When Getting Up Is Hard

On some mornings, the hardest thing I do all day is get up. And it’s not because my life is dramatic or that something is always “wrong.” There are just some mornings when getting out of bed feels like lifting a door that’s been nailed shut.

The alarm goes off and it feels distant. My eyes open, but my body doesn’t follow. Everything is slow—like gravity got turned up overnight. I stare at the ceiling and try to remember what I’m supposed to care about. The simplest things—standing, brushing my teeth, choosing clothes—line up like chores I don’t have the energy to bargain with.

It isn’t sadness exactly. It’s more like fog. Like my feelings are underwater and my limbs are full of wet sand. And the most convincing thought in the room is: just stay here. For a long time, I thought mornings like that meant something about me. That I was failing or just plain lazy. That I didn’t want my life enough. Underneath all of it was a belief I didn’t even realize I was carrying: if I were more motivated, this wouldn’t be so hard.

In my mind, motivation was supposed to be the spark—the clean, confident energy that makes getting up feel simple. But depression doesn’t always leave room for spark. And waiting for motivation on those mornings started to feel like waiting on weather that wasn’t coming.

At some point, I saw it clearly: if I kept waiting to feel like it, I might not get up at all. Not just that morning—maybe in a deeper way, too. I might slowly hand my life over to the fog. I didn’t want that and it was robbing me.

So I made a smaller, quieter decision: I will keep going, even if I don’t feel motivated. Even if I don’t feel strong. Even if I don’t feel sure. No heroics, just some kind of step.

The shift: I stopped asking for motivation first

I used to ask myself, Do I feel like getting up? And on those mornings, the answer was almost always no. So I started asking a different question—one that didn’t require inspiration: What’s the smallest true step I can take from here? Not the step that proves I have my life together, and not the step that earns a gold star—just the next honest movement.

Sometimes it was almost embarrassingly small: sit up. That’s it. Sit up. Sometimes it was feet on the floor. Sometimes it was standing long enough to open the curtain. Sometimes it was walking to the bathroom and splashing water on my face, even if I felt nothing.

I let the first step be simple enough that even the fog couldn’t argue too hard.

And slowly, something changed. Not the depression, exactly—not right away. But my relationship with the morning. I stopped treating my lack of motivation like a verdict and started treating it like information: today needs gentleness, today needs smaller steps, today needs me to be on my own side.

What helped me keep going when motivation wasn’t available

There are three things that helped the most. I still come back to them, not as rules, more like gentle guides or reminders.

1) Make it smaller than your pride wants

On heavy mornings, my mind tries to jump ahead to the whole day: all the things I’m not doing, all the ways I’m behind, all the energy I don’t have. That mental leap makes the bed feel even heavier—like I’m not just standing up, I’m supposed to carry an entire life on my back before breakfast.

So I stopped aiming for “the day” and started aiming for the next tiny move. Sit up → feet down → stand. When I could, I’d add one more: open the curtain, drink water, put something warm in my body. It became a quiet staircase.

And I learned something important: small doesn’t mean meaningless. Small is still movement. Small is still devotion. Small is still a way of saying, I’m here. And some mornings, being here is everything.

2) Keep one promise, not ten

When I was struggling, I used to try to fix it by doing more. I’d make a plan, a new routine, a whole list of “starting tomorrow.” Then I’d wake up depressed and the list would feel like punishment. It was the road to disappointment every single time.

So I began choosing one promise. Just one tiny little promise. Something almost laughably doable: I will get out of bed before I decide how I feel. Or: I will stand up and open the curtain. Or: I will play one song. I can stay in bed until it’s over—but when it ends, I sit up.

One promise became a thread: thin, yes, but strong. Because I wasn’t trying to overhaul my life anymore. I was trying not to abandon myself. And there’s a big difference between those two.

3) Let your reasons be tender

I used to think I needed big reasons to keep going—a powerful mission, a dramatic breakthrough, a comeback story. But on the mornings I’m talking about, big reasons feel too far away or too hard to reach.

What kept me moving was softer than that. I got up because I wanted to stay in relationship with my life. I got up because I didn’t want fear making all my decisions. I got up because some small part of me still believed the fog wasn’t the full truth.

Sometimes my reason was as simple as wanting to see the light change in the window. Sometimes it was wanting to feed myself something warm. Sometimes it was wanting to prove—quietly, gently—to my own nervous system that I could take one step without collapsing.

And sometimes, honestly, it was spiritual in the smallest, most grounded way. Not performative. Not polished. Just a whisper: Try again. Just a steady presence that seemed to say: One more breath. One more step. You’re still worth showing up for.

The moment I noticed it was working

The tricky thing about “keeping going” is that it rarely looks impressive in the moment. It looks like brushing your teeth when you don’t care. It looks like making toast. It looks like answering one email and calling that a win. It looks like showering and then needing to sit down again afterward because that’s all you’ve got.

But over time, something happens. You look back and realize: I didn’t quit. I didn’t vanish from my own life. Even when I moved slowly, I moved. Even when I felt numb, I chose one small action. Even when a part of me wanted to disappear, I stayed.

And that builds a kind of trust—not the loud, confident kind, but the quiet kind that says: I can be with myself in the hard seasons. I don’t have to run. I don’t have to abandon my body. I can keep going in small ways. Motivation comes and goes. But the relationship you build with yourself when motivation isn’t there—that’s something deeper. That’s something you can return to.

If you’re in that kind of morning right now

If getting up feels hard for you right now, I want to say this clearly: you don’t need motivation to begin. You just need a step small enough to be true.

Maybe today it’s simply feet on the floor. Maybe it’s opening the curtain. Maybe it’s drinking water. Maybe it’s standing at the window and breathing for thirty seconds. Maybe it’s texting one person and letting yourself be seen, even a little.

Let that count. Let the smallness be sacred.

You are not behind because you’re moving gently. You are not failing because you’re moving slowly. You are living a real life.

And on the mornings when the fog is thick, continuing doesn’t have to be dramatic. It can be quiet. It can be soft. It can be one true step.

Gentle invitation

If you want to, leave a comment and tell me: What’s your smallest true step today? Even if it’s just “sit up.” Even if it’s just “breathe.”

I’ll be here, honoring the small victories with you.