I want to tell you about a Tuesday afternoon in October.
I was in a client presentation. Senior leadership in the room. A meeting I had run versions of for eleven years.
And somewhere in the middle — the word went.
Not dramatically. I paused three seconds too long, found another word, and kept going. Professionally, it was fine.
But I knew. And I drove home knowing.
That was month eight of waking at 3am. Every single night. Lying beside my husband while he slept, watching the minutes change. 3:06. 3:21. 3:44.
I had tried everything sensible. Melatonin — it helped me fall asleep, which was never my problem.
Magnesium — it softened the edges, but I still woke. Two GP visits. Normal bloodwork both times. A full CBT-I programme.