You came to bed tired.
And yet here you are,
Still awake.
Maybe your mind has already gone to tomorrow.
Or back to something that happened today.
Or perhaps it has simply decided that this is the perfect time to think about absolutely everything.
You don't have to follow those thoughts.
And you don't have to make yourself sleep either.
For the next little while.
You can simply rest here with me.
Nothing needs to be solved tonight.
I'm Tara and this is Words to Hold You.
A quiet place for emotional reassurance when your mind won't rest.
So let's see if we can make this part of the night a little easier.
Perhaps you've been lying here waiting for sleep to come.
Turning over.
Trying one position.
And then another.
Listening to the quiet.
Wondering how long you've been awake.
And somewhere underneath all of that.
Perhaps those are little dreads.
Not just because you're awake tonight.
But because you remember other nights.
Broken Knights.
Long nights.
Nights when sleep came for a while.
Disappeared again.
Nights when you watched the hours pass and began to wonder whether morning would arrive before sleep did.
And perhaps.
Tonight began carrying the weight of those nights before it had even properly begun.
Maybe when you got into bed.
There was already a small voice saying,
Please not again.
Please let me sleep tonight.
And that is such a weary place to be.
To want rest so much that bedtime itself begins to feel like something you have to get right.
And so tonight.
I don't want to give you another thing to do.
I don't want to give you a technique to master.
I don't want to ask you to breathe in a certain way or count anything.
Or empty your mind.
Or try harder to relax.
You have tried hard enough.
For a little while.
Perhaps you can stop.
Working at sleep.
You can stop trying to make this night turn out a particular way.
You can simply lie here.
And let me keep you company.
Because last night is over.
Difficult night before that.
It's over too.
Every night you remember lying awake.
Belongs to another moment.
And although your mind may bring those memories into this room,
They are not instructions for what has to happen now.
All this is tonight.
A night that has not finished unfolding.
You don't know its whole story yet.
You don't have to tell yourself that you're definitely going to sleep deeply.
You don't have to persuade yourself that tonight will be perfect.
You don't have to make promises your worried mind doesn't quite believe.
You can simply stop predicting.
Maybe this is enough.
Not optimism.
Not certainty.
Just a little space where you don't know.
You don't know how the next hour will be.
You don't know when your eyelids may become heavy.
You don't know when a thought may quietly lose its importance.
You don't know when your body may decide.
That it's ready to drift.
And not knowing does not have to be frightening.
Sometimes not knowing.
Can be a place to rest.
Because if you don't know what happens next.
Then the old story doesn't have to be true either.
The story that says.
Here we go again.
Another terrible night,
I'll never sleep.
That story can stop here.
Not because you've replaced it with a brighter one.
But because you don't need a story at all.
You only need this moment.
And in this moment.
Perhaps there's nothing actually wrong.
You're lying down.
The day has stopped asking things of you.
There's nowhere you need to go right now.
No one you need to impress.
Nothing you need to achieve lying here in this bed.
You don't have to be a successful sleeper.
You don't have to earn the night.
You don't have to prove that you can relax.
You're allowed to simply be tired.
You're allowed to simply be awake.
You are allowed to be exactly where you are without turning it into a problem.
And I wonder.
.
.
If some part of you needs to hear this tonight.
Your body is not letting you down.
It may feel that way.
Especially if you have spent several nights wishing it would do something that seems as though it should be so simple.
Sleep.
Just sleep.
But your body is not your enemy.
It's not lying here deliberately keeping you awake.
It's not being difficult.
It's not failing some test.
This body has carried you through an entire day.
It has kept your heart beating without being asked.
It has breathed for you while your attention was somewhere else.
It has carried tension you may not even have noticed.
It has responded to noise,
People.
Worries.
Responsibilities,
Memories,
Decisions and all the small demands that make up a life.
Perhaps tonight it is taking a little longer to settle.
That does not make it bad.
That does not make you bad at sleeping.
So.
Instead of asking your body.
Why won't you sleep?
Perhaps there could be a softer message.
You don't have to do anything for me right now.
I'm not angry with you.
You can take your time.
Imagine the difference between those two messages.
One says.
Come on,
Sleep.
We need to sleep.
The other says.
It's alright.
There is no hurry here.
Perhaps your body has had enough hurry for one day.
There's something else I'd like to take away from you tonight,
If you'll let me.
