Mornings: Or, How I Learned to Stop Snoozing and Love Ritual
Mornings and I have a complicated relationship. They’re like that one ex who texts you at 7 a.m. with, “Hey, hope you’re well” after you explicitly asked for space. Necessary, sure, but not always welcome. Still, I’ve found that starting my day intentionally makes everything run smoother—even if my version of “intention” includes negotiating with myself to leave my bed in 20 more seconds (okay, 30).

The alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. sharp, but who are we kidding? I hit snooze at least once. Maybe twice. When I finally roll out, I take exactly three minutes to make my bed—not because I’m naturally tidy, but because an ex once swore it sets the tone for productivity. And reader, I hate admitting it, but they were right. Everything feels slightly less chaotic when my duvet is perfectly fluffed, even if I spend the rest of the morning catching up on chaos anyway.

From there, it’s straight to the kitchen for coffee, brewed in a French press because I both appreciate the ritual and like pretending I’m auditioning for a Nancy Meyers movie. Picture me in an oversized cashmere sweater, pouring warm cream and sugar into my Wedgewood mug. That image? A lie. Most mornings, I’m frantically juggling my phone in one hand (irrelevant work emails!) and a banana in the other while my dog, Clementine, stares at me with both judgment and hunger.

Mid-Morning Motivation: The Southern-Style Productivity Hustle
After Clementine gets her breakfast (priorities), I settle into my workspace. My desk overlooks my little backyard garden, a begrudging nod to Atlanta tradition, even if my thumbs are more beige than green. The light filters in through the windows just right, like the perfect filter for a photo I'll never take.

By around 10 a.m., I’ve hit my stride. A combination of caffeine, guilt (for procrastinating on Instagram), and ever-looming deadlines propels me forward. Here’s an insider secret about writing for a dating and relationship platform: It’s a mix of earnest self-reflection and realizing something embarrassing about yourself halfway through an assignment. Just last week, I was penning an article on “communication tips” and had to stop dead in my tracks because—wait—am I terrible at setting boundaries? (Spoiler alert: Yes. I also hate group chats, but that’s another story.)

Somewhere in the middle of my morning, a playlist makes its way into the background. Lately, it’s been a mix of Sam Cooke, Lizzo, and the Bridgerton classical covers. Southern charm, self-love, and orchestral drama—just how I like my life.

Lunchtime Philosophy: Can You Eat Elegantly in Athleisure?
Around noon, after a marathon of emails and drafts, I break for lunch. But here’s the thing—you could call this the most extra part of my day. Despite wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt like I’m about to walk into a Pure Barre class, I subscribe to the belief that food should feel good. Even a grilled cheese can be otherworldly if paired with the right soup.

Sometimes, I’ll channel my inner Southern hostess and make myself a small charcuterie board because I firmly believe in celebrating the mundane. A smear of pimento cheese, slices of green apple, maybe a few almonds, and voila: I’ve earned Pinterest bragging rights. (Okay, not really, but dream big.) It’s a stark contrast to the PB&J-on-paper-napkin situation I had going in college.

The ritual reminds me of lessons I picked up during years of attending countless Buckhead charity galas as a teen: small details make a big difference. Also, people always think you’re fancier than you are if you garnish something with parsley.

Afternoon Interlude: Inspiration and a Dog Walk
By mid-afternoon, my energy dips. This is where I'll admit to an obnoxious but cherished habit: I pour myself sparkling water into a wineglass, complete with a twist of lime. No, I don't think I’m better than anyone, I just think hydration is more fun when it’s trying to be champagne.

Then, Clementine takes the wheel—or leash, in this case. My lunch break doesn’t count without a walk around the tree-lined streets of my neighborhood. It’s my moment to reset, listen to a podcast (something self-improving like How to Fail or something juicy like Normal Gossip), and nod at neighbors I’ll make polite small talk with maybe twice a year at HOA events.

Southern summers make this ritual a bit like walking through soup, but Atlanta fall? Absolute perfection. Think crisp air, the faint smell of wood smoke, and yards filled with over-the-top Halloween decorations. It’s like a Nicholas Sparks novel, but less scripted.

Evening Escape: Flirting Over Fiction
By the time evening rolls around, it’s my time to step away from work and lean into writing fiction—my first love. There’s something wildly satisfying about trading the real-life challenges of dating advice for crafting imaginary ones within Southern high society.

But in true Carrie fashion, my downtime is not sans flair for the romantic. Sometimes, I’ll pour a glass of wine, light a ridiculously overpriced candle (does it smell like salted jasmine and possibility? Absolutely), and let my storytelling take me wherever it decides to go. There’s something grounding about stringing together fictional connections when real-life ones are as unpredictable as Georgia weather.

Occasionally, Clementine interrupts me with her insistence that we must have a quick jaunt outside before dinner. And who am I to argue with Clementine? She has the stubbornness of a debutante who didn’t get the dinner party seating she wanted.

Nightcap Nostalgia: Winding Down with Intention
After all is said and done, I keep my evenings calm. This doesn’t mean Netflix binges and doomscrolling Twitter are out of the question (we’re human, not saints), but I make a conscious effort to carve out reflection time. Some nights, it’s a warm bath and a reread of Flannery O’Connor. Other nights, I journal about what I’m grateful for—like the fact that I live in a city filled with both Southern charm and surprising modernity.

And every single evening, without fail, I pull out my planner. While my daily rituals might include micro-moments of indulgence, the planner grounds me in goals worth pursuing, life lessons to carry forward, and reassurance that tomorrow? Well, tomorrow starts with a made bed and a fresh French press.

So, that’s a day in my life: part Southern whimsy, part relatable chaos, with a heaping spoonful of intention. While not every day is picture-perfect, I’ve learned to savor the small joys—the pimento cheese on an otherwise average Tuesday—and to always, always prioritize the adventure of connection. Whether it’s with others, with my writing, or, perhaps most importantly, with myself.