3:00 a.m.

December 31, 2025

You're awake. Again.

Not because you want to be, but because your mind is spinning—replaying the meeting, rewriting the conversation, running through worst-case scenarios.

I know this pattern intimately. It still happens to me.

Just the other night, I woke at 1:30 a.m., my mind racing about something that had happened earlier. I was triggered. Tight. Activated. Restless.

In the past, I would have tried to think my way out of it. I'd create stories about what happened and who was at fault. I'd convince myself I was right—or they were wrong. I'd try to control something that had already passed.

But what I've learned—and it's a hard sell—is this:

The spinning mind is covering up what I don’t want to feel.

There's always a deeper layer. A subtle emotion I haven't yet accepted. And when I resist that emotion, my mind jumps in to fix, blame, or escape.

This is what capable people do. We solve things.

But some things don't need solving. They need to be felt.

Here's the counterintuitive truth:

When I stop trying to make sense of it all—and instead turn toward the discomfort—it softens. It passes.

I stop telling stories. I stop assigning roles. And in that pause… peace comes.

Meditation has helped me with this—not to bypass pain, but to be with it. I've learned that when I bring my awareness to whatever is here—without trying to change it—it softens and shifts on its own. Not because I've solved anything. But because attention itself has intelligence.

To allow what arises to come and go, without making it wrong or dramatic.

It doesn't always feel easy, but it always works. Not by forcing myself to be okay, but by welcoming myself as I am—in that moment.

And this changes everything.

Your ability to hold space for yourself becomes your capacity to hold space for others. Your ability to be with discomfort—without reacting—becomes your greatest resource.

So the next time you find yourself wide awake at 3:00 a.m., ask yourself gently:

What feeling am I avoiding? What story am I telling? What would happen if I simply allowed myself to feel what's here—without the story?

You don't have to fix it.

You have to feel it.