The idea that every minute you are awake is a minute wasted.
Because it isn't.
You may not be asleep yet.
But you are no longer out in the day.
You're no longer moving from one task to another.
You're not standing,
Driving,
Working,
Answering,
Carrying,
Organizing or fixing.
You are lying down.
And your body is supported.
Your eyes can close if they want to.
Your hands have nothing to hold.
Your feet have nowhere to take you.
For this little while.
You've stepped out of doing.
That has value.
Rest has value even before it becomes sleep.
Quiet has value even when the mind has not become completely quiet.
Stillness has value.
Even when you are aware of being still.
So perhaps you don't have to watch the night as though every waking minute is being taken from you.
Perhaps these minutes can be given back to you in another form.
A stillness.
As warm.
As we pause.
As a time when nobody needs anything from you.
You don't need to label this as a bad night while you are still inside it.
You don't need to give it a verdict.
You can let it simply be this.
A quiet stretch of time in which you are lying down.
And being held.
And if your mind wants to check whether sleep is coming.
You don't have to answer.
If it asks.
Am I sleepy yet?
You can let the question pass.
If it says.
This isn't working.
There is nothing that has to work.
If it says,
I've been awake for ages.
You don't need to investigate.
There's such freedom in not checking.
Not measuring.
Not assessing.
Not giving yourself marks out of 10 for relaxation.
You are not a project tonight.
You are a person who is tired.
Tired people deserve tenderness.
So let this be a place where you are not corrected.
Where nobody tells you that you should be calmer.
Where nobody tells you that you should have stopped thinking by now.
Where nobody tells you that you should be asleep.
There are enough shoulds in the daytime.
And light can be free of them.
You could be awake.
You could be restless.
You could feel frustrated.
You could feel disappointed that sleep hasn't arrived yet.
And all of that could be here.
Without becoming a battle.
You don't have to like being awake.
You simply don't have to punish yourself for it.
Perhaps that is the gentlest thing we can do with this night.
Stop fighting the fact.
That this is the moment you are in.
Not surrendering to a terrible night.
Not deciding that sleep won't come.
Just.
Ending the argument with right now.
Right now you're awake.
All right.
Then we can be awake together for a little while.
There's nothing shameful about it.
Nothing wrong with you.
Nothing you need to explain.
You can lie here without trying to get somewhere else.
Sometimes.
When we stop demanding that a moment change immediately,
It begins to soften all by itself.
Not because we forced it.
Because we stopped holding it so tightly.
Maybe your thoughts are busy.
Let them be busy somewhere in the background.
They don't all need your attention.
A thought about something you forgot.
A thought about someone.
A strange little memory from years ago.
A sentence you wish you'd said differently.
Something you need to buy.
Something you need to remember.
Something completely ridiculous that somehow seems important at this hour.
The mind can put on quite a show in the dark.
But you don't need to take a seat in the front row.
You can hear the thoughts without joining them.
Like hearing a radio in another room.
You know it's playing.
But you don't need to make out every word.
There may be a gap between one thought and another.
Perhaps only a second.
Perhaps you barely notice it.
And then another thought comes.
Well,
That's all right.
Nothing has gone wrong because the mind is still thinking.
We're not trying to win against your thoughts.
We're simply letting them become.
Less important.
They can move around without being answered.
They can knock.
Without the door being opened.
They can pass through without taking you anywhere.
And in the meantime.
Your body can stay here.
Supported.
Warm,
Cozy,
Perhaps.
Covered.
Still.
Your cheek against the pillow.
The weight of the covers.
The mattress beneath your back,
Your side,
Your legs.
No need to scan your body.
No need to relax it part by part.
Just the simple fact.
That something is holding you up.
You don't have to hold yourself up right now.
That may be enough to notice.
You are being held.
And perhaps you've been holding yourself up all day.
Keeping things going,
Keeping track.
Remembering,
Responding.
Being sensible,
Being capable,
Being available.
Perhaps you have carried things nobody else even knew you were carrying.
But not here.
But not for these minutes.
You can put down the version of you who manages everything.
You can put down the version of you who keeps watch.
You can put down the version of you who has to anticipate what might happen next.
You do not need to keep watch over sleep.
Sleep knows how to come without being supervised.
When you think about it you've fallen asleep thousands of times without understanding exactly how you did it.
