That restless hour isn’t a malfunction; it’s a message. Your body keeps the score of everything your days refuse to hold: the rushed dinners, the endless scrolling, the conversations that stay sharp long after the lights go out. When you begin to soften the edges of your evenings—lighter food, warmer light, gentler transitions—your nervous system slowly relearns the feeling of “enough.” It stops bracing for the next demand.
Those wakeful pockets of darkness often arrive carrying unsent emails, unspoken truths, unpaid grief. Instead of fighting them, you can meet them with a pen, a quiet chair, a breath that goes all the way down. You’re not broken for waking; you’re being invited. Each small act of tenderness toward your night signals to your body that it no longer has to scream to be heard. In time, the message lands, and the alarm inside you finally goes silent.
