At 3 AM, I find myself lying in bed, fixated on the spinning blades of my fan while an unsettling emptiness lingers in my chest. The anxiety that washed over me earlier in the day—when I realized we were out of essentials like milk, eggs, and coffee—returns. Observing young children in N95 masks, while their parents wear homemade ones, speaks volumes about the strange times we’re living in. Is this truly our reality amid a pandemic?
The sight of individuals strolling around with puffed-up chests, proudly displaying American flags on their shirts, and ignoring social distancing markers in the grocery store is even more disconcerting. How did we reach a point where science is met with skepticism? If institutions like Harvard deem it unsafe to reopen until 2021, how should the rest of us perceive the situation? I worry about the potential consequences of reopening the economy: my immunocompromised friends facing illness or being too scared to venture out. The thought of losing my job or witnessing a political upheaval adds to my mounting anxiety. Each night, my mind spirals, resisting the pull of sleep.
I’ve always identified as a night owl, but since the onset of the pandemic—and particularly after my kids’ schools shifted to remote learning—my sleep has become more unpredictable than ever. It feels erratic, with no discernible pattern or duration. After settling my 14- and 10-year-olds in bed around midnight to 1 AM, I’m utterly drained yet inexplicably wired. That elusive second wind hits every single night. Before my racing thoughts catch up to me, I relish the tranquility of the late hours, free from pandemic updates and the demands of daily life. It’s in this quiet that I find the space to write and indulge in snacks without having to share. Eventually, after much internal debate, I turn off my bedside lamp, only to find myself staring at the fan blades, gripped by another round of anxiety.
If my alarm didn’t blare at 9:25 AM daily, I’d likely sleep until noon. Sometimes, I let the dog out and tackle a few chores before crawling back into bed, only to wake up feeling guilty for wasting the day. “You have so much time. Use it wisely,” I chide myself. Occasionally, I succumb to an unplanned afternoon nap, waking up in a panic about missed dinner preparations.
My children are coping slightly better than I am. They hear me moving about in the morning, prompting them to start their school day, driven by the promise of screen time once their studies conclude. However, there are days when I lose track of time, only to realize it’s 10:30 AM and they’re still asleep. They often succumb to tiredness during their mandated “no screens” time. We try to fill that void with walks or board games, but lethargy seems to follow us around like a shadow. We’re always exhausted.
I understand how circadian rhythms function and the significance of maintaining a regular sleep schedule for our overall health. Disruptions to these rhythms can affect everything from mood to metabolism and immune function. We need sleep, and it should be consistent.
This is why I set my alarm—to establish some semblance of routine. Yet, I still struggle to regain control over my sleep. I feel worn out. The weight of fatigue is heavy. I recognize the root of my exhaustion; I’ve read that what we’re experiencing collectively is a form of grief, which can be draining and alters brain chemistry. I remind myself that I’m not alone; it’s essential to practice self-compassion.
But alongside my frustration about sleep, guilt creeps in. If I acknowledge my sleep troubles stem from grief, I must accept that I am grieving. This feels uncomfortable. I’m a healthy, financially secure individual who lacks nothing except my modest social life and the ability to embrace my partner who lives far away (that last thought is genuinely disheartening). I often encounter social media sentiments claiming “all suffering is valid” or “all grief matters,” yet my mind struggles to reconcile that with the reality that many are suffering far worse than I am.
I can certainly see the positives—I’ve had precious time with my children, they’ve become surprisingly self-sufficient with their schooling, and despite the distance, my partner and I are safe and healthy. Technology allows us to stay connected, which I appreciate. I count my blessings without issue.
However, reminding myself of my fortunate circumstances doesn’t help me fall asleep or wake up revitalized. It takes several strong cups of coffee and an extra dose of guilt to get me moving each day. Exercise also plays a role in my motivation. I’m making an effort to cultivate a routine, knowing it’s vital for sleep. For now, I’ll continue to strive for healthier sleep patterns while admitting that, whether I like it or not, I might be grieving after all.
For more insights on managing stress and sleep, check out this informative piece on grief and sleep struggles.
Summary
Many are experiencing disrupted sleep schedules, especially in the wake of the pandemic. Stress, anxiety, and grief can create a cycle of exhaustion that’s hard to break. Acknowledging these emotions is important, as is the effort to maintain a routine for better sleep health. While it’s easy to focus on the positives, the underlying feelings of grief are valid and should be accepted.