One of the unexpected side effects of getting sober has been how much less sleep I seem to need these days. Or maybe it’s not that I need less sleep—maybe it’s that what I used to call “sleep” was never really rest at all. It was more like passing out: collapsing into unconsciousness, escaping from a day I couldn’t face, only to wake up hours later with a dry mouth, a spinning head, and a soul heavy with regret. Most mornings I didn’t want to get out of bed because I already knew how the day would end—drunk, ashamed, and disappointed in myself again. But now, sober, I wake up early. Really early. And for the first time in years, those early hours feel like a gift rather than a punishment.
I’ve come to love those extra three hours that have been handed back to me. They’re mine. They’re quiet. The world hasn’t quite started yet, and in that stillness I can feel the peace that sobriety has brought into my life. It’s a peace that was impossible when I was drinking—my head too loud with shame, my body too weary from the night before, my heart too full of self-loathing to even consider peace a possibility. But now, with clear eyes and a steady mind, I get to witness the beauty of a world I used to sleep through—or rather, stumble past in a fog. And in that time, in that calm, I’ve made a new friend.
His name is Burt. Burt the hedgehog. He wouldn’t have been part of my life when I was drinking. Not just because I wouldn’t have been up at 5:30am to see him, but because I never would’ve noticed him. My mind back then was so consumed with guilt and shame that I barely noticed myself, let alone a tiny creature quietly going about his morning routine. But now, every morning like clockwork, Burt emerges from the bushes and begins his breakfast hunt in the back garden. And most days, once he’s rustled around a bit, he stops what he’s doing and waddles over to me, as if to say, “Good morning.” There’s something deeply healing in that moment—just a small creature, fully present, acknowledging me in the peace of a new day.
What surprises me most about Burt is how fast he is. For a little ball of spikes, he moves with such purpose, so quick on his feet. I can’t help but see something of myself in him—quietly determined, moving forward, and maybe even surprising the world a little with my pace. In my drinking days I felt so slow, so stuck. Every morning felt like dragging myself through molasses, mentally and spiritually exhausted before I’d even stood up. But now, like Burt, I find myself moving with new energy, new intention. Recovery hasn’t just given me time back—it’s given me myself back. It’s woken up parts of me I thought were dead, and shown me that there is wonder in even the smallest of things, if I only choose to see it.
And perhaps most meaningful of all is this: I truly believe that Burt is a gift from my God. A quiet, friendly, and spiky little reminder that I am never really alone, even when I feel like I am. Those early mornings, when it’s just me and the soft light and the sound of dew settling on the grass, Burt appears like a whisper from God saying, “I see you. Keep going.” In the stillness of sobriety, I have found connection—in nature, in myself, and in the gentle nudges of something greater than me. I used to believe I was cursed to walk through life alone, haunted by the wreckage of my past. But now I know better. Sobriety hasn’t just given me mornings—it’s given me meaning. And in a way I never expected, it’s given me a friend.
The Way of the Morning Hedgehog
The drunkard sleeps,
but it is not rest.
It is exile.
A collapse into shadow,
to flee the weight of the day,
only to awaken,
in the ruins of himself.
This is not waking.
This is returning,
to a battlefield.
But now,
in the still hush before the sun speaks,
I rise.
Not because I must,
but because I can.
Because the silence calls my name
without shouting.
Three hours,
have been returned to me.
Time I once sacrificed,
to the god of forgetting.
Now it arrives,
like an old friend at the door,
unhurried,
unchanged,
forgiving.
There is a hedgehog,
in my garden.
He does not know shame.
He does not know regret.
He moves quickly,
purposefully,
without apology.
His name is Burt.
He is the Way
wrapped in quills.
When I drank,
the world was a blur,
I did not wish to see.
Birdsong was a nuisance.
Dawn a punishment.
My breath,
was something I tried to hold,
until it passed.
But now,
I watch Burt eat,
with reverence.
And in his small, spiky presence,
I learn again,
how to be present myself.
Burt does not know,
he is teaching.
That is why he is a true teacher.
He arrives,
he rustles,
he nods,
and the morning becomes sacred.
The Way does not shout.
It does not knock down your door,
or write its name in thunder.
It appears in the dew,
in the still air,
in the sound of tiny feet,
on damp grass.
It says,
“I see you.”
Not with judgement,
but with joy.
I thought I was alone.
That I would always be alone.
But solitude is not the same,
as loneliness.
And silence,
is not the same,
as absence.
Recovery is not a race.
It is a return.
A remembering.
A noticing.
Of hedgehogs.
Of stillness.
Of self.
I move now,
like Burt,
quiet,
unbothered,
full of quiet determination.
The Way,
is not always a straight path.
Sometimes,
it is a gentle waddle,
toward someone who is finally still enough,
to notice.
And that,
perhaps,
is the greatest miracle:
Not that I see Burt,
but that I can be seen,
by something so small,
and sacred.
In sobriety,
I found the morning.
In the morning,
I found the Way.
And in the Way,
I found a friend.
