Every Morning Begins with Darkness. I Make Coffee Anyway

I don’t wake up to sunlight, birds singing, or some bullshit sense of purpose.

I wake up to weight. To dread. To the kind of silence that has claws.

The darkness gets there before I do—already waiting.

That’s the real alarm clock. The one in my gut.

And still—I get up.

I make coffee. Not because I want to.

But because I have to live heroically or die.

Because to let mediocrity and the herd win would be surrender.

Because that’s how survival works when your brain is trying to kill you.

Let’s get something straight:

The people who wake up clear-headed, confident, born into love, stability, and money—

they’re not stronger. They’re lucky.

They won the biological lottery.

Healthy brain chemistry. Parents who knew how to love.

A world that opened its arms instead of slamming doors.

Good for them.

But let’s keep it real—they are not heroes. They were born with a full deck.

The real heroes?

We, who started twenty feet underground with nothing but grit and a flickering will to live.

We, who wake up every morning inside the war and still go to work, still love, still show up.

We fight invisible battles, the kind that don’t earn medals, just more mornings.

We drag ourselves out of bed with monsters still clinging to our backs.

We shower while whispering reasons to stay alive.

We brew coffee, yesterday’s tears crusted on our faces, tasting the bitterness twice.

And we do it again. Morning after morning. Day after day. Life after life.

That’s strength.

Not the hypocritical, herd-approved kind—the “bro” strength flaunted in gyms and on social media,

obsessed with superficial gains and external validation.

The real kind.

The kind that never gets applause. That burns quiet and low, but never goes out.

There are no medals for surviving your own mind.

No trophies for making it through another day without giving in.

But there should be.

Because if you can face the void before breakfast—

if you can live with a brain that lies to you,

a history that tries to bury you,

a system that never cared if you made it—

and you still get up,

you’re the strongest kind of human there is.

So yeah—every morning begins with darkness.

And I make coffee anyway.

Not because I feel like it.

But because I refuse to let mediocrity and the herd win.

Because I’m still here. And that means everything.

Author’s Note

This is for anyone who wakes up to a war inside their own mind.

Who faces mornings that terrify like monsters.

You’re not weak.

You’re not broken.

You’re a goddamned hero—bleeding, breathing, and still pouring coffee.

Don’t ever forget it.

— Juan Lesende