In defense of 1:30 A.M.
My brain is a hamster on a wheel that never ends.
This causes many unpleasant side effects, including a lifelong struggle with insomnia. I have so many memories of waking up in the middle of the night as a child and staring at various objects in the dark, constructing them into monsters the longer I stayed awake.
When I had kids, everyone told me, “Sleep when the baby sleeps!” Well-intentioned advice, I guess, that didn’t account for someone like me, for whom sleep never came easily.
Then I got a new job, in the middle of a pandemic.
In a recent virtual conference I attended, our keynote speaker was the wonderful Cornelius Minor, who said so simply and beautifully that none of us were prepared for this. They don’t teach you how to teach in all these different modalities while we are all experiencing prolonged trauma in the school of education. There’s no manual for parenting when the world feels like it’s on fire.
Suffice it to say, my insomnia has been worse than ever. I can’t stop thinking. Brainstorming more ways to connect with my remote learners. Finding things I can set aside for a moment so maybe I can do a porch visit or drop off. Scrolling for new, fresh ideas to continue to do hybrid community building. Sending emails to my colleagues at midnight with questions I keep forgetting to ask. Worrying about the students who are experiencing trauma outside of school. Stressing that maybe I haven’t “gotten through” enough reading and writing instruction. Taking screenshots of books I want to check out for my students. Reflecting on my evenings with my own children. Wondering if I was present enough. Hoping I gave them enough love and attention. Trying to figure out how I can find something fun and safe for them to do on the weekends. Missing my friends. Grieving the closure I never got for the loved ones who passed during this pandemic.
I don’t enjoy feeling like I’m running a marathon at 1:30 A.M.
But…
Lately, there is something to say for this little slice of darkness.
At 1:30 A.M., there is no one to see me cry. I don’t have to worry about showing too much of my heart, or being judged. When I weep because having three students transfer out of my advisory feels pretty freaking personal, there’s no one there to say, “Wait, are you crying about that?” No one accuses me of being too moody or too sensitive. No one asks why I’m crying, even when the answer if painfully obvious. I don’t have to put on a brave face for my children or my peers. I can just release it.
At 1:30 A.M., there is no one to tell me my thinking or my emotions are wrong. There is no one to invalidate me. When I worry about a student who has to go home to terrible conditions, no one says, “You can’t do anything about it. It’s in the state’s hands now.” I can just be a human and worry about another human. When I am stressed about my students who, day after day, don’t perform the baseline tasks that make up the functionality of our school, there is no one there to tell me I can’t do anything about it. When my own insecurities surface, no one asks me why or points to the obvious evidence of my strength. I can just ride the wave of uncertainty until it passes, or until I think of another thing to try. And no one sees that. There’s no one there to judge that. I can live to fake it another day.
At 1:30 A.M., I can be a more whole version of myself. I can fall down the rabbit holes of Doctor Who head-cannons and search Wikipedia for Star Wars references without anyone questioning why or making fun of me. I can wear whatever I want beneath the comfort of my blankets and not be self-conscious about the medication-induced weight gain I can’t shake. I can take shelter on the couch with a snack and a true crime documentary, and no one will ask me what’s for dinner, or ask me to help them change their shirt, or demand a refill of their milk. I don’t have to change the channel. I don’t have to share my cheese and crackers. I don’t have to justify the phone in my hand, or identify who I am talking to, to anyone.
At 1:30 A.M., I have permission for all of the above.
Sometimes at 1:30 A.M., I feel like a sliver of my former self. I get to connect to the things that genuinely excite and interest me. But more than that, I get to work through some of the significant parenting, teaching, and personal challenges this year has brought. Out of the heat of the moment, and into the cold of the night, I can feel. I can be. And also, I can think. I can think my way to the next strategy to try. I can bring clarity to things that felt foggy or were muddled in my emotions. I can recognize my hindsight and think about lessons learned so I can move forward and do better when my alarm goes off again at 5:20 A.M.
So, I don’t like living in a perpetual state of exhaustion. But I think I might like 1:30 A.M. Because when everything else is stripped away, I get to find myself again.
