I woke up today while the light was still that strange, thin grey color. Not quite morning, but definitely no longer night. The house was doing that thing where it creaks just a little bit, settling into its own bones while everyone else is asleep. I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, just listening to my own breathing. I wasn’t thinking about much of anything. I didn’t have that heavy rush of things to do or places to be. It was just a quiet reset. One of those days where you feel like you’re operating behind a pane of glass. Everything is a little softer, a little slower, and you kind of want to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.

I didn’t turn on the big lights. I just padded into the kitchen with my wool socks sliding a bit on the floorboards. I like the kitchen at this hour. It feels honest. There are no dishes clattering or kettles whistling. It’s just me and the silence. I stood by the counter and looked out the window at the garden, which was still mostly shadows. I realized I wasn’t hungry in the way that demands a big plate of eggs or something heavy that requires a fork and a knife and a lot of effort. It was a calm hunger. The kind that just wants something cool and steady to ground you before the world starts making noise.

I reached for a glass jar. I’ve always liked jars. There’s something about seeing what’s inside, the transparency of it, that feels right on a morning like this. I didn’t plan this. I just saw the bag of chia seeds sitting there and it made sense. They’re so small, almost like dust, but they have this way of transforming if you just give them enough time. I poured a few spoonfuls into the bottom of the glass. I didn’t measure. I never really do when I’m in this headspace. It’s more about the sound they make hitting the glass—a tiny, rhythmic pitter-patter, like dry rain.

I added some milk. I think it was almond, or maybe oat, it doesn’t really matter. I just watched it swirl around the seeds, turning them from a dry pile into something swimming and fluid. I stirred it slowly with a long spoon, watching the seeds begin to suspended themselves in the liquid. It’s a patient process. You can’t force them to change. They just need to sit. They need to soak. I find a lot of comfort in that lately—the idea that something can become better just by being left alone in the dark for a while.

I put the lid on and tucked it into the back of the fridge. Then I went back to the living room and sat in the blue chair by the window. I didn’t pick up my phone. I didn’t turn on the news. I just watched the grey turn into a pale, watery yellow. I think we spend so much of our lives trying to fill the gaps, trying to be loud and productive and visible. But there’s a real grace in the waiting. There’s a grace in the quiet reset.

When I finally went back for the jar, the transformation had happened. It wasn’t liquid anymore. It had become this soft, spoonable texture. It looked thick and steady. I pulled a handful of raspberries out of a bowl on the counter. They were deep, bruised red, almost purple in the dim light. I pressed a few of them into the top of the pudding. I liked how they looked against the speckled grey of the seeds. Some of them broke a little, staining the top with a bit of pink juice. It felt like a small bit of art that no one was going to see but me.

I found a few stray chocolate chips in the back of the cupboard and dropped them on top, too. I wasn’t trying to be healthy. I just wanted that little bit of snap, that tiny bit of bitterness to go against the softness of everything else. This kind of food doesn’t rush you. It’s not a sandwich you eat over the sink or a bar you chew while walking to the car. You have to sit down with this. You have to use a spoon. You have to notice the way it feels.

The first bite was cold. That lovely, sharp chill that wakes up your tongue without startling the rest of your body. The raspberries were tart and bright, bursting easily, and the pudding itself was just… quiet. It doesn’t have a loud flavor. It’s just creamy and mild. It feels like a long exhale. I sat there at my small table, watching a single bird hop across the fence outside, and I just ate. I didn’t think about what I had to do at ten o’clock or what I forgot to do yesterday. I just focused on the weight of the spoon and the way the glass jar felt cool against my palm.

Honestly, I think I needed the texture more than the food itself. Sometimes your mind is so fragmented, so scattered across a dozen different anxieties, that you need something consistent to bring you back down. The chia seeds have this interesting way of being both smooth and slightly poppy, a tiny bit of resistance that keeps you present in the moment. You can’t really mindlessly eat this. You notice it.

I think about the way we treat our mornings usually. We treat them like a race we’ve already lost. We wake up behind schedule, even if we’re on time. We rush the coffee, we rush the shower, we rush the hello to whoever else is in the house. But today felt like a secret I was keeping from the clock. By the time I reached the bottom of the jar, scraping the last few seeds from the glass, the sun was finally up. The world was starting to look sharp and defined again. The shadows were retreating.

I didn’t feel the need to jump up and start cleaning or checking emails. I just sat with the empty jar for a minute. It’s funny how a few raspberries and some seeds can feel like a sort of anchor. It wasn’t about the recipe. I couldn’t even tell you exactly how much milk I used or how long it stayed in the fridge. It was just about the act of making something that required me to wait. It was about choosing a soft-care mood instead of a frantic one.

I think I’ll leave the jar on the counter for a while. I’m not ready to wash it yet. I’m not ready to move into the part of the day where everything has to be tidy and finished. For now, I’m just going to stay in this sliver of time where the house is still mostly quiet and the air still feels fresh. There is so much pressure to always be “on,” to always be the best version of yourself, to always have a plan. But sometimes, the best thing you can do is just soak. Just sit in the liquid of your own life and wait until you feel a little more solid, a little more whole.

The raspberries are all gone now, just a few pink streaks left on the glass. I can hear the neighbors starting their car, and the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street. The day is coming for me, whether I’m ready or not. But I think I’m okay with it now. I’ve had my reset. I’ve had my quiet. It just made sense to start this way.

I wonder why we don’t give ourselves permission to do this more often. To just exist in the dim light without an agenda. To eat something because it’s cold and soft and easy on the soul. We spend so much energy trying to fuel ourselves for the grind, but we forget to nourish the part of us that just needs to be still.

I’ll probably make this again tomorrow, or maybe I won’t. Maybe tomorrow will require something different, something louder. But for today, the jar was enough. The silence was enough. I feel like I’ve put a little bit of space between myself and the noise of the world, and that space is where I can finally breathe.

I’m going to go pour a glass of water now. I’m going to watch the light crawl across the floorboards. I’m not in a hurry. The world can wait another ten minutes. It’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.