Maria used to be the friend who fell asleep on planes before takeoff. The one who could nap through a thunderstorm. For most of her life, sleep was the one thing she never had to think about.
Then somewhere around 45, it just stopped. Not gradually, it felt like a switch flipped. She would fall asleep fine, then jolt awake at 3am with her mind already racing about the school pickup, the deadline, the argument she had with her sister four years ago. By the time her alarm went off, she had maybe gotten five broken hours, and she would spend the day running on caffeine and willpower, short tempered with her kids, zoning out in meetings she used to run effortlessly.
"I felt like I was watching my own life through fog," she said. "I was not sick. I was not depressed. I was just so, so tired, all the time, in a way that nobody around me seemed to understand."
