The Morning Routine That Wasn’t

Today hasn’t gone as planned.

It had been a week since I’d been to the gym – well, that’s not exactly true. Twice, I drove there, sat in the parking lot, then turned around and drove to watch the pre-sunrise instead. School hasn’t been the problem; issues at home have. The depression had a catalyst, to be sure, but it’s also part of my cycle: the crash after the hypomania required to restart the school year, a consistent mood episode pattern I’ve yet to figure out how to avoid despite intentional navigation.

But this morning was different. At 5 a.m., despite the rain, cold, and darkness, I drove to Planet Fitness anyway, determined to steal back my routine stability one choice at a time. Thirty minutes on the elliptical listening to an On Purpose with Jay Shetty episode – I had six to choose from, a week’s worth of normalcy accruing without my consumption. I chose Harvard Psychologist Matthew Nock’s interview about the 20% of people who experience suicidal thoughts. It felt right. It was the most recent on my playlist, and I made a plan for catching up on missed episodes from this and my other three podcasts. I’d started my day practicing normalcy, even if I was already feeling behind.

The Solitude of Sunrise

Twenty minutes later, I backed into my usual parking space at Yorktown Pier in total solitude. Not a soul in sight – not even Santa Billy on his tractor raking the beach. He prefers the snow in Colonial Williamsburg on rainy days like this, I’m sure, and he looks the part he plays there each winter with his white whiskers and jolly smile.

Billy and I have gotten to know each other over these past six months of sunrises. When he first started showing up for beach clean-up in the spring, I resented the engine noise creeping into my videos. I’d wait for him to reach the other pier and get out of earshot, learning patience even if it meant missing the actual cresting of the sun.

Then about a month ago, Billy stopped behind me to chat just before that cresting moment. When I mentioned my morning video series and how I’d wait for him to clear my spot, he said, “That sun is about to peek up, little lady. I’m gonna get moving so you can capture the sunrise,” before hopping back on his tractor. Every day since, he’s timed his laps to leave me mostly in peace, always stopping once to chat, and always down by the other pier when the sun crests.

Last week, when I needed it most, Billy turned off his engine and climbed down from his tractor. “You don’t know what joy it brings me when I come ’round the bend and see your little car parked there,” he said. “Seeing you makes my morning.” He couldn’t have known how much I needed to be reminded that someone saw something good in me.

Parking in that same spot this morning, I realized I missed Santa Billy and the sound of his tractor engine.

When Everything Stops

I turned off my car engine, left the key in the ignition, and shut off my headlights. Despite the wind, rain, and darkness, I got my daily Snapchat post started – three short video clips from pre to post sunrise. Between shots, I stayed in my car and journaled, watching the birds fly, soaring and diving. I wished I could do the same.

It didn’t matter that it was cold and dreary. If I could have stayed all day, I would have. But when I turned the key to head home and change for work, the engine sputtered, the dash lights flickered. My car wouldn’t start.

My solitude became isolation. Not a car in sight.

I thanked God that my husband had cell reception at work today. Students would enter my room in fifty-five minutes. Twenty minutes for him to reach me, five to jump the battery, seven more home – cutting it close, but at least I had makeup in my gym bag. I put on my face, styled my hair, and by the time Tony arrived, the jumper cables were already connected to my battery.

Racing Against Time

Minutes later, I was home, throwing on clothes while my second cup of coffee brewed. I grabbed my badge and drove to work, twenty minutes later than usual, stuck behind a school bus at the light on Highway 17 across from the school. At 7:48 – seven minutes until students would walk into my classroom – the bus wouldn’t cross the street. An endless line of cars formed behind me.

I texted my department chair at 7:55, then called the main office only to learn the school building had no power and kids were being kept on buses. I reached my classroom door just as the first student arrived after being released into a powerless building.

Finding Light in the Dark

“Ms. Ramos, will we still test? Do we get to go home? Why isn’t the Wi-Fi working?”

The questions came rapid-fire. I answered them all with one response: “I understand you have questions. I don’t know anything more than you do. We’ll wait for an update from the principal.”

What to do on a dark, rainy September morning with twenty-five sixth graders and no power or internet?

I passed out coloring worksheets, blank paper, and loose-leaf. I played soft instrumental music. I taught them about mindfulness. They could color, draw, or freewrite. We looked out the windows beyond the raindrops and fog to the courtyard. We noticed the blue shed with its gray roof drip-dripping. We listened to the colored pencils rubbing against paper, the scrape of a desk chair against the floor, the click of one boy’s keyboard – he’d had the foresight to download an offline game.

I circled the room at first, asking students to get lost in their own minds, to think about thinking, to feel their breath moving in and out. Then I sat down and started typing, capturing this morning in words while they captured their thoughts in colors.

The Power Always Returns

Eventually, the electric company restored power. Within minutes, the internet was working, and a voice over the loudspeaker announced we’d begin testing after all.

The power came back on, just as it always does. Not on our timeline, not when we expect it, but eventually. We tested after all. Life continued.

And maybe that’s the lesson I needed today – that even when everything feels powerless, when we’re sitting in parking lots unable to start, when we’re literally in the dark – restoration comes. Sometimes through jumper cables from someone who loves us, sometimes through patient waiting, sometimes through teaching children to find peace in uncertainty.

Billy wasn’t there this morning to remind me that seeing me makes his day. But twenty-five sixth graders learned that even when the power goes out, we can still find our own light. The blue shed kept dripping. The colored pencils kept scraping. We kept breathing.

And somehow, despite the morning that didn’t go as planned, we all made it through – restored, reconnected, and ready for whatever comes next.