My 9-year-old daughter looks at me every night as if I had asked her to climb Mount Everest barefoot.
Her eyes fill. her voice cracks.
“I can’t do that,” she says. “I just can’t sleep.”
she says again. And again. Maybe the third time it will be truer. Or even easier. Or maybe not so scary. And I understand. I really think so. Because sleep has recently become the hardest part of her day for reasons that science can explain but anxiety can’t.
Here’s where parenting gets nuanced, weird, and emotionally complex. Her father gives her very low doses of melatonin at home. He said he was weaning her. Many months have passed. I’m not anti-melatonin. I’m not against anything that helps kids rest. I’m adamantly on the “sleep is best” side, just like “food is best” when a baby survives on crumbs and mess.
I believe there are reasons why melatonin is helpful. I also believe my daughter can fall asleep without it. Mainly because I’ve seen her do it. I’ve seen her go into sleeps that look bottled and sold at the drugstore.
But will we get there? Oh, it’s a process. Usually includes a pep talk. Sometimes two or three. That’s when she looked me straight in the eye and said seriously, with tears in her eyes. “But what if I can’t?” It’s like you’re standing on the edge of something huge and dark. So I don’t rush her. I don’t minimize it.
I will tell her the truth. What it means to not be able to sleep teeth It’s really difficult. it is I get irritated. That it feels unfair to struggle with something your body should know how to do. I told her that I love sleep too, but it feels cruel in the moment and it’s like loving something that keeps rejecting you.
Because here’s what I know about my daughter: My daughter hates not being good at things. I can tell when a new math concept like fractions doesn’t click right away. Her jaw tightens, tears begin to form, and she quickly spirals from “I still don’t get it” to “What if I don’t get this?” Another thing she wants to master is sleep. When something doesn’t come easily to you, you feel like a failure.
We understand how our brains automatically turn on when something doesn’t go our way. Therefore, I believe that the anxiety in our family is a result of strength, not weakness.
It’s about caring too deeply and seeking certainty where there is none. So she looked at me and said, “You know what? “But what if I can’t?” We’re not just hearing bedtime fears. I hear the bigger fear: “What if I’m not good at this? What if I can’t do something that everyone else takes for granted?”
So we practice. We put our hands on our bellies and breathe. we talk about love Let’s talk about safety. Sometimes we apply Whole Foods organic lavender lotion to her legs and feet. Because it’s the scent of hope and expensive self-care. Turn off screens at least an hour before bed. Because if you don’t participate in the ritual, you have nothing.
There are tensions, of course, because in some homes she may be helped to induce sleep in the form of gummies or pills. There it is easy and hassle-free. Sleep is something you learn when she’s here and with me. Something to practice. Something you can trust will come, even if it doesn’t appear right away.
Listen, easy is seductive. I crave simplicity. However, we also know that easy things are not the only things that make us grow.
Sleep is not the only thing I want for my daughter. It’s about knowing. A deep internal realization that she can overcome discomfort. It’s okay if you can’t fall asleep right away. Nothing bad will happen if she stays awake for an hour. Or two. Or even more. Because panic loves deadlines. And I know that frustration is part of the process of getting there.
So instead of trying to control her sleep, I try to teach her how to face herself when times are tough.
We teach our children a lot. How to regulate. How to trust your body. How to name your fear without letting it control you. How to sit with discomfort and discover that it has passed.
Some nights I may fall asleep quickly. Some nights she doesn’t. Then one night she does the bravest thing. she will remain. she breathes She challenges herself.
And then I realized that could be a real gift.
It’s not perfect sleep. But confidence that she can accomplish difficult things.
Me Lovey She is a mother, a children’s author of the “My Brother Otto” series, and an autistic person living in Salt Lake City. She can be found as a speech therapist and friend, playing and working with neurodivergent children, or writing and planning big things while sipping an Americano in the second booth of a local coffee shop overlooking the Wasatch Mountains. Meg believes that the essence of life is understanding, loving, and welcoming others (i.e., not caring about humans).
