Saddle Up: A Day in My Life, As Told By My Totally Normal Morning Ritual That Includes Chopping Kindling in Flannel Pajamas
Sometimes, it’s the little things that set the tone for your day—a steaming cup of coffee, the first streak of sunlight over the ridges, the sound of a cheeky text notification from someone definitely “not your type” but who somehow still makes your pulse skip. For me, it’s wielding a maul at 6:30 a.m. to split wood for the day’s fire. Romantic? Maybe not in the candlelit sense. But there’s something about swinging an axe that jolts you awake better than any barista ever could.
This is my day, or at least an average one. Spoiler: It involves stubborn horses, rolling up thrift-store flannel sleeves, and a soft spot for sourdough bread. But somehow, my daily rituals have taught me more about relationships than any self-help manual ever did. Let me take you through it.
Morning: Chopping Wood and Thinking About Love
Here’s the thing about axes: they don’t mess around. It’s a tool of commitment, a symbol of intention, and realigning a crooked swing will humble you faster than a bad date ever could. Every morning, I trudge out to my woodpile in a pair of fleece-lined slippers that have no business being outdoors and get to work. The crisp mountain air slaps me awake, the kindling cracks under my blade, and for about 15 minutes, I am both a rugged outdoorsman and the guy who forgot to buy dishwasher detergent last night.
There’s a metaphor here—one Oprah would probably make sound far more eloquent—but the act of chopping wood mirrors relationships in a way. You’ve got to be deliberate. Show up every day. Swing with purpose. You can't brute force it or fake it; it cuts cleaner when you’re centered. Also, sometimes you miss entirely and hit dirt, which is life in a nutshell, isn’t it?
Late Morning: Horses, Hiccups, and Lessons in Patience
By late morning, I’m out in the barn with Hank and Clementine, our two horses, who embody every piece of advice anyone’s ever ignored about relationships. Hank is pushy and demanding—you give him an inch, he takes a mile. Clementine, on the other hand, is effortlessly aloof. Let’s be real, she’s the dating equivalent of the person who takes ten hours to reply with a “k” but still holds all the power.
Every day, Hank reminds me that boundaries matter (with people and giant animals), while Clementine keeps me humble when my small talk goes utterly unappreciated. Horses, like humans, aren’t impressed by fluff. What they want is consistency and trust. Also, carrots, but that feels less profound.
If I learned anything about love from growing up around these stubborn creatures, it’s this: sometimes you’ve got to take a step back and let the other person—or horse—breathe. Giving space doesn’t mean you’re not connected; it means you trust them to meet you halfway eventually. And if they don’t? Well, maybe Hank was never meant for you in the first place.
Midday: Sourdough and the Chemistry of Connection
Here’s another thing I do most days, rain or shine or minor existential crisis: bake bread. My sourdough starter’s name is “Ol’ Reliable,” because if there’s one relationship in my life that has consistently delivered, it’s that bubbling jar of flour and water.
Making sourdough has taught me about the slow burn of chemistry. It’s not the flashy, instant-match kind of love you see in a rom-com. It’s the quiet fizzing of yeast that takes time to rise. It’s patience and nurturing and understanding that some days, despite your best efforts, things won’t turn out like you planned. And that’s okay—you try again tomorrow.
Also, kneading out aggression against an unruly partner (or a tough dough) is 10/10 for mental health. But pro tip: no matter how frustrated you are at life, don’t skip the proofing stage. Rush the process, and you’ll get a mess. Timing is everything, in life and bread-baking.
Afternoon: A Hike, a Playlist, and the Magic of Perspective
Most afternoons, I lace up my boots and hit a trail. The San Juan Mountains have a way of putting things into perspective. When you’re standing on an overlook with views that stretch for miles, it’s hard to get too worked up over whether an “Okay, cool” text means they’re not interested or just bad at communication. Spoiler: it’s always the latter.
My hiking ritual also pairs nicely with my expertly curated playlist—a genre mashup I call “Existential Cowboy Meets ‘90s Sad Girl.” There’s some Willie Nelson in there, but also Alanis Morissette, because sometimes you need both sage wisdom and righteous angst. If you ever need a hit of catharsis about your own relationship woes, I highly recommend belting “You Oughta Know” at the top of a pine-studded ridge where no one can hear you. (Except Hank probably hears. He always does.)
There’s something meditative about walking uphill for miles. It reminds me that progress isn’t linear. Sometimes it’s slow. Sometimes you lose your footing. But let me tell you, once you’ve earned that view at the top? It’s worth every misstep.
Evening: Fireside Reflection and Fuzzy Socks
By evening, I’m back inside. There’s a fire going—thanks to that morning’s handiwork—and a book waiting for me on the arm of my leather chair. Nine times out of ten, it’s something by Willa Cather or a dog-eared copy of “Blood Meridian” because when you live in the modern world, sometimes you need a reminder that life could always be more complicated (like “man vs. manifest destiny” complicated).
This is when I reflect on the day: the moments I laughed, stumbled, swore under my breath, or stared at my phone screen in anxious bewilderment because someone sent a cryptic “Let’s hang soon, maybe.” Like the kindling, the horses, and the bread, every interaction during the day becomes a reminder that relationships aren’t about perfection. Romance isn’t a Hallmark movie; it happens in the messy, weird, unscripted moments.
Epilogue: Lessons from a Day That’s Never Quite the Same
So much of my day revolves around rituals that keep me grounded, yet each one ties back to relationships—whether it’s with the people I care about or myself. Splitting wood reminds me to be steady. Handling horses tests my patience. Baking bread teaches me that good things take time. And the mountains, always, remind me how small my worries really are in the grand scheme of things.
Turns out, life isn’t glamorous. It’s not all candlelit dinners or spontaneous road trips in matching fleece jackets. But in its quiet, unexpected way? It’s pretty incredible. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: The ordinary moments—the chopping wood, baking bread, even the texts that make you overthink—are the glue to build something extraordinary, if you let them.
So here’s to all the mess, the beauty, and the work. Be it love, bread, or a slightly stubborn horse, I promise you—it’s worth it.
