Motion as Prayer

You wake before the world does. A faint pulse stirs beneath your ribs—quiet, insistent, familiar. Not a command. An invitation. Move. Not to chase perfection. Not to outrun yesterday. But to remember the body you left behind in the noise. You step outside. The morning is soft, salt-tinged, wide open. Each breath feels like a doorway. Each step feels like returning. The ocean waits—not as a test, but as a mirror. It rises, falls, and rises again, teaching the truth you spent years resisting: Motion is not punishment. Stillness is not failure. Your body is not a project. It is a homecoming. The first wave meets your shins—cold, sharp, awakening. You close your eyes. Listen. And in that listening you feel the truth humming through every bone: You are not here to perform. You are here to live. To move with presence. To breathe without fear. To let the body speak the language you forgot you knew. The tide pulls back. You follow. Not because you must. Because you're finally ready.