The alarm goes off at 5:47 am.
Not 6:00 am.
5:47 am
Because 13 extra minutes matters when you’re trying to fit a whole life in before small feet hit the floor.
For a split second, in that dark quiet, the thought comes:
“I have to get up.”
I have to train before the boys wake.
I have to answer emails before lessons start.
I have to lift later while they build Lego cities around me.
I have to make this whole machine run.
It’s tempting to stay under the covers and let those sentences settle heavy on my chest like a warm blanket.
But instead, I swing my legs out of bed and start my day.
Because the truth is—
I get to.
Outside, it’s still dark. The air is cool and thick and quiet in a way only early mornings are. I clip on my headlamp, start moving, and feel that familiar mix of stiffness and gratitude.
I get to have a body that moves.
I get to chase goals.
I get to model discipline before the sun even rises.
By the time I am through with my routine: meditation, smoothie, coffee, stretch, workout, and emails/writing- the house is just beginning to stir. First comes the whispering between the boys then a creaky door I keep meaning to WD40 opens with the sound of little feet coming out to greet the day.
And the next wave begins.
Breakfast.
Math that requires lots of engaging games.
Reading that demands cuddles and cozy spaces.
Snacks.
Work calls and emails squeezed into pockets of independent reading, writing and drawing.
Family PE.
Lunch.
Strength training and physical therapy on the back deck while someone builds car ramps and does their own style of lifting heavy things near me.
It would be easy to say:
“I have to juggle it all.”
But here’s the thing.
For 2–3 whole months, we don’t have a big community of kids around us like we do in Bend.
There aren’t daily times where the kids run a muck outside.
There isn’t the built-in rhythm of a gang of kids roaming from house to house.
It’s just us.
And honestly?
I love that part.
Because for this window of time — this wild, full, slightly chaotic stretch — we get our kids all to ourselves.
No dividing attention.
No where to be except our own adventures.
No appointments.
Just long stretches of being together.
Together at the table.
Together on the trail.
Together figuring out fractions and frustration and how to be human.
There are moments when the weight of it presses in.
When I’m answering work emails with one hand while flipping eggs or buttering toast with the other.
When I’m squeezing in a trainer bike or paddle session while refereeing an argument about who’s turn it is with the red marker. When I’m packing the car and food for another race course setting mission. Or when a setting mission runs late into the night and we still have quite a bit of driving till camp.
When I’m tired in a way that sleep alone won’t fix.
That’s when “I have to” tries to sneak back in.
I have to be patient.
I have to get this training done.
I have to work, write, parent, teach.
But if I pause, even for a breath, the re-framing of mind is right there waiting.
I get to wake up early because I love early mornings and I care about my goals.
I get to build a business my kids can witness up close.
I get to show them what strength looks like, not just physically, but mentally.
And maybe most importantly –I get to be here and fully present with them.
Not everyone gets this much time with their kids.
Not everyone gets to design their days this way.
Not everyone gets to blend ambition and motherhood and adventure into one messy, beautiful rhythm.
This isn’t always balanced and it’s rarely ever graceful.
But it is chosen.
And that changes everything.
Later in the day, when the light shifts and the energy dips, we will head outside. Maybe it’s a passing the frisbee back and forth on the lawn. Maybe it’s a full-blown mission. Maybe it’s just lying in the grass looking at the sky.
And I’m reminded again:
I don’t have to do this life.
I get to.
I get to raise these boys.
I get to chase big goals while they watch.
I get to show them that hard things are privileges, not punishments.
And someday, when they’re grown and their own alarms go off before dawn, I hope their first thought isn’t “I have to.”
I hope it’s—
“I get to.”
