For years, my trusty silver desk fan was essential for a good night’s sleep. Its gentle hum and cool breeze were my lullabies. Friends often teased me, and my coworker Maxton joked, “I’d marry a fan before a person.” I laughed it off, never questioning my reliance on it.
Everything changed last week when I read an article warning that sleeping with a fan on could dry out your throat, trigger allergies, or worsen asthma. Suddenly, I wondered if this was why I often woke up with a scratchy voice. The idea was unsettling.
That night, I tried sleeping without the fan. The silence felt strange and uncomfortable. Every creak of the house seemed louder, and my thoughts raced about unpaid bills, stalled writing projects, and awkward moments I’d rather forget. By 2 AM, I gave in and turned the fan back on. Its familiar hum instantly calmed me, yet unease lingered. Was I harming myself for comfort?
The next morning, while having coffee with my neighbor Callista, I shared my concerns. She laughed, dismissing it, but her teenage son, Ewan, mentioned that a friend’s dad got bronchitis and blamed his nightly fan. That small comment planted a seed of doubt.
I experimented by pointing the fan away from me. I could still hear the hum without direct air on my face. But by 4 AM, I woke drenched in sweat. The July heat was intense, and the sheets stuck to me. I eventually pointed the fan back at me, surrendering to comfort.
A few days later, my college friend Saira shared that her sleep therapist explained how some people form strong “sleep associations” with sounds or objects. She added that over-relying on such comforts can mask underlying stress or anxiety. Her words echoed in my mind. Was I hiding behind the fan’s hum instead of facing my stress?
Determined to understand my sleep, I recorded myself. I didn’t hear coughing, but I mumbled phrases like “I’m sorry” and “please don’t go.” The recordings unsettled me, revealing emotions I hadn’t acknowledged. That day, I struggled at work, missing a deadline. My manager, Leontyne, checked in, sharing she had insomnia after her divorce. Her honesty made me feel less alone.
Reflecting on my past, I realized that before my dad died, I slept soundly without a fan. His presence—the hum of his blues songs in the kitchen—had been comforting. After he passed, the house felt empty, and I bought my first fan. It wasn’t just comfort; it was a substitute for security.
I decided to face the quiet. That night, I unplugged the fan and allowed myself to grieve. The silence was loud but honest. I began journaling, writing letters to my dad, myself, and others I felt I had hurt. Gradually, the nights became easier, and the darkness less frightening.
Talking with my sister Lyndra about our shared struggles brought healing. My neighbor Callista shared her own coping habits, and conversations helped us all feel less alone. Visiting Saira’s sleep therapist, Dr. Hakim, I learned that sleep isn’t just about sound—it’s about feeling safe enough to let go. Through mindfulness and breathing exercises, I slowly learned to sleep in silence.
Over time, I noticed changes in my life. My focus improved, I felt calmer, and I even received new work opportunities. Unexpectedly, a friend of my dad’s gave me a box of letters my father had written but never sent. Reading them felt like a final conversation, bringing closure and peace I didn’t realize I was missing.
That night, I slept without the fan, without fear, and without regret. The next morning, I felt refreshed, more connected to myself and loved ones.
Now, I understand why people rely on comforts like fans, TVs, or childhood blankets. But facing silence can reveal what we’ve been avoiding. If you struggle with sleep or cling to comforts to quiet your mind, know you’re not alone. Sitting with your memories and emotions can unlock peace and self-discovery.
Sometimes, the quiet teaches us more than the noise ever could.