Tonight, like most nights, I wasn’t planning to be awake this long. But then again, planning stopped mattering somewhere around 1:43 AM. My thoughts start wandering around like they’ve got nowhere better to be, and the clock stops feeling real.
I found sleepykid.org during one of these hours. I didn’t go looking for it. It kind of found me. Just a simple site, almost like a whisper. Not trying to sell me better sleep or tell me I’m doing life wrong. Just… there. Like someone left the light on for whoever might be passing by.
That meant something to me. Because honestly? Most things online are loud. Shiny, curated, optimized to grab you by the dopamine. But that site? It’s quiet. And I didn’t realize how badly I needed quiet.
I think there’s this myth that everyone has it together at night. That people just brush their teeth, put on some calming music, and drift off. And maybe they do. I’m happy for them, I guess. But some of us stare at the ceiling for hours. Or scroll. Or eat cereal out of the box even though we’re not hungry.
I read something on there—just a line, really— something like “some of us learned to survive by never stopping.” And I felt that deep. Because I don’t know how to rest without guilt anymore. Rest feels earned. Like a prize, not a need.
Maybe that’s what drew me to sleepykid.org. It doesn’t try to fix me. There’s no five-step sleep method. No soothing voice telling me to breathe. Just words. Honest, sometimes messy, a little poetic in the kind of way your friend texts you at 2am. Not because they want something. Just because they’re up too.
I’ve bookmarked it now. Not for daily visits or some routine. Just… for the nights when the quiet gets too loud. When I need to feel a little less alone in this weird floating world of people pretending they’re fine.
There’s something brave about making something soft in a hard world. Something small that doesn’t shout for attention but still manages to reach someone. I don’t know who built the site. But if they ever read this: Thanks. You made something that doesn’t demand anything from me. And that’s rare. Rare and kind.
It’s 3:52 now. The sun will start hinting soon. Maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe not. But either way, I’m glad I found that tiny space tonight. I didn’t even know I needed it until I was already there.
If you’re reading this and your night feels too long— if the weight in your chest doesn’t have a name— it’s okay. We’re just tired. Not broken.
And some nights, being tired together is enough.
