Living by Your Circadian Rhythm: A Mountain, the Ocean, and the Life I Choose

Today was a special day.

Not because I climbed an enormous mountain or achieved something extraordinary by anyone else's definition.

It was special because, for a moment, I felt completely in tune with the way I actually want to live.

I woke with the light.

I hiked a mountain.

I sat above the ocean and breathed.

I rode my bike downhill with the wind against my skin.

I ate a simple lunch.

I slept.

Then I swam a kilometre in the ocean.

And somewhere between the mountain and the sea, I realised something:

I don't want to live the life someone else thinks I should live. I want to live the life that feels right to me.

Learning to Live by Your Circadian Rhythm

I've been having some challenges with waking up lately.

My body naturally wakes with the first light, which here is around 6:30 a.m. My eyes open and, for a moment, I know I'm ready to start the day.

Then my mind gets involved.

"Go back to sleep."

So I snooze.

And snooze.

And eventually I find myself drifting in and out of incredibly vivid, sometimes lucid dreams before finally getting up a few hours later.

It's strange because my body seems to know what to do.

My mind is the one negotiating.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately and about what it means to live by your circadian rhythm.

I'm not suggesting that everyone should wake with the sunrise or throw away their alarm clock. Life, work and family commitments don't always allow that.

But for me, something feels like it's changing.

I'm beginning to want a more natural relationship with sleep, daylight and waking.

When the sun is up, I want to be up.

When the sun goes down, I want to slow down.

When darkness arrives, I want to sleep.

It's a wonderfully simple idea.

Four Years of 3:30 a.m. Alarms

Perhaps my current relationship with mornings makes more sense when I look at where I've come from.

During my years on the Appalachian Trail, my alarm would go off at 3:30 a.m.

Year after year, from 2022 through last year, I'd spend 6 weeks at a time getting up at that hour.

3:30 a.m.

Get up.

Get moving.

Do it again tomorrow.

And again.

And again.

After years of that, I think something inside me had simply had enough.

I remember thinking:

I'm never getting up for an alarm again.

It sounds dramatic, but after forcing myself awake before dawn for so long, I think I needed a break from the idea that getting up early automatically meant being disciplined, productive or successful.

Maybe that's why I've become interested in a different kind of morning routine.

Not one based on forcing myself out of bed at a particular time.

One based on paying attention.

Paying attention to my body.

Paying attention to daylight.

Paying attention to how I actually feel.

Hiking in Spain and Following a Different Trail

Despite all my ambitions of getting up early, I didn't make it to the base of Montgo Mountain until around 10 a.m.

The plan was straightforward.

I'd take the usual path up the side of the mountain and then return the same way.

But for the last few weeks, I'd been passing a rugged-looking trail on my right.

I'd noticed it.

I wondered where it went.

Today, I decided to find out.

So I took it.

And rather than rushing, I took my time.

Up and up I climbed.

Eventually, I found myself more than 1,500 feet above sea level.

Now, I know 1,500 feet isn't particularly high.

If you're from somewhere like the San Juan Mountains, where the Hardrock 100 takes place, you might barely consider that elevation.

But I'm not playing the elevation game.

The number wasn't the point.

The experience was.

I had climbed roughly 1.5 miles, although I can't remember the exact distance, and eventually I reached a place where I could simply stop.

So I stopped.

Sometimes the Best Part of a Hike Is Stopping

I sat at the top of the mountain.

Below me was the ocean.

Around me were mountains.

The landscape stretched out in front of me, and for a while, there was nothing I needed to do.

No phone.

No screen.

No notification.

No destination.

Just me sitting there and breathing.

And it was beautiful.

I've realised that sometimes we spend so much time trying to reach somewhere that we forget to actually experience the place when we get there.

We're always thinking about the next kilometre.

The next summit.

The next task.

The next destination.

But today I wanted to sit.

So I sat.

I breathed.

I looked.

And I took it all in.

That's one of the things I love about an outdoor lifestyle.

Nature doesn't seem particularly interested in how productive you are.

The mountain doesn't care how many emails you've answered.

The ocean doesn't care how many followers you have.

You can simply be there.

The Ride Back Down

Eventually, it was time to descend.

I got back on my bike and started cruising downhill.

The wind blew against my skin, cooling my body as I rode.

There's something incredibly freeing about descending a mountain on a bike with nothing but the road, the landscape and the wind around you.

I've also become a big fan of wearing my HOKA long-sleeve fitted T-shirt when I'm out exercising.

Whenever I pass a water fountain, I wet my arms down.

They stay wet and cool for surprisingly long periods while I'm out running or riding.

It's a small ritual, but these little things become part of the experience.

The clothing.

The water.

The bike.

