The Sunday Night Insomnia
It’s 11:42 PM on a Sunday. The dishes are done. The laundry is folded. The trash is out for Monday pickup. I did everything the productivity TikTok girlies told me to do — dim the lights at 9, no screens after 10, drink chamomile tea like I’m a medieval peasant. And now I’m lying flat on my back, fully still, watching the ceiling fan go round and round and round.
My brain won’t shut up.
I think about the email I forgot to send to my manager. I think about whether my coworker Jessica noticed I yawned three times during the Friday standup. I think about whether I should cancel my therapy appointment on Wednesday because last week I had nothing to talk about. I think about the $14 I owe my roommate for DoorDash last Tuesday. I think about whether I’m actually happy in my job or if I’m just numb to it. I think about my mom calling me last Tuesday and asking “have you been eating enough” and me saying “yes mom” even though I had cereal for dinner two nights in a row.
My chest feels tight. Not the cute kind of tightness you see in K-dramas. The real kind. Like there’s a small animal sitting on my sternum and it’s not moving.
I roll over. Grab my phone. 11:58 PM.
I open TikTok. A girl is showing her skincare fridge. I swipe. A guy is crying about his ex-wife. I swipe. Someone is eating a Dubai chocolate bar with chopsticks. I swipe. A therapist is saying “your nervous system doesn’t know the difference between Sunday night and a real threat.” Cool. Cool cool cool. Thanks for that. Now I’m thinking about my nervous system on top of everything else.
I put the phone face down on the mattress.
1:17 AM.
I get up to pee. The bathroom light is so bright it hurts. I look at myself in the mirror and I look tired in that specific way where my face looks like it belongs to someone who has given up. I brush my teeth even though I already brushed them at 10:30 because at this point, what’s the point.
Back in bed. 1:34 AM.
The thing about Sunday night insomnia is — it’s not really about Sunday night. It’s about Monday. It’s about the fact that Sunday is the last day before the week swallows you again. It’s about the alarm I have set for 7:15 AM that is going to go off in five hours and 41 minutes. It’s about the inbox that is definitely piling up. It’s about the meeting at 10 that I have to lead even though I haven’t prepared.
I used to think I was broken. Like, what kind of person can’t even sleep on a regular night? My friend Becca sleeps like a literal rock. She goes to bed at 10, she’s out by 10:04, she’s up at 6:30 looking like a Hallmark movie character. I have asked her for tips. She said “I just sleep.” I wanted to throw my phone at her.
2:08 AM.
I do the breathing thing. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. I do it nine times. My brain gets louder every time. Now I’m also thinking about whether I’m breathing correctly. Now I’m also thinking about whether my cortisol is high. Now I’m also thinking about the cortisol article I read on Reddit at 1 AM that said if you can’t sleep on Sunday nights you’re probably burnt out.
Cool. Cool cool cool. Burnt out. At 28. Living the dream.
2:34 AM.
I get up. I go to the kitchen. I open the fridge and stare into it like it owes me money. There’s half a bag of shredded cheese, two limes that are starting to look suspicious, a lime I forgot I bought, and oat milk. I pour a small glass of oat milk because I’ve heard warm milk helps. It’s not warm. It’s from the fridge. I drink it cold. It doesn’t help.
I sit at the kitchen counter. The tile is cold under my bare feet. My apartment is so quiet I can hear my neighbor’s dog breathing through the wall. I wonder if the dog can sleep. Probably. Dogs can sleep anywhere. Dogs don’t have Sunday night insomnia. Dogs don’t have Mondays.
I think about calling my sister. She’s in a different time zone now, so it would be late for her, but she’d pick up. She always picks up. I look at my phone. 2:51 AM. I don’t call. I just text her a single heart emoji. She texts back a single heart emoji. We don’t need to say anything else. She gets it.
3:17 AM.
I try reading. I have a book on my nightstand that’s been there for three months. It’s called “How to Do Nothing.” I think the universe is laughing at me. I read two pages. The author is talking about the importance of boredom. I close the book.
3:42 AM.
I close my eyes really hard. Like if I squeeze them tight enough, sleep will get the message. My eyelids are sore. I open them. The ceiling is still there.
I think about every Sunday night I’ve had like this. There have been so many. Probably hundreds. Every Sunday since I was like 19 and started having real responsibilities. I remember being a teenager and sleeping like the dead. Like twelve hours easy. Waking up confused about what day it was. Now I’m 28 and I know exactly what day it is. I know it’s Monday in three hours and twenty-three minutes. I know that I have a 10 AM meeting. I know that I have to look alert and competent.
I think about quitting my job sometimes. Not because I hate it. I don’t actually hate it. But because I want to see what it feels like to not have a Monday. To just wake up whenever. To not have the Sunday night dread sitting in my chest like a stone.
I know I won’t quit. I have rent. I have a 401k I’m pretending to understand. I have student loans that are technically paused right now but the email said the pause ends in October.
3:58 AM.
I get out of bed one more time. I go to the living room. I sit on the couch with a blanket. I don’t turn on the TV. I just sit. I look out the window. There’s a streetlight that’s been flickering for three weeks and our landlord hasn’t fixed it. It’s doing the flicker thing right now. Flicker. Flicker. Flicker.
I count the flickers. I lose count around 47.
I close my eyes. They feel heavy this time. Actually heavy. Not the fake heavy from squeezing them. The real kind. The kind where your body is finally agreeing to sleep even though your brain is still screaming.
I don’t fight it.
4:23 AM.
The alarm goes off at 7:15. I hit snooze. Twice. The third time I get up. My eyes are dry. My head feels like it’s full of sand. I make coffee. I stand in the kitchen and just hold the mug for a while without drinking it.
I text my sister again. “didn’t sleep.” She replies “same.” She’s in a different time zone but somehow also didn’t sleep. We’re both just lying in our respective beds staring at our respective ceilings.
I get dressed. I put on the outfit I picked out on Saturday. It’s already wrinkled because I left it on the chair. I don’t iron it. I grab my bag. I grab my keys. I look at myself in the mirror one more time.
I look like a person who didn’t sleep. Which is exactly what I am.
The subway is crowded because of course it is. There’s a guy eating a breakfast sandwich with his mouth open. There’s a woman applying mascara while standing. There’s a man in a full suit sleeping standing up. I respect him. I envy him. I want to be him.
I get to work at 9:48. Twelve minutes to spare. I open my laptop. Forty-seven unread emails. Slack is on fire. Someone has tagged me in three threads. There’s a calendar invite for a “sync” at 2 that no one asked for.
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s cold. I drank it cold again. I don’t even notice anymore.
At 10 AM sharp, I lead the meeting. I say the words. I nod at the right moments. I laugh at the right moments. I look like I am a person who slept eight hours and had a green juice and went to the gym. I am none of those things.
Someone on the team says “you seem really on today.” I smile. I say “yeah, feeling good.” I have no idea what I’m saying. The words are just coming out of my face.
Lunch. I eat a sad sandwich at my desk. I check the time. 12:47 PM. Monday is half over. The dread is gone. It evaporated somewhere between the second coffee and the 11:30 standup. Now it’s just regular tired. The kind tired where you can function. The kind tired where you can do your job and not think too much.
I tell myself tonight I’ll sleep early. I’ll put the phone away at 9. I’ll do the chamomile tea. I’ll do the breathing. I’ll do all of it.
I know I won’t.
Sunday will come back in six days. It always comes back.
[“Sunday night insomnia”, “Sleep struggles”, “Anxiety”, “Burnout”, “Weekend dread”]