There was no moment when you consciously crossed the line.
At some point.
You simply weren't awake anymore.
You didn't perform that moment.
He didn't control it.
It happened.
So perhaps tonight.
You can allow that mystery to remain a mystery.
You don't need to know how to fall asleep.
Your body has known before.
You don't need to give it instructions right now.
You can step out of the way a little.
And if sleep is not ready yet,
Then there's still this.
Rest.
Not second best rest.
Not failed sleep.
Rest.
Body lying down.
Eyes that can be closed.
A room that asks nothing.
A voice keeping you company.
A few minutes when you are not required to produce anything at all.
Let that be enough for now.
Not forever.
Just now.
This is where we so often make things harder for ourselves.
We ask the present moment to guarantee the next one.
If I'm awake now,
Will I still be awake later?
If I don't feel sleepy yet.
What does that mean?
If tonight is like last night,
Then what?
But this moment cannot answer those questions.
And it doesn't need to.
This moment has a much smaller job.
To be here.
And you have a much smaller job too.
To be here with it.
No forecast.
No verdict.
No promise.
Just this pillow.
This bed.
This breath arriving and leaving in whatever way it wants to.
This moment passing.
Without needing to be improved.
Perhaps you can feel how little is actually required of you.
You don't have to reach for sleep.
You don't have to pull it closer.
You don't have to chase it down the corridor of the night.
You can let sleep find its own way.
And while it does,
You can stay here.
Maybe you notice the heaviness of one arm.
Maybe your face feels a little softer.
Maybe your thoughts are still busy.
Maybe nothing feels different at all.
No judgement.
Nothing to report.
Nothing to fix.
You're not waiting for the correct sensation.
You're not trying to notice whether this is working.
You're simply allowing yourself to exist without effort for a little while.
Then that may be something you have not had much opportunity to do today.
Exist.
Without effort.
Not improving.
Not solving.
Not becoming,
Not preparing.
Just.
Being.
There's a softness available in that.
Not something you have to create.
Something you can stop pushing away.
Perhaps you can loosen your grip on the knife.
Not your muscles,
Not your breath.
The night itself.
You don't have to hold it so tightly.
You don't have to decide whether it's going well.
You don't have to keep checking where you are in it.
Let the night be bigger than your thoughts about it.
Outside this room.
Darkness is simply darkness.
It's not keeping score.
The night is not disappointed in you for being awake.
The bed is not asking you why you haven't fallen asleep.
The pillow has no opinion.
Only the worried mind makes a rule and says,
This should be different.
And perhaps,
For now,
The rule can go.
This is what is here.
And you can be gentle with what is here.
If frustration comes,
Let that be met gently too.
Of course you would prefer to be asleep.
Of course you would.
There's no need to pretend otherwise.
You can want sleep without turning that wanting against yourself.
You can be disappointed without blaming your body.
You can be tired of broken nights without deciding this one is already broken.
This night is still happening.
It does not need a label.
And you do not need to carry the memory of every difficult night into this bed with you.
They can stay where they belong.
Behind you.
You are not required to drag them through tonight as evidence.
This moment is new.
Not magically perfect.
Simply new.
And a maybe.
That's enough possibility for one night.
This may also be a good place.
To let go of all the little bargains we make with sleep.
I'll lie perfectly still and then maybe I'll sleep.
I'll stop thinking and then maybe I'll sleep.
I'll find the right position and then maybe I'll sleep.
I'll listen carefully enough and then maybe I'll sleep.
You don't need to bargain with the night.
You don't need to offer perfect behavior in exchange for rest.
Sleep is not a reward for doing bedtime correctly.
It is not withholding itself because you have failed to find the right thought,
The right breath.
The right pillow position or the right state of mind.
So all those little negotiations can be put down too.
You can move if you need to move.
You can swallow.
You can scratch an itch.
You can pull the covers up you can turn over.
You can be a human being in a bed rather than somebody trying to become perfectly still enough to deserve sleep.
There's room for you here exactly as you are.
And perhaps there's something very tender underneath the dread of another broken night.
Perhaps you're simply weary.
Weary of hoping.
Weary of watching.
Weary of wondering whether tonight will be easier.
If so,
You don't have to push that weariness away.
And you don't have to turn it into positivity.
You don't have to tell yourself to cheer up or think better thoughts.
You can be weary and still be kind to yourself.
