Later, a college friend, Saira, shared something that surprised me. Her sleep therapist explained that some people form sleep associations so strong that they can’t rest without a specific sound or object. The real concern, she said, was relying on it to mask stress or anxiety—exactly what I had been doing.
That night, I recorded myself sleeping. I didn’t hear coughing from the fan, but I did hear myself talking in my sleep—phrases like, “I’m sorry” and “please don’t go.” It unsettled me. Who was I apologizing to?
At work, I missed a deadline, and my manager, Leontyne, asked if everything was okay. I admitted I hadn’t been sleeping well. She shared her own struggles with insomnia, which reminded me I wasn’t alone.
I started reflecting on my father, who passed years ago. Before his death, I never needed a fan. I would fall asleep listening to him hum old blues songs in the kitchen, feeling safe. After he died, the house felt empty, and the fan became my replacement for that lost sense of security.
Determined to face the silence, I unplugged the fan. I let myself cry, thinking about my dad and the conversations we never finished. The quiet was deafening but honest.
The next few nights were tough. Sleep came slowly, but I began journaling before bed—letters to my dad, to myself, to those I’d hurt. Each night, I felt a little lighter.
I even reached out to my sister, Lyndra. We’d been distant after disagreements about our mom’s care, but sharing our struggles helped us reconnect. Callista, my neighbor, checked in too, sharing her own comforting routines with reminders of loved ones.
Eventually, I saw Saira’s sleep therapist, Dr. Hakim, who helped me understand my attachment to the fan. Through breathing exercises and mindfulness, I learned that sleep is as much about feeling safe as it is about silence or sound.
In time, I slept without the fan, and the change affected more than my nights. My manager noticed my calm focus and offered me a leadership opportunity. Even more unexpectedly, I received letters my father had written but never sent. Reading them felt like a final, healing conversation.
I slept peacefully that night without the fan, feeling connected, safe, and at peace. The experience taught me that while comforting objects can soothe us, facing our memories and emotions is the true path to healing.
Now, whenever I see someone reliant on a fan, a TV, or a childhood blanket, I understand. Comfort can help, but sometimes the silence we fear most holds the lessons we need.
If you’re holding onto something just to feel safe, remember: the quiet can teach you more than the noise ever will—embrace it, and see what you discover about yourself.
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