Sunday Mornings, Topo Chico, and the Music I Didn’t Know I Was Missing

I spend my Sunday morning in the company of my wonderful girlfriend, who’s painting a Christmas countdown fixture like it’s the Sistine Chapel of holiday décor. I watch her brush away with full creative devotion while I sip on my Topo Chico and snack on a Honeycrisp apple and some berries. And honestly? It’s way better than the questionable morning debaucheries I used to reach for-- back when my mornings had no purpose and certainly no girlfriend to speak of.

Yes, I used to drink for breakfast. Don’t judge—my liver and I are on speaking terms now. We’re not best friends, but at least we nod politely in the hallway.

Three years ago, I let go of a gnarly habit, and since then, mornings like this have started to land differently. The sun spills across my dining room instead of my blurry vision spilling across the chaos from the night before. I feel the fizz of the mineral water, the pop of the berries, and I catch myself thinking:

Wow. I used to miss all of this while a bad habit ran the morning show.

Now, you might be thinking, “Oh god, another ‘look at me being wholesome’ story. I thought this was a music blog.”
Right you are. But here’s the plot twist: music isn’t just the songs we write—it’s everything. It’s the small rituals, the quiet mornings, the habits we keep close habits that become rhythm. Rhythm becomes structure. Structure becomes a life you can be proud of. Because we truly are the people we choose to be.

I could’ve kept going, living like a rum-soaked pirate chasing the next bad idea, but that path only led one direction: a life that never matched the aspirations I kept promising I’d chase “tomorrow.” Spoiler: tomorrow rarely shows up when you’re hungover.

Letting go of that habit handed me back my mornings, my focus, and my ability to hear the music again—both literally and metaphorically. It made me capable of keeping the creative promises I make to myself:

• to show up,

• to finish ideas,

• to follow through,

• and to tell honest stories—whether in writing, in songs, or in the way I choose to live.

Even on the days I fall short, I can take accountability, learn, and grow—rather than blame the universe for misplacing my keys.

Because here’s the truth: this moment—Topo Chico, berries, soft morning light, someone I love painting beside me—this is music. It’s just the kind without chords yet.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

—Paul