A chirping alarm has heralded the day’s onset for much of my life. My arms reach out of their own will, stabbing at the silence button with the precision and speed of a master fencer dipping inside his enemies guard. It typically requires so little thought that my mind can almost fit the odd noise into my dreams and continue on unperturbed. At least until the second or even third alarm strikes.

It’s not even that I regularly stay up late. Many of my friends know me as the first to leave a party for bed. Even way back in the days when I was in bed by 9 I would struggle in the mornings, needing a gentle shake from my parents in the absence of an alarm clock. My body just soaks up sleep like a perpetually dry sponge.

All of which means it is especially odd that I haven’t needed an alarm for months. I’ve found myself naturally waking up around 7:30 every day, my sleep lightening with the skies. On the occasions that I manage to pass by this silent milestone, 8:30am has proven to be an intractable barrier no matter how quiet my environs or deep my sleep.

I do miss those luxurious weekend morning snoozes where you seem to burrow deeper and deeper into the covers with every passing hour, sure in the knowledge that nothing and nobody is waiting for you. But natural wakeups have certainly enlivened me for the first couple hours of work, at least comparatively. And getting out for an early run or activity on the weekend always makes me feel productive and alive.

Quarantine chainging my daily schedule feels like a natural explanation. But maybe that’s too easy a mark. Natural aging, spending less time on screens after work, or any other of a thousand factors could be equally at fauly. I’ll be very interested to see how long this morning routine persists, and whether I’ll miss it when (or if?!) it leaves.