I wake up and for the first time in months I feel like I have the strength to get out of bed.

I am alert, and the song blasting from my I-home alarm actually sounds like music, as opposed to the usual deafening buzz that ensues the clock chiming 5:46AM, Monday through Friday. I stretch my limbs and muscles and I feel wonderful; I’m amazed they’re not sore with the stiff, sleepy feeling I always get in the mornings.

I wait for the queen sized bed of fluffy pillows, cuddly teddy bears and soft, warm sheets in the recess of my mind to try and lull me back to my dreamland, but no bed appears and I am not tempted to fall back asleep. I look at my clock and the hands have only ticked out four minutes, and my song comes to a close. I slip my legs over the edge of my bed, feel the smooth, cold floor through my socks. I sit up slowly to avoid the head rush, shake out my hair and take in a deep breath, feeling the fall air drift in through my windows and watching it swirl the dust on my floor until it dances on its own.

I change the song.

I feel the beat. I dance around in my PJs, I enjoy being young and relatively carefree. I pick out clothes that will warrant compliments from girls and lingering gazes from boys. I am young. I am beautiful. I am happy. I am fierce.

I am whatever the hell I want to be, because it’s 6AM and I have the strength to get out of bed.