Awake in the Dark: Writing Through Insomnia and Childhood Memories

I didn’t notice the insomnia creeping in at first. It started with restless nights where I’d stare at the ceiling, replaying fragments of childhood memories. I told myself it was part of the process—writing about the past was bound to stir something within me. But as the nights stretched into weeks, the occasional sleeplessness became a relentless thief. By the time I sat down to write each day, I was already running on empty, fueled only by caffeine and a stubborn determination to finish the story I had begun.

I was writing about my childhood, a task I thought I was ready for. The story had been in me for years, simmering just below the surface. It was a narrative I had learned to live with but rarely examined. Now, as I dove into the details—the arguments behind closed doors, the quiet moments that held unspoken pain, the instances of love that felt fleeting—I found myself unable to leave them on the page. Instead, they followed me into the night, haunting me in the quiet hours.

Each memory I unearthed seemed to take on a life of its own when I tried to sleep. I’d close my eyes and see my childhood bedroom: the dim glow of the streetlight through the window, the scratchy blanket I wrapped around myself when the house felt too cold. I’d hear the sharp voices of arguments echoing in my ears, feel the weight of confusion and fear pressing against my chest. The memories wouldn’t let me rest, as if they were demanding my attention after years of being ignored.

I became a shadow of myself. During the day, I’d sit at my desk, writing as if the words could exorcise the exhaustion from my body. But by evening, I dreaded the darkness. I’d try everything—reading, meditation, herbal teas—but the moment I lay down, my mind would awaken, sifting through every painful detail I’d written earlier. The insomnia was more than physical; it was emotional. My body begged for sleep, but my mind refused to give in, as if afraid of what it might find in my dreams.

One night, as the clock ticked past 3 a.m., I gave up on the pretense of trying to sleep. I pulled my laptop onto the bed and opened the document I’d been working on. The screen’s glow felt harsh in the dark room, but I didn’t care. I started typing, not the polished prose I’d been crafting, but a stream of thoughts about how much I hated the memories for keeping me awake. I wrote about the anger I felt for my younger self, for not being strong enough to push back against the things I was writing about now. And then I wrote about the sadness—the deep ache of understanding that, as a child, I had done the best I could.

In that moment, something shifted. I realized the insomnia wasn’t just my body’s response to exhaustion; it was my mind’s way of forcing me to confront the emotions I had buried. Writing about my childhood wasn’t just an act of storytelling—it was an act of reckoning. The insomnia wasn’t my enemy; it was a mirror, reflecting the parts of myself I hadn’t yet made peace with.

From then on, I approached my writing differently. I still wrote about my childhood, but I allowed myself to write about the present too—the sleepless nights, the weight of memory, the slow process of learning to forgive myself and the people who had shaped me. I started taking breaks, not just from writing but from the memories themselves. I walked outside, breathed deeply, let the sunlight remind me that I was no longer that child in the dark bedroom.

The insomnia didn’t disappear overnight, but it began to loosen its grip. And when I finally finished the manuscript, I realized that the sleepless nights had taught me something invaluable: writing isn’t just about telling a story; it’s about understanding it. And sometimes, understanding requires us to stay awake, to sit with the discomfort, to let the memories have their say before we can finally let them go.

Now, when I look back on that period, I don’t see just the exhaustion or the struggle. I see a version of myself who was learning how to be brave enough to face the past—and how to write her way toward peace.