The trail.

The weather.

The feeling of moving through a landscape rather than simply looking at it through a window.

A Simple Lunch and an Afternoon Nap

Eventually I made it home.

Lunch was simple:

Sea bass.

Salad.

Sourdough toast with avocado.

Then I took a nap.

There's something else I'm learning about living intentionally: not every part of the day needs to be optimised.

Sometimes you need to eat.

Sometimes you need to sleep.

Sometimes you need to stop trying to squeeze more out of the day.

For years, I associated early mornings with achievement.

Get up early.

Get moving.

Make the most of the day.

But perhaps making the most of the day sometimes means taking a nap in the afternoon.

And that's exactly what I did.

Ocean Swimming in Spain

Later, I headed back outside.

This time, into the ocean.

I've made myself a promise that while I'm here in Spain, I'll swim one kilometre in the ocean every day.

Ocean swimming in Spain creates a completely different mental state for me.

Once I'm out in the water, something changes.

There are no screens to touch.

Nothing to swipe.

No notifications.

No endless stream of information demanding my attention.

Just water.

Sky.

Mountains.

Breathing.

Movement.

And space to think.

It's almost as if the ocean gives my mind permission to slow down.

Thinking About My Father

As I swam today, I thought about my father.

I remembered something he once said to me:

"Kristian, you're living the life I want to live."

I'll never forget those words.

My father has passed away now, and I feel incredibly proud when I think back to him saying that to me. To hear your own father tell you that you're living a life he wishes he could live is something that stays with you.

He lived in Wolverhampton, England, and he often complained about the weather and the culture. Anyone who knew him knew how much he loved the heat. He wanted sunshine. He wanted warmth. He wanted to be somewhere where he could spend more time outdoors and enjoy life.

And here I was.

Swimming in the ocean.

Looking up at the sky.

Looking back towards the mountains I'd climbed earlier that morning.

Living in the kind of environment he had always dreamed about.

His words suddenly felt even more meaningful.

"You're living the life I want to live."

It made me realise just how fortunate I am to have created a life that my father could look at and say, that's the life I'd choose.

And I'm proud of that.

But there's another part to it that I've come to understand.

My father's dream was his.

Mine is mine.

I Want to Live the Life I Choose

I don't want to simply copy somebody else's idea of a good life, even when that person is someone I love deeply.

I want to discover what makes me feel alive.

What gives me energy.

What makes me want to get out of bed in the morning.

For me, increasingly, that looks something like today.

Mountains.

Ocean.

Sunlight.

Movement.

Adventure.

Time outdoors.

Freedom.

Good food.

Rest.

And enough space in my day to sit on top of a mountain, breathe deeply and appreciate where I am.

My father showed me, in his own way, that it's possible to recognise a life worth wanting.

Now I want to make sure I'm living mine.

Not because it's the life someone else thinks I should have.

But because it's the life that makes me proud to be living it.

A Different Kind of Morning Routine

Maybe that's why I'm not interested in forcing myself into someone else's idea of the perfect morning routine anymore.

I'm not trying to wake up at 5 a.m. simply because someone on the internet says successful people do.

I'm not interested in winning a competition against my alarm clock.

I'd rather wake because I want to meet the day.

That's a different kind of discipline.

It's not about forcing myself.

It's about creating a life that makes me want to get out of bed.

And perhaps that's where living by your circadian rhythm becomes less about a specific wake-up time and more about paying attention to the natural signals around you.

Light.

Darkness.

Activity.

Rest.

Morning.

Evening.

Nature.

My goal isn't perfection.

It's alignment.

Tomorrow, I'll Meet the Sunrise

So I've made myself a promise.

Tomorrow I'll get up early.

Not because an alarm is screaming at me.

Not because a productivity guru says that successful people wake at 5 a.m.

And not because I need to prove anything.

I'll get up because I want to meet the day.

I'll make my way to the base of the mountain around sunrise.

I'll watch the light come across the landscape.

And then I'll see where the trail takes me.

Maybe I'll climb the same mountain.

Maybe I'll find another trail.

Maybe I'll simply sit somewhere and watch the sun come up.

I don't know.

And that's part of the beauty of it.

After years of 3:30 a.m. alarms on the Appalachian Trail, perhaps I'm finally developing a healthier relationship with mornings.

One based on daylight rather than obligation.

On instinct rather than force.

On wanting to be alive for the day rather than simply getting through it.

The sun comes up.

I want to be there.

The sun goes down.

I want to rest.

And somewhere between the mountain and the ocean, I'm learning to live a little more like myself.

My father once told me I was living the life he wanted to live.

Now I understand that I don't want to live somebody else's dream.

I want to live mine.

And tomorrow, I'll start again.