At three in the morning, I find myself in the stillness of the night, fixating on the spinning blades of the fan, feeling an overwhelming emptiness in my chest. The anxiety I experienced earlier while shopping for essentials—milk, eggs, butter, and coffee—resurfaces. Watching young children in N95 masks, with their parents sporting homemade cloth masks, is both heartbreaking and deeply disturbing. Is this really the world we live in?
The sight of individuals puffed up with pride, their shirts emblazoned with the American flag, smirking without masks, and disregarding social distancing measures, is unsettling. How did we reach a point where people openly reject scientific guidance? If even prestigious institutions like Harvard deem it unsafe to resume normal activities until 2021, what does that say about the underlying risks we all face? My mind races with concerns: What if the economy reopens and one of my immunocompromised friends falls ill? What if they remain isolated, terrified to re-enter society as the virus spreads again? What if I lose my job? What if misinformation leads to dire political consequences? Every night, my spiraling thoughts make it hard to surrender to sleep.
I’ve been a night owl for as long as I can remember, but since the pandemic struck and schools closed, my sleep has become more erratic than ever. It’s unpredictable, with no clear pattern to its hours or duration. After settling my kids, aged 14 and 10, into bed between midnight and 1 a.m., I feel both drained and wide awake. Every night, without fail, a second wind hits me. Hours before my anxious thoughts begin their relentless circling, there’s a calm, uninterrupted stretch of time free from pandemic news, meal preparations, or social media notifications. Finally, I can write or indulge in snacks without sharing. Yet, it’s often close to 2 a.m. by the time I force myself to switch off the lamp and attempt sleep, only to find myself staring at those spinning fan blades, wrestling with my nightly panic.
If it weren’t for my alarm set for 9:25 a.m., I would easily sleep until noon. Sometimes I wake up, let the dog out, accomplish a few tasks, and then return to bed. When I finally arise, I berate myself for wasting the day. “You have so much free time,” I scold. Occasionally, I take unintended afternoon naps; one moment I close my eyes “for just a minute” and wake up an hour later, panicked I’ve missed dinner preparations.
My kids are managing only slightly better than I am. They hear me moving in the mornings and wake up for school, driven by the promise of screen time once their studies are over. However, I sometimes realize it’s already 10:30 a.m., and they are still asleep. They often crash during the afternoon’s “no screens” time, despite our attempts to fill it with walks or games. Yet, lethargy clings to us like a cloud of dust.
I understand the science behind circadian rhythms, and I know how crucial a consistent sleep schedule is for our health. Disruptions to these rhythms can negatively affect everything from mood to metabolism to immune function. We need restorative sleep, and we need it to be regular.
This is why I have set my alarm. I’m striving for some semblance of routine. Yet, I still struggle to gain control over my sleep. Everything feels exhausting. I recognize the source of my fatigue—I’ve read articles suggesting we are all experiencing grief, which takes a toll on our energy levels. It impacts brain chemistry. I remind myself that I am not alone; I must practice self-compassion.
However, alongside my frustration lies guilt. If I label my sleep issues as grief, I must confront the reality that I am grieving. This feels wrong to me. I am a healthy, financially stable individual who has everything I need, save for my modest social life and the longing to hug my partner, who lives 1,400 miles away (that last one is particularly hard). I read posts claiming “all suffering is equal,” but I can’t help but feel that many are enduring far worse than I am. This is an undeniable truth.
I do recognize the positives—I’ve had quality time with my kids, they’ve shown remarkable independence in managing their schooling, and even though I miss my partner, we are both safe and healthy. I appreciate modern technology that keeps us connected. I can count my blessings, but that doesn’t help me fall asleep or wake up refreshed. Instead, I rely on several strong cups of coffee and a healthy dose of guilt to get me through the day. Exercise helps too, and I’m making an effort. I’m attempting to establish a routine, knowing it can aid my sleep. For now, I will keep striving for healthier sleep patterns while also coming to terms with the silent grief I may be experiencing.
This piece was originally published on May 7, 2020. For further insights, check out our other blog post which explores related topics in depth.
In summary, many are facing disrupted sleep patterns due to the stressors brought on by the pandemic. Understanding the importance of circadian rhythms and prioritizing routines can help mitigate these issues. It’s crucial to recognize the emotional toll of this period and approach oneself with compassion, as grief can manifest in various forms, affecting daily life and well-being.
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