When the morning comes too soon

I can’t sleep. Again.

Sleep has been an on-and-off battle for months, but recently, it felt like I was turning a corner. There was hope. A gentle rhythm returning. Until two nights ago.

It started with a bad dream. Not mine—my five-year-old’s. She cried in the night, needing comfort, and I, of course, woke. But the real kicker was what waited for me in the dark: the chilling images from the public assassination of Charlie Kirk. I didn’t go looking for them, but there they were, all over social media. No censor. No filter. Just horror.

Those images looped endlessly in my mind like a nightmare I hadn’t signed up for. My brain couldn’t switch off. And then, after maybe two or three broken hours of rest, I worked a 12-hour shift. And I was fine. Until the final blow came—spending time with my mum, navigating old, complex dynamics, unspoken griefs, unresolved wounds.

My heart immediately responded. Skipping beats. Often. Forcefully.

And now here I am, once again, at 6:30am. Eyes heavy, body desperate for rest, but no rest comes. The thudding in my chest won’t let me sleep. It hasn’t happened in months—not like this.

As a doctor, I want to find a physiological explanation. But there isn’t one that satisfies. Psychologically? I’ve actually felt more stable lately. I haven’t felt more stressed. In fact, I’ve felt more grounded than usual.

So why this?

Why now?

I try to tell myself something positive. Something kind. Will it work? Will it help? I’m trying—but I’m struggling.

Two hours later, my heart’s still dancing its erratic rhythm. And I wonder: is this my body telling me something? That I need to step back—really step back? That I’ve absorbed too much emotional noise, too much digital chaos, too many impossible demands?

The irony is, I crave rest more than anything—but when this happens, sleep evades me the most.

And then comes the fear of the cycle.

That it’ll start again. That the insomnia will return. That my body is betraying me. That my healing was all just borrowed time.

So today, I made a decision.

Ive been prescribed antidepressants. To help with mood. To help with sleep. I’m terrified. Terrified it’ll make the palpitations worse. Terrified of the “what ifs.” But I also know I can’t keep doing this. Something has to shift.

What’s confusing is that I’m not panicking. I don’t feel overtly stressed. But my heart is telling a different story.

So I whisper the only thing I know to say when I’ve reached the end of myself:

God, help me.

It’s always the “finally,” isn’t it? When nothing else brings peace, and every other option has failed, I reach out to the One I should have started with. You’d think by now my faith would be melon-sized, but honestly—it’s more like a mustard seed, still. But I’m planting it again. Maybe that’s what counts.

I really thought I was free from this cycle. That chapter closed. But here I am again. And the yo-yoing is exhausting.

Today, I’m running on fumes.

That kind of exhaustion where your eyelids burn, and you want nothing more than to melt into sleep—but you can’t. Because you’re a parent. Because your kids need you. Because the world keeps turning even when you feel empty.

I haven’t even left bed and already I’ve played chess and helped my son conquer the Rubik’s cube. My daughter still waits for my attention. My ex keeps calling to FaceTime. My kids want to see their cousins.

And I want to say yes. But how do I explain that being around family right now is physically triggering palpitations? How do I say “I can’t” without guilt swallowing me whole?

So I sit here. Alone with it.

Longing for simplicity. For rest. For a little autumn bike ride or conker picking with the kids. But my heart and body say, nope. Not today.

⸻

But I did it anyway. I slowly ascended. Washed my face. Made my bed—because somehow that one act always makes me feel better about the day.

And we got out of the house.

We went for a gentle bike ride and picked conkers together.

Picking conkers with my great-grandad is one of the few truly cherished memories I have from childhood. And now, every autumn, I relive that moment with and for my kids. 🍂 It’s become a tradition—our way of welcoming in the changing seasons. We ride our bikes, pick blackberries and conkers, and marvel at God’s canopy of nature. The colours, the crispness, the reminder that change can be beautiful.

It helps my mental health more than anything. The kids are outside. The dog gets a good run and sleeps all afternoon. It’s a win-win.

And today, I praised God the entire time.

Even with tantrums and unexpected rainfall, I wasn’t bothered. I fully, truly enjoyed the company of my babies. And I’m going to miss them when they go to their dad’s tomorrow. I hate the quietness of the house when they’re gone. But for now—I will cherish this day.

Because it was such a lovely, blessed gift.

⸻

To the weary heart reading this:

Single parenting after the trauma of a split—however it played out—is a constant uphill struggle.

There are pockets of joy. Pockets of calm. But hope can sometimes feel a little too far out of reach.

If that’s you—hold on to the one good moment from today.

And don’t be afraid to lower your standards of what “good” means. Making your bed is good. Snuggling on the couch with your kids watching movies all day, laughing and holding space for each other—that isn’t lazy. It’s healing. It’s holy. It’s good.

Focus on that.

Let the small wins speak louder than the noise.

And when you’re ready to rest again—may sleep come easy, like grace....