For the Girl Who Couldn’t Sleep – A Letter from the Edge of Healing

I know you’re tired.

Not just sleepy — I mean exhausted. Soul-deep, bone-heavy, mind-racing tired. The kind of tired that keeps you lying awake at 2 a.m., staring at the ceiling, holding back tears for reasons you can’t even name. Or maybe you stopped holding them back a long time ago.

You’ve probably said “I’m fine” so many times that it’s become a reflex. Smiled through things that shattered you. Showed up for others when you couldn’t show up for yourself. You’ve been the strong one for so long — you don’t know how to let go of that role, even when it’s slowly unraveling you from the inside out.

I see you. Because I’ve been you.

There was a time I couldn’t sleep either. Not because I wasn’t tired, but because silence was too loud. My mind would replay everything I didn’t say, everything I felt too deeply, everything I thought I should’ve done differently. And in those quiet hours, it felt like the world had forgotten me. Like healing was a place I couldn’t find the map to.

But I want to tell you something I didn’t know then. You are not broken. You are not at fault. And this moment — this aching, sleepless moment — doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

It means you’re still trying. Still surviving. Still hoping, even in the smallest, most invisible ways. There is no timeline for healing.

I used to think there was. That if I just read the right books, said the right affirmations, drank more water, kept a gratitude journal — I’d wake up one day and everything would be okay again.

But healing is not a checklist. It’s not neat or linear or Instagrammable. Sometimes healing looks like eating cereal at 1 a.m. because it’s the only thing that feels manageable. Sometimes it looks like crying in the shower or canceling plans or not returning texts, because your body is trying to protect you the only way it knows.

And even if no one else sees that — I want you to know: that counts. That matters. Your softness is not a weakness.

If you’ve ever been told you’re too sensitive or too emotional or too much — I hope you know that was never your flaw. It was your gift. You feel things deeply because you care. You cry because your heart still opens, even after everything. That is resilience, not fragility.

The world might not always yield to your softness, but that doesn’t mean you have to harden. It doesn’t mean you have to silence yourself or fold into smaller shapes just to be acceptable.

You are allowed to take up space. Even when you’re unsure. Even when you’re sad. Even when all you have is the quiet ache in your chest and the hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will feel lighter.

You are still worthy on your worst days.

This is the part I wish someone had told me — that even in the mess, even when I didn’t feel lovable or strong or “put together,” I was still worthy of love, comfort, and care. Not for what I could do, or give, or perform…` just because I existed. Because I was here.

And you are, too.

If all you did today was survive, I’m proud of you. If you cried and didn’t hide it, I’m proud of you. If you showed up for yourself in even the tiniest way — a journal entry, a walk outside, a moment of stillness — I am proud of you.

Healing is not about becoming someone new. It’s about remembering who you were before the world told you who to be. And sometimes, that remembering takes time. Sometimes, it’s found in the quietest places — in your journal pages, in the way your breath steadies after a wave of tears, in the small acts of self-trust you rebuild day by day.

You are not alone in this.

I know it feels like no one else understands. Like everyone else is moving on, sleeping well, thriving, while you’re stuck in this invisible fog. But you’re not the only one awake at 2 a.m., searching for answers in the dark. You’re not the only one who feels like healing is just out of reach.

There are girls like you — soft, brave, aching — all over the world, trying their best to hold it together while falling apart inside. I’m one of them. And if you need someone to tell you: I get it — this is me saying it.

I get it. I know how hard it is to carry pain that has no name. I know how it feels to grieve a version of yourself you haven’t met yet. I know how it feels to want to be okay, but not know how to get there.

But you will.

Maybe not all at once. Maybe not tomorrow. But little by little, something shifts. A day comes when the crying spell is shorter. A night passes where sleep comes easier. A morning arrives when you realize the weight has lifted — just a little — and you feel your breath settle deeper in your chest.

That’s healing, too.

So if you’re reading this with tired eyes and a sore heart, please let this be your permission slip. You don’t have to fix everything tonight. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You are allowed to rest. To fall apart. To try again.

Even from the edge of healing — especially from the edge — you are allowed to hope.

I’m right there with you. And I believe in the person you’re becoming.

With love,
Nomi

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About the Author: Nomi is the voice behind Dream Girl Daily — a soft, soulful space for emotional healing, gentle confidence, and real girl talk. Through digital diary entries and poetic affirmations, she helps women feel seen in their most tender seasons. Find her on Instagram @deardreamgirl or visit https://dreamgirldaily.c arrd.co

Photo by Nikita Kleyman: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-woman-lying-on-wooden-desk-8460130/

The opinions and views expressed in any guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of www.rtor.org or its sponsor, Laurel House, Inc. The author and www.rtor.org have no affiliations with any products or services mentioned in the article or linked to therein. Guest Authors may have affiliations to products mentioned or linked to in their author bios.