Sleepless Grief - Is it a Curse or a Guide?

Sleepless Grief—Is It a Curse or a Guide?

It’s been two years and ten months since I lost my love. My husband, my companion of 44 years and the father of my children, is gone. And still, sleep evades me. I lie awake at night, hoping for the rest that will offer some escape from this endless ache, this gaping void left in his absence. But sleep remains as elusive as peace itself.

In grief, sleep isn’t just difficult; it feels impossible. It’s cruel how much we crave sleep when we’re grieving, as though deep rest could provide temporary relief from the crushing weight of loss. But instead, we’re left wide awake, staring into the darkness, forced to face the reality of what’s gone.

At times, I wonder—perhaps there’s a reason sleep escapes us. Perhaps this sleeplessness is not a cruel joke of the mind but rather a necessity. What if this is how we are meant to process grief, by being forced to confront it head-on? I’m not saying it’s right or wrong, ideal or tragic. But the thought lingers—what if the very thing we want, that precious sleep, is being withheld because we need to face our grief, not run from it?

And then, there are the dreams.

On the rare occasions when I sleep deeply, I dream of a life without him. In my dreams, I’m living some other version of myself—someone whose days aren’t defined by loss, who wakes up without that familiar ache in the chest. When I wake from those dreams, I feel disturbed, almost betrayed by my mind. Is that the life I want? Do I want to move on, to accept a world where he’s no longer a part of me?

The question terrifies me. Because if I want that—if I want a life without the grief—does that mean I have to let go of him entirely? Do I lose him if I choose to sleep peacefully, to embrace life without this sorrow?

I can’t answer that yet. But the fear of losing him again, even in my dreams, makes me wonder if this restless sleep is protecting me in some way. Perhaps my mind or heart isn't ready to relinquish our connection, even if it comes at the cost of sleepless nights.

I used to think that if only I could get a decent night’s sleep, I’d be able to cope with life better. But now, I’m not so sure. Maybe sleep and its absence is my body’s way of guiding me through this journey, slow as it may be. After all, grief has no timeline.

I wish I could offer answers, some closure, some hope. But I don’t have that today. Today, all I have is the reality that grief, like sleep, comes and goes on its terms. And all I can do is try to be present with it—even if it keeps me up all night.

So here I am, two years and ten months in, still searching for sleep and peace. Maybe someday, the two will find me together. Until then, I face the darkness alone, holding tight to the memories of the man I loved and wondering—if I let go of my sleepless nights, will I lose him too?