The Light In The Kitchen – Bedtime Story #1 (8 Hours)

The Light in the Kitchen is the first in a series of gentle, true bedtime stories drawn from a lifetime of lived experience—shaped by seasons of struggle, growth, peace, and becoming.

Journaling has been my companion throughout my life, through both the hard years and the joyful ones. These stories are born from the memories held in those journals: quiet moments, late-night reflections, whispered hopes, and the peace that came slowly, honestly, and by choice.

These stories aren’t meant to teach or fix.
They’re meant to be felt.

Listen with your eyes closed.
Let the day release you.
And rest inside the knowing that peace is possible—and worth protecting.

Background music by my friend and fellow Insight Timer teacher, Blossom Violet, recorded LIVE during our collaboration on May 22, 2025. Please follow her to enjoy more of her beautiful music and live events.

You’re also warmly invited to join my Insight Timer group, "Ask Your Guides"—grounded, guided, and always growing.

Transcript

The Light in the Kitchen,

A Bedtime Story Come get comfortable now.

Let your body sink into the place where you're resting.

There's nothing you need to hold together anymore tonight.

I want to tell you a small story,

The kind that doesn't rush anywhere.

When my children were young,

There were nights when the house finally went quiet and I would stand alone in the kitchen for a moment longer than I needed to.

The dishes were done,

The lights were mostly off,

But I always left one light on,

Just the small one over the sink.

I didn't know why at first.

I told myself it was a habit,

Or that I might come back for a glass of water.

But really,

It was comfort.

That little light made the house feel awake enough to be kind,

Like it was still watching over everyone,

Even while they slept.

Some nights,

I leaned against the counter and listened to the refrigerator humming,

To the quiet creaks of a home settling into itself,

To my own breath slowing down after a long day of doing my best.

I didn't always feel like I had done enough back then.

I worried about the wrong things.

I replayed conversations.

I wondered if I was getting it right.

But standing there in that soft light,

I learned something slowly.

The house didn't need perfection.

It just needed presence.

Years later,

When the children were grown,

I noticed I still left that light on,

Even when the house felt too quiet,

Even when I missed the noise.

I realized then that the light wasn't for the house at all.

It was for me.

It reminded me that even in the dark,

Something gentle can stay on,

That rest doesn't mean disappearance,

That love doesn't clock out when the day is done.

So tonight,

As you rest,

Imagine that small kitchen light somewhere nearby,

Not bright,

Not demanding,

Just steady.

It doesn't ask anything of you.

It doesn't need you to fix the day or figure out tomorrow.

It simply says you're safe to rest now.

You've done enough for today.

The watching over is handled.

Let your thoughts wander away if they want to.

You don't need to follow them.

The light stays on whether you're thinking or sleeping,

Just like care does.

Close your eyes now.

Let the day loosen its grip.

You can come back to it later.

For now,

Rest.

You were held.

You always were.