The Insomniac’s Cure: How to Cure Insomnia
For as long as he could remember, the man had suffered from insomnia. Nights stretched endlessly, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t silence. He lay in bed, watching the hours tick by, dreading the morning light and the exhaustion it would bring. Desperate for relief, he decided to ask others for advice.
The first person he approached, a no-nonsense colleague at work, shrugged and said, “Just go to bed earlier. Give yourself more time to fall asleep.” It sounded logical enough, so that night, he turned in as soon as dinner was over. But the earlier he lay down, the more restless he became. His legs twitched uncontrollably, his mind grew even louder, and sleep seemed further away than ever. Frustrated and uncomfortable, he abandoned the experiment after a week.
The second person he consulted, a fitness enthusiast, said with confidence, “You’re not burning enough energy. Do more exercise during the day, and you’ll collapse into bed at night.” Determined to try anything, the man spent the next week jogging, lifting weights, and even attempting yoga. While his body was utterly drained, his mind refused to follow. Insomnia persisted, and now he could barely function during the day, his exhaustion reaching new depths.
Finally, he confided in a friendly neighbour about his insomnia, his voice weighed down with frustration. The neighbour, listening patiently, didn’t offer advice or remedies but instead made an unexpected suggestion: “Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? We can chat about it if you want, or just hang out and take your mind off things.”
Curious, and feeling a bit desperate, he agreed. That evening, he sat at their cosy kitchen table, sharing a hearty meal and warm conversation. They talked about everything except his insomnia—books, local gossip, favourite films. They laughed over silly anecdotes and even played a board game before he left. For the first time in what felt like ages, he walked home with a lightness in his step, not because he expected to sleep well but because, for once, he wasn’t carrying the usual dread of bedtime. That night, he lay in bed wide awake but surprisingly at ease, replaying moments of the evening in his mind with a smile on his face. The hours slipped by, and though he didn’t sleep much, he didn’t feel defeated and looked forward to seeing his neighbour again.
The next day, the neighbour invited him over for another “session”, and he gladly accepted. One evening became two, and then three, until their dinners became a regular routine. They never talked about his insomnia. Instead, the evenings were filled with relaxed conversation and laughter—sharing stories, cracking jokes, debating trivial nonsense such as the official rules of a board game. The man began to look forward to these gatherings, occasionally, other friends and neighbours joined them.
Over weeks and months, something subtle began to shift. The man’s focus drifted away from his sleeplessness and towards a sense of possibility. He stopped keeping track of the hours he slept or the nights he didn’t, and as a result the dread of bedtime began to fade. What once felt like a battle against his own body and mind now seemed less significant compared to the ideas he was having.
As time passed, these changes began to ripple outward. He found himself taking small risks—things he’d avoided for years. He asked someone out on a date, something he’d once felt too drained and insecure to even consider. Slowly, he started to explore new hobbies, struck up conversations with colleagues, and embraced the ordinary moments he’d previously let slip by. It wasn’t that he was consciously trying to “fix” anything, it was that his sense of belonging was expanding, and, as a result, the insomnia felt less like a defining attribute and more like background noise.
One morning, months after those first dinners with his neighbour, he realised he’d slept through the night. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time he noticed. He couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened or why, and that was the beauty of the situation. Without conscious effort or intention, sleep had returned as a byproduct of living well. He hadn’t followed anyone’s prescribed formula—he wasn’t going to bed early, wasn’t exercising more, wasn’t obsessing over his sleep hygiene. In fact, he was often staying up late at his neighbour’s house, playing games or laughing over terrible movie plots. Yet, the progress all stemmed from the neighbour’s gesture, to reach out to the man, not with advice, but with connection. Laughter had replaced the tension and dread that once filled his evenings.
In the end, it wasn’t about solving insomnia at all; it was about rediscovering the joy of being oneself.
The Moral of the Story:
Sometimes, the solutions we seek cannot be forced through rigid routines, sheer willpower, or even self-awareness of the problem. Recovery isn’t something handed down through directives or demands—it emerges naturally from a sense of belonging and connection. For many conditions—stress, anxiety, insomnia, depression, procrastination—the biochemistry of meaningful relationships can create the space for healing to take root.
Not everyone has a friendly neighbour who can offer connection and support, but we all have the ability to assess our environment. Take time to recognise what is nourishing you and what might be holding you back. From there, you can begin to take small steps toward a future where your needs are met in healthy, fulfilling ways. Healing doesn’t have to be a battle against oneself—real progress is often understated and unassuming. By seeking out people with whom you can connect authentically, you open yourself to finding meaning. With meaning comes a sense of well-being and confidence, which in turn attracts positive experiences and allows you to flourish.
It’s important to note that not all insomnia stems from a lack of social connection. It can also be linked to traumatic events, stress, or other underlying factors. In these instances, being kind to yourself, seeking supportive connections, and allowing yourself the time and space to adapt are essential steps toward eventually renewing healthy sleep patterns. Healing is a process, and patience with yourself is essential. Just as a cut becomes a scab, and eventually either disappears or leaves a scar depending on the depth of the wound and how it’s treated, the same is true for emotional and psychological injuries. The determining factor is not the intensity of your desire to get better but your willingness to accept where you are in the healing process. By avoiding negative actions that could worsen the wound—whether that means self-criticism, denial, or unhealthy coping mechanisms—you create the conditions for recovery. Healing comes from nurturing yourself through the journey, not from fighting to heal faster.
