“Just shut up.” That’s what he told himself the night before. He said it out loud, lying in bed, staring into the dark. “I don’t have to think about this right now. I can think about it tomorrow.” But the mind didn’t stop.
Mark is almost 50 and has always been a good sleeper. He told me that sleep was never really an issue for most of his life—maybe a few short periods here and there, but nothing that lasted. This time was different. It had been going on for over a year now, and recently, it had become almost every night.
He said he went to bed around ten. Still awake at two. Got up, read for a bit, started to feel sleepy again, went back to bed—and then it started all over. “The mind is just… twirling,” he said. “It just keeps going.”
I asked what the thoughts were about.
He paused for a moment, then said something that shifted the direction of the session.“It’s not even like I’m worrying,” he said. “I’m just… going back over my life. Thinking about people. Remembering things.” There was no urgency in the content. No clear problem to solve. Just a stream of memories, one leading to another. “And I don’t really have anyone to share those things with anymore,” he added.
What he was describing didn’t sound like a problem to fix. It sounded like something trying to be expressed. I told him something I’ve come to believe more over time—that we are, in many ways, life tellers. We carry experiences, moments, conversations, people. During the day, we share pieces of those without thinking much about it. But at night, when there’s no one to tell them to, they don’t disappear.
“I never thought of it that way,” he said. But even as we talked about that, something else was happening. The frustration wasn’t just about the thoughts anymore. It was about the sleep. “It’s become a thing now,” he said. “Like, I’m already thinking—what’s it going to be tonight?”
That shift matters. Because at that point, the problem is no longer just what’s on your mind. The problem becomes the experience of not sleeping. I reflected that this sounded similar to what we see in panic. It’s often not the first episode that keeps the cycle going—it’s the fear of it happening again. The same pattern can happen with sleep. The more we try to make it happen, the more we notice when it doesn’t. And the more we try. And the more it doesn’t.
He nodded. “Yeah… that sounds right.”
We talked about the things he had already been trying. Reading before bed. Changing routines. Getting up when he couldn’t sleep. Even wondering if he needed to change what he was doing altogether. All reasonable. All familiar. And yet, something about it felt like it was adding more pressure. So I said something that might have sounded unexpected. “I don’t want to fix your sleep.” He looked at me for a second. I clarified. “What I mean is—I’m not trying to give you something that will make you sleep better. I’m more interested in what you can create.”
We talked about small things. Movement during the day. Gentle activity that fits his body. Maybe exploring something like seated exercises or tai chi. Paying attention to what he eats, not as restriction, but as awareness. But I was careful to say this clearly. “These are not things you do so you can sleep.” He smiled a little. “That’s different.” Instead, I said, these are things you create because they add to your life. They support your wellbeing. And if sleep improves, then that becomes an outcome—not the goal.
He paused, then said, “So instead of thinking, ‘This will help me sleep,’ I could think, ‘This will feel good to do.’”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.” That shift may seem small, but it changes the direction entirely. Because when the goal is to fix sleep, everything becomes a test. Did it work? Did I sleep? Why didn’t it work? What do I try next? But when the goal is to create a life that feels more whole, the pressure lifts.
In research, we see that the more effort people put into trying to control sleep, the more alert they can become. The mind starts monitoring, checking, staying on guard (Harvey, 2002). And approaches that move toward acceptance—allowing the night to be what it is—often begin to ease that cycle (Ong et al., 2012).
Sleep doesn’t respond well to pressure. It doesn’t come because we demand it. It comes when the conditions allow it.
Toward the end of the session, he said something quietly. “I think I’ve been trying too hard.” I didn’t disagree.
As I thought about it later, it struck me how often this happens—not just with sleep, but with many things we struggle with. The more we try to fix what feels broken, the more attention we give to what’s wrong. And sometimes, that’s the very thing that keeps it going. Sleep, in that way, is different. It’s not something we force. It’s something we allow. And sometimes, it returns not when we finally find the right solution—but when we stop trying so hard to solve it.
References
Harvey, A. G. (2002). A cognitive model of insomnia. Behaviour Research and Therapy, 40(8), 869–893.
Ong, J. C., Ulmer, C. S., & Manber, R. (2012). Improving sleep with mindfulness and acceptance: A metacognitive model of insomnia. Behaviour Research and Therapy, 50(11), 651–660.re are sessions where something feels urgent, and then there are sessions where something feels settled. Today was the latter. Nothing needed fixing, but something important was clear.
Not too long ago, work made Avery miserable. Just months into a role that was meant to be the high point of their career, Avery realized it wasn’t something they wanted to continue for the rest of their working life. So, they chose to step away. There was no immediate plan—just some time off. Along the way, they took a few consultancy work, not as part of a bigger strategy, but because they felt right in the moment.
And now, Avery talked about a possible full-time job. It might mean moving, and it pays less than what they used to earn. Yet, there was no tension in their voice. If it works out, it works out. If not, they would be okay. Before, decisions came from pressure—the need to fix, to prove, to secure something quickly. Now, they came from intention. Not busy, but active.
Avery described something different. Over the past year, they had been letting things unfold rather than forcing outcomes. And somehow, opportunities still came. In some ways, more easily. I pointed out that this was not a lack of effort. It was a shift in how effort was used. It was less about control and more about choice. This is something we often see in Acceptance and Commitment Therapy—moving forward based on values, not fear, even when the outcome is uncertain (Hayes, Strosahl, & Wilson, 1999).
We talked about how Avery works now. The schedule is flexible. The pace is different. It may not look like much from the outside, but Avery feels engaged. Clear.
That led to a distinction I often make. There is a difference between being busy and being active. Busy comes with pressure. It is often about proving something. Active is quieter. It is still effort, but it is chosen. Avery added something important. Busy feels performative.
There is a belief that being tired means being valuable. That the more you do, the more you matter. But Avery stepped away from that. Their work no longer needed to be seen to feel real. It just needed to feel enough.
This lines up with what we know from self-determination theory. People feel better when their actions come from choice and meaning, not pressure (Deci & Ryan, 2000). Avery was no longer working to prove something. They were working in a way that fit.
We then talked about money. The new job pays much less. Before, that would have felt like a loss. Now, Avery said something different. They realized they do not need as much as they once thought. This was not just about money. It was about how Avery now understands economic wellbeing. It was no longer about chasing a number. It was about asking, “What supports my life?”
That shift matters. Research shows that it is not the event itself, but the meaning we give it that shapes how we feel (Seligman, 2011). A lower salary can feel like failure, or it can feel like freedom. The number stays the same. The meaning changes.
I asked Avery what they liked about the job beyond the pay. The answer came quickly—working with people, building relationships, helping others grow. As they spoke, it felt natural, almost easy. Like something they already knew about themselves.
Near the end, I reflected on what Avery said that this job’s salary offer felt like enough. It meant that they were no longer starting from a place of lack. I told them that when you already feel enough, anything more would be a bonus.
References
Deci, E. L., & Ryan, R. M. (2000). The “what” and “why” of goal pursuits: Human needs and the self-determination of behavior. Psychological Inquiry, 11(4), 227–268.
Hayes, S. C., Strosahl, K. D., & Wilson, K. G. (1999). Acceptance and commitment therapy: An experiential approach to behavior change. Guilford Press.
Seligman, M. E. P. (2011). Flourish: A visionary new understanding of happiness and well-being. Free Press.
