Finding Forty

I’ve never been rich.

Only in short, fleeting moments

have I known what it’s like to have plenty.

But never—until now—

did I understand the true richness

of a full night’s sleep.

In my youth,

I believed sleepless nights

meant passion, purpose,

or well-aligned priorities.

Now, as a parent,

those same hours are spent

rocking, soothing, surviving—

with a heart so full it hurts.

But the person I am without sleep

is a far cry from who I am with it.

The difference is not subtle.

It’s stark—concerning, even.

Sleepless me is brittle.

She walks the edge of tears and temper,

where my ugliest upbringing resurfaces,

where insecurities sharpen into weapons,

where anxiety feels commitable.

It’s not just exhaustion—

it’s exposure.

A peeling back of every layer

I’ve worked so hard to soothe.

And still,

there’s nothing I long for more

than the crisp alertness

that follows real, uninterrupted rest.

Because in this season,

sleep is not just rest—

it is restoration,

it is wealth,

it is grace.

And slowly, surely,

those full nights will return.

And so will I.