossible. We moved so often that building roots felt like a waste of time. Deep relationships weren’t just unavailable—they felt dangerous. So I learned to be alone. To survive. To toughen up.
But in that toughness, I never really learned to hope.
Getting Up Was the Fight
Back then, waking up didn’t feel like a start. It felt like an obligation. Just another thing I had to do to keep my life from falling apart even more than it already had. Go to work. Show up late. Do just enough. Then shut back down until the next day.
And when my life cracked even deeper—my wife left, pregnant with another man’s child, the house went into foreclosure, the car got repossessed—it was like all the pain I never dealt with finally boiled over. It wasn’t one hard morning. It was every morning. It wasn’t that I wanted to die. But I didn’t exactly want to live either.
I didn’t talk about it. I just lived in it. Quietly. Isolated. On autopilot.
But somewhere in that mess, I started to realize something: I couldn’t keep waiting for life to fix itself. I had to take responsibility. Not for the pain, but for the way I responded to it.
Why I Get Up Now
Today, I wake up at 4:30 AM. Not because someone told me to. Because I decided to.
I set the terms now. I make the schedule. I take ownership of who I’m becoming. Not to prove anything to the world, but to draw a line in the sand between who I used to be and who I refuse to be again.
The man who used to wake up only because he had to—that guy still whispers sometimes. He still lingers. But I don’t live by his story anymore. I’ve replaced it with purpose.
I still have hard mornings. That’s just the truth. I’m not in constant communion with God. I’m not walking around on a cloud of peace. But I’ve learned to build structure around my weakness. I’ve learned to lead myself through the fog instead of getting lost in it.
What Gets Me Out of Bed Now
It’s not about motivation. That stuff runs out. It’s not even about discipline—at least not in the “grind it out” way.
It’s vision.
It’s remembering that I have a reason. That God made me for something more than just surviving. That someone else’s breakthrough might be tied to my obedience.
I think a lot about my mom. She tried to take her life—multiple times. One time while I was deployed. She believed the lie that her death would be a gift to her kids. That removing herself would be the most merciful thing she could do. Thank God, that attempt failed. I flew home and had the chance to tell her how wrong she was. How much she mattered.
That stuck with me. Even at my worst—even when I thought I had nothing left to offer—I remembered that truth: You matter, even when you can’t see it. Even when your impact feels invisible.
A Final Word to the Guy Still in Bed
If that’s you today—if you’re staring at the ceiling, trying to convince yourself that none of it matters—I get it.
But I’m telling you right now: It does.
You matter.
Even if all you can do today is take one deep breath. Even if the only thing you accomplish is sitting up. Even if your mind is still swirling in the fog—move.
Grab onto one thing. One small thread. One truth. For me, back then, it was the belief—however shaky—that my life still had purpose. That someone out there needed what I hadn’t yet given. That I was still alive for a reason.
And now? I’ve found that reason in a hundred little ways: in my wife, my kids, this work, this message. But it started with just getting up. Just refusing to stay stuck.
And if you need something to anchor your mornings, I built something that might help: the 31-Day Start Strong Check-In. No fluff. No hype. Just simple, honest grounding for guys who are done drifting.
You don’t have to feel ready. You don’t have to have it all figured out.
You just have to get up.
Let that be the win for today.
And then do it again tomorrow.
You’re not alone. I’m still walking it too.
