My 9-year-old daughter often looks at me as if I’ve asked her to tackle an immense challenge.
Her eyes glisten. Her voice shakes.
“I can’t do it,” she confesses. “I just can’t get to sleep.”
She repeats this thought, hoping it might somehow become easier or less scary. I feel for her. Sleep, which is supposed to come naturally, has transformed into one of the most daunting tasks for her.
The intricacies of parenting reveal themselves here. Her dad sometimes gives her a small dose of melatonin when she’s at his house. He claims he’s helping her move away from it, but it’s been quite a while now. I’m not opposed to melatonin. I wholeheartedly support anything that aids children in resting. I firmly believe in the importance of sleep, just like the “fed is best” mantra we embrace when our infants are thriving on scraps and chaos.
There are valid reasons melatonin can be beneficial. Yet, I also believe my daughter is capable of falling asleep naturally; I’ve witnessed her do it. I’ve seen that deep, serene sleep that seems like a luxury we can sell.
However, the journey to that peaceful state can be challenging. It often requires some encouragement—sometimes two or three pep talks. She gazes into my eyes, tears almost spilling, asking, “But what if I can’t?” as if standing at the edge of an intimidating abyss. Thus, I remain patient and understanding.
I tell her the honest truth. Struggling to fall asleep is genuinely tough. It can be frustrating. It feels so unfair to wrestle with something our bodies inherently know how to do. I express my own love for sleep, which feels particularly cruel in those moments, like cherishing something that continues to elude her.
What I observe about my daughter is her discomfort with not succeeding. When a new math topic like fractions doesn’t come easily, I can see the tension—her jaw tightens, tears creep into her eyes, and the thought shifts from “I don’t grasp this yet” to “What if I never understand?” Sleep has become another challenge she wants to master. When it doesn’t unfold smoothly, it feels like a failure.
I empathize with how our minds can become our own obstacles when things go awry. Therefore, I frame anxiety as an intense experience rather than a sign of weakness.
It stems from a profound care and a desire for certainty where none exists. So, when she looks at me and voices, “But what if I can’t?” I recognize it’s not merely a fear of bedtime. It’s a broader concern: “What if I’m not good at this? What if I can’t do what everyone else finds so effortless?”
We practice together. We place our hands on our bellies and breathe deeply; we discuss love and security. Sometimes, I apply lavender lotion she adores on her legs and feet, as it symbolizes hope and self-care. We turn off screens at least an hour before bed, aware of the importance of establishing rituals.
Yet, there’s a tension. At her dad’s house, she can easily invoke sleep with a gummy or pill. There, sleep feels straightforward. Here with me, sleep transforms into something she learns. It becomes a matter of practice and trust—learning to believe it will come, even if it takes time.
Easy solutions can be tempting. I often yearn for simplicity. But I recognize that easy paths do not always foster growth.
My hope for my daughter extends beyond just achieving sleep. It’s about developing a deep-rooted understanding that she can endure discomfort. It’s okay when sleep isn’t immediate. Nothing dire will happen if she remains awake for an hour or two. Panic thrives on deadlines, and I am aware that frustration is a crucial element of the journey.
Instead of seeking to control sleep, I aim to teach her how to navigate her feelings when faced with challenges.
We impart valuable lessons to our children—how to regulate their emotions, how to trust their bodies, how to articulate their fears without allowing them to dominate, and how to endure discomfort only to discover that it eventually fades.
Some nights, she falls asleep quickly. Other nights, she does not. And on some occasions, she makes the bravest choice of all. She stays present. She breathes. She gives herself permission to try.
And I’ve come to realize that this may be the most precious gift of all.
Not the guarantee of perfect sleep, but the assurance that she has the strength to tackle difficult situations.