You can be fed up and still stop fighting.
You can wish things were different.
And still allow this moment to be gentle.
Kindness does not require you to pretend.
It simply asks that you stop adding another hurt to the one that is already here.
So if being awake is difficult.
But let that be the only difficulty.
You don't need to add.
I'm hopeless at this.
My body never does what I need.
I should be coping better.
Why can't I just relax?
Those words do not make sleep come closer.
They only make a tired person feel more alone.
And you do not need to be alone with yourself in that way tonight.
You can be on your own side.
Even now.
Especially now.
Maybe there's a part of you that's still waiting for permission to stop.
Permission to stop thinking about sleep.
Permission to stop thinking about how you feel.
Permission to stop thinking about whether you're relaxed enough.
Here is that permission.
You can stop.
You can let the night happen without supervising it.
You can let your breathing breathe itself.
You can let your heart beat without checking on it.
You can let your body find whatever comfort is available.
Without asking it to become deeply relaxed.
And you can let time pass without following every minute.
Time knows how to pass.
Your body knows how to lie here.
The night knows how to move through darkness.
None of those things require your management.
So perhaps.
.
.
There is less for you to do than you thought.
There may even be a little relief in giving up the job of making the night successful.
Because what would happen if this night didn't have to be successful?
What if it didn't need to be judged at all?
What if it could simply be a night?
Some sleeping,
Some waking.
Some drifting,
Some thoughts,
Some quiet.
The night does not have to be perfect to contain rest.
And you do not have to sleep perfectly to deserve gentleness.
Perhaps the edges can become less sharp.
When there's no verdict waiting.
No goodnight.
Not no bad night.
Just the night you are in.
And this moment within it.
I want to stay with you a little longer now.
Now listen.
No fixing.
Just some kind words for the part of you that is tired of trying.
You have done enough today.
You do not need to earn this rest.
You do not need to apologize for being awake.
You are not wasting this moment.
You are allowed to lie here without solving anything.
You are allowed to stop monitoring yourself.
You're allowed to stop asking when sleep will come.
Thank you.
You are allowed to be cared for by the quiet.
You're allowed to receive the support of the bed beneath you.
You can stop trying to make yourself different from how you are right now.
Nothing.
Is required.
And if you've been hard on yourself tonight,
Perhaps that can end here too.
No more telling yourself you should be asleep.
No more blaming yourself for thinking.
No more treating your body as though it has betrayed you.
You are tired.
That deserves kindness,
Not criticism.
If someone you loved were lying beside you feeling exactly as you feel now you wouldn't scold them.
You wouldn't say.
Try harder.
Why are you still awake?
What's wrong with you?
You might say.
It's alright.
You don't have to do anything.
I'm here.
Just rest.
So let those words belong to you too.
It's all right.
You don't have to do anything.
You can just rest.
And now I'd like to leave you with some words to hold you.
Not words about what comes next.
Not promises about mourning.
Just words for this moment.
You don't have to repeat them.
You don't have to remember them.
Let them arrive and pass.
And perhaps.
One of them will feel like somewhere soft to rest your mind.
I can stop trying now.
I don't have to make sleep happen.
I can let this moment be exactly as it is.
I'm allowed to rest while I'm awake.
My body does not need my criticism.
I can be gentle with myself here.
Nothing is required of me right now.
I can loosen my grip.
I can let the thoughts pass without answering them.
I do not need to check.
I do not need to measure.
I do not need to know what happens next.
I can rest in not knowing.
I am supported.
I am Hell.
I can stop working at sleep.
I can allow the night to be the night.
How I can soften toward this moment.
I can let go of the need for this moment to change.
Rest is enough for now.
I am enough for now.
And if none of those words stay with you,
That's alright too.
You don't need to hold onto anything.
You can even let the words go.
Let my voice move a little further away.
Let the spaces between the words flow.
Become more important than the words themselves.
There's nowhere to get to.
Nothing to finish.
Nothing.
To wait for.
If a thought comes.
It can come.
If it goes.
It can go.
If you notice the bed beneath you.
Let it hold you.
If you notice the quiet.
Let the quiet be enough.
You don't have to reach for sleep.
You don't have to reach for anything.
For now.
You can simply stop.
No trying.
No checking.
No judging.
Just here.
Just resting.
Jazz.
Moment.
Goodnight.
