Hours Before Dawn

Trigger Warning: Mentions of anxiety, overthinking, and emotional distress. Please read with care.

I’m lying in bed, only a blanket over my already-sweaty legs. I try to lull myself to sleep, forcing my brain to focus.

Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. You need to sleep.

But no matter how many sheep I count, my eyes won’t close and my brain won’t relax. I roll over and glance at my glowing clock sitting on the shelf next to my bed.

2:31 a.m.

Great.

I roll over again, squeeze my eyes shut, and force myself to picture a black void, but before long, the black is interrupted.

Now I see myself.

I’m in my track uniform, hunched over in blocks at the start line.

My real heart rate starts to rise.

Then the image morphs.

Now I’m standing in front of a blurry-faced class, my hands and mouth are moving, as though I’m awkwardly trying to explain something.

My heart continues to race.

This is not going to be an easy night.

Most of my nights this week have looked like this. At this point, overthinking is a reflex. I know it’s not good for me, but I just can’t stop.

It’s like an addiction.

By now, I’ve rolled over three times, flipped my pillow twice, and my back is so sweaty my shirt is sticking to it. I’m overstimulated. So now I try to focus on my memories instead. The good ones I’ve collected over the summer.

I’m trying to hold on to the happiness. Well, it’s not really gone yet, but I can feel it slipping away. It’s beginning to be replaced with emotions that make me feel less than enough.

Stress has already wrapped its claws around peace’s throat, suffocating it.

Dullness isn’t exactly replacing warmth—yet—but it’s starting to settle back in, like an unwanted guest.

And disappointment is pulling on contentment’s ankles, dragging it below the surface, deeper and deeper, until nothing is left but pressure.

And that’s what I’m most afraid of, as I lie here, wide awake, watching the days ahead form a weight I’m not yet ready to carry.

I don’t want to fall victim to expectations again.

I remember how it felt to crumble under the pressure—and how long it took to finally exhale with relief.

So now I lie here, enjoying the quiet contentment I’ve associated with my summer, while the anxiety of school tears at the back of my mind. I’m relishing the open, weightless feeling of waking up to days with nothing to do. Appreciating the simplicity of summer.

I’m picturing myself lying out in the sun, sun-kissed—

And then there’s his face.

Blank. Disappointed.

The kind of look that comes with a blatant letdown.

A look that makes my stomach churn with regret.

Immediately my brain turns to self-ridicule.

Have I trained hard enough? Long enough? Don’t be a failure this year.

I hear a faint whisper in my ear: “Shave two more seconds. Another second. We need you to run a faster time.”

The twisting in my stomach is making me nauseous, so I try to redirect—think of something happier.

I’m on the court now, laughing with my friends, paddles in our hands, held up like microphones—

But now I’m running.

Running around a crowded field, panicked and out of breath.

I’m sweaty. Red-faced.

My chest is heaving. Tears are building.

I can see it in my eyes—I’m spiraling.

Another whisper reaches me: “Just breathe. You can do better than this. Get out of your own head.”

It’s meant to be comforting.

But it only brings back more memories.

Bad plays. Poor decisions.

Every time I wasn’t enough.

Every time I failed to meet expectations.

My breath catches in my throat, held there by invisible hands.

My stomach twists, tight and unsettled, like something is writhing from within.

I sit up in bed now. My eyes are stinging, begging me to close them and get some rest. But my mind and my stomach are relentless.

The spiral hasn’t stopped—it’s just found a new way to surface.

Suddenly, I rush to the bathroom. The nausea has taken over. I throw myself over the toilet.

When I’ve finished, I walk over to the sink to brush my teeth. I look at my reflection for a moment.

My hair is a mess, tangled from tossing and turning.

My neck glistens with sweat.

But it’s my eyes that catch me.

They are red. Slightly puffy. And so, so tired.

Exhausted even.

I brush my teeth and wash my hands. Now I’m cold. I rub my puffy eyes and climb back into bed. I lean into its warmth, and I let myself sink into the mattress while I wrap myself up in the comforter and soft blankets.

I exhale. Shaky and slow.

Maybe now I can finally sleep.

But my sleepy eyes don’t close, and my mind doesn’t stop racing.

I look at my clock again.

4:15 a.m.

Lovely. Only two hours and forty minutes of sleep before my first day of junior year.

So now I start to picture how my day is going to go in only a few hours.

First I’ll wake up—that is, if I ever go to sleep. Then I’ll lazily struggle with my hair and outfit, too tired to really care. I’ll eat a little bit of breakfast. Fuss at my sister for not being ready yet—stress will be driving me so crazy I take it out on others. I’ll drive us to school, overthinking my interactions with all the people who I’m not ready to see again the whole way there. We’ll arrive. Then separate. I'll get lost trying to find the classrooms of my new classes. I’ll have to awkwardly describe my summer at least six times. Then I’ll finally get to leave and be upset that I have to do it all over again tomorrow.

Now I’m crying.

Two quiet tears slide from the corners of my eyes as I stare up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin—almost as fast as my mind.

I’m crying because I’m not ready.

I’m underprepared.

And I’m scared.

A soft sob escapes before I whisper, barely audible, “I can’t sleep.”

Yet I’m so tired—of this.