Why Is Insomnia Back?

For a change, there won’t be any links or work stuff here. Instead, let’s dive into the study of your own mind, which has just been deprived of a good night’s sleep. It’s about 4 am, and while my friends are all asleep, there’s silence on the line and emptiness within my Żoliborz four walls.

For the past week, I’ve been dealing with what feels like a mix of jetlag and insomnia. When you’re unsure about insomnia, it tends to let catastrophic thoughts invade your weaknesses.

This pesky issue used to bother me now and then back in elementary school, then it mysteriously disappeared. Since then, I’ve had the luxury of falling asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, much to others’ envy. Now, in my not-so-young years—spring at 23—it’s come back, and I’m helpless against it.

Honestly, just tossing and turning in bed until the early hours isn’t the real problem. The bigger issue is that all my anxieties have decided to catch up with me.

I usually keep them at bay by staying constantly busy and juggling between work and sleep. Normally, I silence them by reading or observing people. I focus on these distractions as soon as I sense a hint of worry, convincing myself they’re just fleeting thoughts.

But tonight, in the dead of night, these thoughts are relentless. According to Harvey (2002), night-time worry is precisely what keeps insomnia going. All the apocalyptic fears seem to have charged into my mind at once, with no escape.

What Happens in My Head at 4 am?

Different people, different troubles… I’m not sure what others do during their free time, but I usually think.

I try not to dwell too much on life and death. Yet as I walk down the street, eat breakfast, or wait for the tram, a steady stream of thoughts often greets me.

Over time, these accumulate in my subconscious and evolve into deeper reflections. Nights like this, when I have to think, reveal that I have plenty to contemplate.

What’s worse, I realize I’ve probably thought about everything already. That’s a daunting realization.

What Is the Fear of the Future?

It usually starts with the common human fear—the fear of the future. Graduating and moving on to the next phase of life can be daunting. From there, my mind spirals downward (unfortunately).

I think about the passage of time, the need to keep up, and the realization that a third of my life is already behind me.

I counter this thought with a familiar response: Regardless of the time left, what matters is making the most of each moment and striving for improvement (cue the Buddhist wisdom, right?). Then I might criticize myself for not having enough life experience, only to remind myself that compared to others, I’m doing my best. You don’t have to read every book, taste every flavor, or win an Oscar to feel fulfilled (more Buddhist wisdom).

Before long, I’m scolding myself for not working enough. But I quickly remind myself, “Hey, you’re working on three diplomas, so cut yourself some slack.” I run through a mental list of people I might have offended or not expressed my feelings to when it was right.

Eventually, I conclude that everyone deserved my treatment in some way or another. Different people, different reasons—I have no regrets. This self-reflection used to lead to dark clouds about talents I haven’t used.

For instance, I have artistic talent that might never see the light of day. But I’ve already made peace with that.

It’ll probably be passed on to my future children. They can take art classes instead of daycare, starting early.

Why Do We Turn to Self-Criticism?

Next, I ponder feeling socially behind. Many people my age are in relationships.

But I counter my self-criticism with a long list of reasons why I’m happy being on my own. I avoid awkward moves with someone who doesn’t truly get me, unlike some of my friends. According to Neff (2003), answering self-criticism with self-kindness protects against rumination and depression.

As an adventurous spirit, I’m not waiting for a knight in shining armor. After a few daring moves, I’ve found a country where kindred spirits might be more common than here. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’m learning a new language with hopes of relocating there someday.

I’m all in. At least I’ll be able to say I traveled halfway around the world to find them. And I’ll stand up for myself if they don’t appreciate it.

Then, of course, the fear of the future hits—new culture, new rules, and the unknown. I worry whether I’ll make it before time runs out.

A while back, a kind doctor told me something’s wrong and gave me 2-3 years to conceive. Supposedly, it’s a family curse, and they’ve said this to all the women in the family.

How Do I Face Whatever Comes?

Still, I’m determined to face whatever comes. Even if the test results are true and I don’t find someone in time, I’ll handle being a single mother in a country where it’s less of a stigma. I’ll find a way, even if it’s the hardest path.

My heart races at the thought of the next 2-3 years. Defending three master’s degrees, writing a PhD proposal, learning a new language, going abroad, adjusting to a new place, finding someone, hopefully marrying them, getting pregnant—yep, it’s a whirlwind.

But courage and ambition rise within me again. I realize three years means over a thousand days. Plus, the universe has been looking out for me all along.

I’d be ungrateful to think the gods are against me after all I’ve been through. Doubting that seems wrong. Ultimately, I have a moment of meta-reflection.

Rehashing the same issues doesn’t just pass the time; it makes time flow and reminds me that I’m aging. The first wrinkles will come and such. According to Nolen-Hoeksema, Wisco and Lyubomirsky (2008), this kind of rumination deepens low mood and impairs problem solving.

Why Is Aging Fun?

Yet, I find myself appreciating aging more and more, which is oddly freeing. My parents, a good 30 years older, are still alive and well, hardly lacking zest.

I have at least three decades of youth ahead of me. According to Carstensen, Isaacowitz and Charles (1999), sensing that time is limited shifts our priorities toward emotional meaning.

In moments like these, I feel human—someone who battles entropy and works on personal growth. At the same time, I feel like a machine analyzing and rationalizing every move. As I navigate each path in my mental maze, I inevitably hit a wall.

There, I see my own face smiling in satisfaction. I’ve been here before.

And here. And here. 

I’ve explored every corner of my mind. I’m everywhere and nowhere. It’s a bit like the wind—everywhere yet nowhere specific.

It’s a poignant realization. Gradually, as morning fatigue sets in, I dissolve into a bluish void. That’s when, after hours of tossing and turning, sleep finally embraces me.