What do you do to improve your sleep?
There was a time when I thought sleep was something people simply decided to do.
You got tired.
You climbed into bed.
You fell asleep.
For some of us, it isn’t that simple.
My body has lived through chronic pain, anxiety, and more than its fair share of difficult memories. There have been seasons when the night felt louder than the day, and sleep felt more like something I chased than something that found me.
Years ago, I made a decision that changed my relationship with sleepless nights.
I stopped fighting them.
Instead of lying in bed, tossing and turning, watching the clock, and growing more frustrated with every passing hour, I decided to trust my body to tell me when it was ready to sleep.
Sometimes that means I don’t sleep for twenty-four hours.
Occasionally, it has even stretched to forty-eight.
Those nights aren’t easy, and they certainly aren’t something I’d recommend or wish for anyone else. They’re simply part of my story.
What I no longer do is torment myself over them.
I’ve discovered that forcing sleep rarely brings it any faster.
So if my body is awake, I meet it where it is.
I read.
I write.
I make a cup of tea.
I sit quietly with my thoughts instead of wrestling them.
And if I’m honest, some of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written were born during those quiet hours when the rest of the world was asleep.
It feels as though the night has a way of slowing everything down just enough for my heart to speak a little more clearly.
I’ve learned that rest isn’t only measured by the number of hours we sleep.
Sometimes rest is breathing deeply.
Sometimes it’s listening to rain against the window.
Sometimes it’s letting your shoulders unclench for the first time all day.
Sometimes it’s reminding yourself that tomorrow doesn’t have to be figured out tonight.
I’m still learning.
Some nights are peaceful.
Some nights are long.
But each evening, I try to meet myself with a little more kindness than I did the night before.
I think that’s improving my sleep, too.
P.S.
If you happen to find yourself awake in the middle of the night, know that somewhere out there another light is on too. Maybe we’re both writing. Maybe we’re both healing. Either way, you aren’t as alone as the darkness sometimes makes you believe.
Until our next visit…
Take gentle care of yourself.
I’ll leave the porch light on.
With love,
Casey
