Some mornings, getting out of bed feels heroic. And then there are mornings like today—when Hudson is stretched beside me in full golden-retriever splendor, making the idea of standing upright seem like too much ambition for one person before coffee.

He’s curled up like a perfect little croissant, breathing softly, paws twitching like he’s chasing squirrels in his sleep. Meanwhile, I’m lying there trying to convince myself that being a responsible adult is more important than staying under a warm blanket with a dog who looks like he was custom-designed for comfort.

There’s something about these early moments that slows the world down. The room is quiet. The blankets are heavy in the best way. My brain hasn’t even remembered my to-do list yet. It’s just me, Hudson, and the kind of calm that’s hard to come by anywhere else.

I know I’ll eventually get up, make coffee, and start writing. But for a few extra minutes, I let myself stay in that soft, warm pause. It’s not procrastination. It’s permission. It’s grounding. It’s the reminder that comfort can be the thing that fills the tank before the day asks for more of me.

If you need me, I’ll be here a little longer—stuck under a blanket, held hostage by a very sleepy golden retriever who has no idea the power he holds.

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