Since today is Monday (and this is likely my last post of 2025), I figured the timing of this was appropriate.
There’s a moment every morning — usually before the alarm, before the coffee, before you’ve fully returned to yourself — when life feels heavier than it has any right to be. You lie there in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, staring at the ceiling while your brain quietly pours every problem, every task, every loose thread of your life into the room with you. Bills that are probably in your inbox, messages you haven’t answered, and errands you don’t want to run. Even the good things somehow feel like obligations when you’re still half-asleep.
It’s amazing how unfair your mind can be before sunrise. A simple phone call or scheduled interview feels like a mountain to climb. A typical workday feels like an insurmountable burden. Even brushing your teeth and showering feels like too much effort sometimes. And yet, it’s not long before you’re moving through those same tasks without panic or drama, wondering why they felt impossible from under the blankets. That shift from dread to manageable says something honest about the human experience. In those quiet waking moments, you’re confronted with a deeper conflict that we rarely talk about: the constant tension between wanting your life to be entirely your own and knowing you still need some kind of purpose to feel grounded.
Most of us want the same simple thing: more time to ourselves. Time to breathe without deadlines chasing us around. Time to let the day unfold slowly instead of leaping into responsibility the moment our eyes open. It’s not laziness. It’s a longing for autonomy and the ability to decide, moment by moment, how your life is spent. Even when you love your work or enjoy your routines, there is still an undeniable desire for a day without structure, a morning without pressure, a life that doesn’t constantly ask for something from you.
But human beings are funny creatures, because this wish for endless freedom has another side we rarely acknowledge. Look at the number of retirees who dream for decades about the day they’ll no longer be tied to a schedule, only to find themselves going stir-crazy after a few months. They sleep in, enjoy leisurely breakfasts, do some traveling, play plenty of golf, catch up on hobbies — and then something starts to shift. The days blur. The spark dulls. The lack of direction becomes a different kind of burden. Many end up going back to work part-time, volunteering, or finding a new project or cause because having nothing but free time ends up feeling less like a gift and more like drifting. Even boredom has a purpose: it points us toward meaning.
And that’s the strange truth we all live with. We crave freedom, yet too much of it makes us restless. We crave purpose, yet too much of it makes us feel trapped. So we spend our lives walking the line between the two. In the morning, before the thinking brain fully returns and the emotional shields go up, that conflict is at its sharpest. You want to stay in bed and claim the day as your own but there is some deeper instinct, some quiet voice that says, “You still have things to do. You still have a place in the world.”
Getting out of bed becomes more than a physical act; it becomes a tiny moral decision. You’re choosing to show up for your life and to move forward, not get paralyzed. You’re choosing purpose over avoidance, even if your purpose isn’t world-changing or glamorous. There’s a kind of bravery in that — in deciding, again and again, that the day is worth walking into.
And once you do get moving, once the coffee is poured, the light changes, and the first small task is handled, something softens. Your thoughts stop shouting. The problems go back to their normal size. That impossible to-do list reveals itself as just another Tuesday. You’re not magically happier; you’re simply in motion, and motion has a way of pulling you back into yourself.
What’s interesting is that both the dread and the relief are telling the truth. You really do want more autonomy, and you really do need purpose. Those desires don’t cancel each other out — they coexist, competing and cooperating in equal measure. And maybe that’s the real story of adulthood: learning to live in that tension without expecting it to resolve. Learning that freedom feels good because purpose gives it contrast. Learning that purpose feels meaningful because freedom is what we reach toward when we’re tired.
So the next time you wake up with that familiar heaviness pressing on your chest and legs (mine always seems to show up in my thighs for some reason), don’t judge yourself for it. It’s not a sign of weakness, or age, or failure. It’s just your humanity announcing itself before breakfast. It’s a reminder that you are a person balancing needs that will never entirely stop pulling in opposite directions. And we never “catch up” because, retired or not, there is always something you have to do, whether it’s taking out the garbage, replacing the brakes on your car, or doing laundry. You want the day to be your own, and you also want to matter and feel useful.
And somehow, despite or likely because of that constant tug-of-war, you get up anyway.
John Berkovich Talks 