There was a season of my life when bedtime felt anything but restful.

I would crawl into bed exhausted after a long day, pull the covers up, turn off the lamp, and wait for sleep to come.

But it never worked that way.

The moment the lights went out, my thoughts turned on.

Suddenly, a massive list began scrolling through my mind like a teleprompter.

The things I had done.

The things I hadn’t done.

The phone call I forgot to make.

The email I needed to send.

The permission slip.

The appointment.

The groceries.

The thing I needed to tell one of my kids.

The conversation I wished I had handled differently.

The worry I hadn’t solved yet.

It was as if my brain had been quietly collecting unfinished business all day and decided bedtime was the perfect time to present it to me.

I used to think rest looked like a hammock on the beach.

The sound of waves rolling onto the shore.
A cool ocean breeze against my skin.
No responsibilities.
No schedules.
No one needing anything from me.

That, I thought, was rest.

Then reality set in.