Carlos used to fear the dark hours. After turning fifty-five, sleep grew unpredictable—some nights three hours, some none. The stillness felt like failure. He would stare at the clock, counting how useless tomorrow would be.
One night, exhausted from fighting his own body, he whispered, “Lord, if I’m not sleeping, at least let this time mean something.” Instead of tossing, he sat up, grabbed a notebook, and began to write names—his kids, coworkers, neighbors. He prayed over each one in simple sentences. No drama, just real words.
He noticed how quiet the world was. No phone buzzes, no emails—just the hum of the fridge and his own breathing. It felt oddly holy. By sunrise, he hadn’t slept much, but his chest felt lighter than it had in weeks.
Doctors still helped him address the physical side of sleep, but the deeper shift came in his perspective. Rest, he realized, is more than hours logged; it is a posture of trust.
Now, on the nights when sleep won’t come, he doesn’t panic. He keeps a small lamp and notebook by the bed and says, “Okay, God. If we’re up, let’s make it count.”
He stopped seeing insomnia as punishment and started seeing it as an invitation. That is just doing life—finding grace in the very hours he once wished away.