Not in our beds, not in luxurious hotels, and certainly not in rooms where the air hums differently or the mattress feels like it remembers someone else’s dreams.
Don’t Chase Sleep. Court It.
The worst thing you can do in a strange place — or any place, really — is try to fall asleep. Trying creates tension. Tension wakes the body. And the body, when it senses pursuit, retreats. Instead, do what the mystics and old cats do: settle, watch, and welcome. Tell yourself, “I’m just going to lie here. That’s enough.” And maybe it is. Some of the most beautiful insights come when the world is quiet and you’ve stopped demanding anything from it — or yourself.
Strange places speak. Old houses hum. Hotels remember. Before bed, take a moment to walk the room. Learn its shadows. Listen to its silence. Touch something solid — a wall, a lamp, a cool windowpane — and say, without irony: “Thank you for sheltering me tonight.” It sounds odd. But it tells your nervous system, I belong here — even just for now.
The Ritual Before the Ritual
Sleep begins long before the pillow. Make yourself a simple, sensory ritual — the same way every night, no matter where you are. Mine is a little bit of lavender oil, a magnesium tablet, soft cotton, and a phrase I whisper to myself: “Nothing is required of me now.” Choose your own. Repeat it like a spell.
If the mind won’t slow, don’t punish it. Feed it gently. Choose a book — preferably one with long sentences and no murders. Poetry works. Similarly, 19th-century travel journals and books about clouds offer insight. No social media. No headlines. The goal isn’t stimulation. It’s a decoration for the inner cathedral. Let language become a lullaby.
When Sleep Fails, Let Rest Succeed
There will be nights when you just won’t sleep. Not fully. Not deeply. But rest is still rest. Close your eyes. Stretch. Let the mattress hold you like warm sand. Let your breath go in and out like waves brushing against the shore. The body knows what to do when you stop telling it how to perform. Sometimes, rest is enough. And in that gentleness, sleep may slip back in, quiet and unannounced.
If you’re like me, you’ve probably felt — at some point — that your body betrayed you. That your brain won’t cooperate. That night is a punishment, and sleep is a withheld reward. But maybe sleep isn’t a reward at all. Maybe it’s a gift that comes when we stop reaching for it and start listening to what our soul needs most in the dark. And maybe the places we wander through — even the strangest of them — are just trying to help us remember something we forgot: That we are safe.
