Everywhere I’ve lived has been near or inside of a forest. I encounter all kinds of Pacific Northwestern wildlife on almost a daily basis, but the most impactful neighbours of mine are the birds that sing every morning at sunrise. I know they do this because almost every morning, I am awake with them.
I used to hate bedtime as a kid, as any self-respecting 10-year-old does. Unlike my friends, I wasn’t staying up to read with a flashlight or sneaking downstairs to the family computer to play Club Penguin. Instead, I would stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars my dad had stuck to the ceiling of my room for hours, wondering when I would finally drift off.
Sleep ebbed and flowed throughout the rest of my childhood and adolescence, but it was never ‘healthy’ by any standard. It got steadily worse as I got older, and by the end of high school, I was lucky to get even four hours of sleep. The only constant became the birdsong every day at sunrise. Once I got to UBC, this nocturnal behaviour suited student life. I used the night hours to study or socialize, frequently pulling all-nighters to try and manage classes, work and the demands of first-year life. During the day, I fell asleep constantly, whether standing up or sitting, regardless of noise or place.
I spent years associating the sunrise birdsong to my basic failure to uphold a bedtime. I hated hearing it to the point where the phrase “I heard the birds this morning” replaced “I pulled an all-nighter” in my friend group.
After my first year, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Something had to be done. I cut out all caffeine, started exercising, got a mindfulness sleep app and took electronics out of my room. I started trying weird tricks people suggested, like lying on the kitchen floor for five minutes before you go to bed (courtesy of Taylor Tomlinson’s Netflix special Have It All). If you can think of it, I’ve probably tried it. At one point, I was prescribed medication. It helped for a while, but it made me feel like a zombie wearing a lead vest, so I eventually stopped taking it.
By the end of my third year, I had almost given up. In a last-ditch effort, I switched directions — instead of trying to force my body to sleep at night, I shifted every part of my life to revolve around my own time zone as much as possible. I found jobs where I could work evenings and nights, I scheduled appointments in the afternoon and I did not register in synchronous classes that started before noon. For the first time in my life, I had a routine and schedule. I ate regular meals, as my lunchtime lined up with dinner, and I slept regularly and enough. Most importantly, I got time back. I was physically and mentally present at school, at work and with the people I love.
Now, after this change in time zone, most of my waking hours fall during night time. Not only did it drastically change both my physical and mental health, but I finally began to appreciate the night. Where I live, the world is still and you can see the stars. I go on walks with my partner to spot constellations and it feels like no one else is awake. I can call friends and family in different time zones and have become much closer with them. I can write and think without the chaotic and noisy waking world.
I am incredibly grateful for the flexibility I have to make this shift, as I know this is not an option for many. It’s not perfect, and I sometimes have commitments in my ‘middle of the night,’ but it works for me.
As I near the end of my time as an undergraduate at UBC, this is something I have to consider when I move on to grad school and my future career. Finding work is difficult right now, especially flexible work with health insurance. Facing the prospect of not sleeping again is, frankly, daunting.
For now, I am learning to enjoy the sunrise birdsong. Instead of announcing my failures, it’s become a gentle nudge that it’s time for bed. It is a reminder of the trees, the stars and the beautiful forest I live in.
It joyfully signals the end of the stillness of the night.
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