It was a cool Sunday morning in March when I jolted awake, spurred into action by either the birds waking or my soul.

5:50 – the milky blue light starts to shine through our bedroom windows

5:53– a lone cardinal beckons for me

5:53 (and 15 seconds) – I spring out of bed, and immediately reach for a sweater.

Jake rolls over almost immediately, groggy and startled by my early morning absence from our warm bed.

I’ve admittedly been taking a more slothlike approach to weekend mornings over the two years that we’ve been living together.

Something about coupledom has had me opting for the comfort of cozy blankets and New York Times puzzles on the couch in lieu of the mornings of my not-so-distant youth spent chasing the sunrise.

But this morning was different.

It was a different that had been creeping up for some time now and as I inevitably navigate being twenty-six and coming to terms with the things that mean the most to me, it turns out that having some small adventure, something delightful to get up and do, is something that’s quite important to me.

As I struggled to shake on one pants leg and then the other, teetering on tip toes in the dimly lit bathroom, I got to thinking “what would make me most proud to be me right now?”

Heading out to have breakfast on the beach in the back of my Ford Transit felt like the answer.

It took me two hours to gather all of my photo and video equipment, pack up my cooler, pack up the van and pick a place to go.

Jake lovingly prepared a small Tupperware of chopped garlic and chicken for my omelette and I lovingly stopped at Target to indulge myself in a set of aesthetically pleasing spatulas and a new hot water heater.

Then I found myself in a parking lot next to Sandbridge Beach sinking into the memory foam of a folding mattress I’d gotten for my adventures. Birds flew past, people walked their dogs on the sand, I overcame the anxiety of sitting in a van by the beach and the urge to wonder what people might think of me sitting there.

It didn’t really matter if they thought I was homeless. Or if they thought my van was ugly. Or, even, if they were somehow bothered by the smell of my delicious omelette wafting through the parking lot.

I wasn’t out there for them. I was out there for me.