It's very early in the morning, and I hear my baby girl crying in the room next door. I know she's hungry, but I just want her to sleep another two hours, another hour, even another half-hour more. I let five minutes pass, which is a long time to listen to a baby whose tummy is growling.

I tell myself I'll nurse her and then go straight back to bed. I leave my slumbering husband, David, in bed, put on my robe, reach for my water bottle and pad down the hall to Alyssa's room. As I nurse her, I feel the fatigue dissipate, and my brain slowly crackle to life.

I'm not returning to bed, I think, as I change my daughter's diaper before putting her back in her crib. She'll sleep at least another two hours. Not me. I'm going running.

Before I got pregnant and spent much of the pregnancy on modified bed rest due to various complications, mornings were mine. I always set my alarm early so I could go for at least a half-hour jog before work. Nothing made me feel more alert, centered or calm than a morning run while my husband and most others – save for the other early bird joggers – continued sleeping.

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