Awakening at Dawn

Illustration by An Marke

There is a tender hour before the world wakes, when the hush of first light lays its fingers upon the earth, and the veil between what is seen and unseen is at its thinnest. In that stillness, the air stirs with ancient whispers, soft voices that belong to neither time nor place, but to something older than memory and more intimate than thought. It is then that the soul, unburdened by the day's demands, might lean into its own deep listening.

This threshold, this tender cusp of dawn, is no ordinary moment. It is the hush before a beginning, a quiet unfolding where the heart is invited to remember what it most truly longs for. Not the surface desires we name in haste or wear like garments, but the deep yearning—the one we rarely give voice to because it feels too sacred, too vast. And yet, it waits to be spoken.

If you rise in this hour, if you pause before reaching for the familiar motions of the day, you may feel it: a presence, or perhaps a beckoning. As though something within you is being gently called home, not back to what was, but forward into what has not yet been named.

Too often we turn away from this call. We reach for the comfort of routine, the well-worn paths of thought, the distractions that keep the ache of soul-wondering at bay. But there is a cost to such forgetting. Each time we turn away from the silent invitation of our becoming, we lose a little more of our truest voice, our clearest vision, our most faithful longing.

There is a place within you that still remembers the original promise—the vow made in the secret chambers of your soul before time clothed you in flesh. That place is not concerned with accomplishment or approval. It is not fed by certainty or success. It hungers only for what is real—for love that is undivided, for truth that is unafraid, for beauty that is born from sorrow and praise alike.

At dawn, the world has not yet hardened. The light is gentle, the mind uncluttered. This is the hour when you are most able to listen—not just to what is outside you, but to the sacred murmur within. The quiet voice that says: There is more to you than you have allowed yourself to know. There is more waiting than you have dared to seek.

When you feel that subtle stirring, do not turn away. Do not rush to fill the space. Stay. Breathe. Let yourself be undone by the simplicity of it. Let yourself remember how to ask—not with words alone, but with your whole being. To ask, not for certainty or comfort, but for the strength to be true. To be faithful to the yearning that brought you here.

It takes courage to remain at this threshold. To trust what you cannot yet name. To lean into the arms of a mystery that does not offer maps, only presence. But this is where the soul is reawakened—not by answers, but by intimacy. Not by achievement, but by surrender to what is unfolding.

Let the morning winds carry away the dust that has gathered on your heart. Let the hush before sunrise remind you of who you are when all the noise falls away. You are not here to merely survive the hours. You are here to let something sacred pass through you. To be a vessel of grace, a bearer of light, a witness to what is holy in the ordinary.

So do not turn back. Do not retreat into the slumber of forgetfulness. There is something here for you—something quietly luminous, waiting to meet you in your vulnerability. Let the breath of dawn draw you out, not just from your sleep, but from all the smallness you’ve mistaken for safety. The path ahead does not demand perfection, only presence. Only the willingness to begin again with tenderness.

Let your life answer this quiet call.

Let yourself awaken.

All my Love and Light,
An