“Why I Still Sleep with the Light On (And Maybe You Should Too)”

I’m going to admit something grown-up people aren’t supposed to say out loud:

I still sleep with the light on sometimes.

Not a full-blown fluorescent ceiling light, okay? I’m not a moth. I’m talking about a soft, comforting glow from a lamp or nightlight. Something warm. Something gentle. Something that says, “Hey, it’s okay to be a little scared sometimes, even at thirty.”

Let me explain.

It started when I was five. Like all professional children, I was convinced monsters lived in my closet and under my bed, and they had unionized. I wasn’t scared of the dark itself—I was scared of what the dark could be hiding. My nightlight was my first therapist. It told me, “Everything looks better when you can see it clearly.”

As I got older, the fear of literal monsters faded, replaced by more adult terrors: unpaid bills, medical insurance, missed opportunities, emails that start with “per our last conversation…”

But still, some nights, I switch that little light on.

Not because I think a goblin’s going to crawl out of my wardrobe and ask for a snack. But because sometimes, when the world has been too loud, too chaotic, and too much, I want to fall asleep bathed in something that feels like kindness. I want my space to whisper, “You're safe here.”

There’s this weird idea that adulthood is about being invincible. That we should all be sleeping in cold, pitch-dark rooms with our taxes filed early and our emotions bottled up in color-coded jars. But I think the bravest thing we can do is admit when we need softness. Even if that softness comes from a $6 lamp shaped like a cartoon cloud.

One time, during a power outage, I had to go to sleep in total darkness. No nightlight. No tiny glow from the hallway. Just me, the silence, and a shadow that looked suspiciously like a suspiciously-shaped coat rack.

I didn’t sleep a wink. Not because I was scared—okay, maybe a little—but because it felt unnatural. Too sterile. Too void. Like sleeping inside a vacuum cleaner. That night taught me that light, even a little bit, is a companion. A tender one. A reminder that there’s still something to hold onto.

I know people who use blackout curtains, white noise machines, and melatonin gummies shaped like bears that look far too cheerful. And that’s fine. You do you. But me? I’ll keep my little bedside lamp, thank you very much.

Because here’s what sleeping with the light on really means:

It means giving yourself permission to not have it all together.

It means saying, “Hey, maybe I’m still healing.”

It means finding magic in something small, like a glow in the dark star stuck to your ceiling from 1999.

We live in a world obsessed with perfection. You have to hustle, glow up, boss up, be productive, meditate, journal, juice celery, and rearrange your chakras before breakfast. But where’s the space to say, “Actually, I’m just a tired human and I need a little light tonight”?

Here’s my warm and fuzzy advice, friend:

Next time you’re overwhelmed, don’t try to be a hero.

Don’t force yourself into silence and darkness because that’s what you think adults do.

Turn on the light. Literally or metaphorically. Wrap yourself in it.

Buy the nightlight that makes you smile.

Hang up fairy lights that twinkle like hope.

Keep your lamp on when you're feeling blue or uncertain or just want to fall asleep knowing the room is watching over you.

Because life is dark enough sometimes.

You don’t have to prove your strength by walking through shadows alone.

You can be brave—and still ask for a little light.