The Night Is Mine

I was about 13 when my parents stopped telling me what time to go to bed. They started letting me decide.

That was a moment of liberation. Until that point, bedtime had always been a torment of laying wide-awake for what seemed hours. Vigilant parents had always pounced on any sight or sound of activity.

I was still at school, of course, so I couldn't go crazy with my newfound freedom. But I was rarely in bed and asleep before midnight.

Being allowed to choose bedtime for myself marked the beginning of what would become my natural rhythm. That of the night owl. It's a nature that society seems determined to pathologize. I've never questioned it.

In the last decade or so, I can count on one hand the number of times I've gone to bed before midnight. Those rare occasions? Only when proper illness (one a stomach bug, one bout of Covid) forced my hand.

For most people, 11 p.m. signals the approach of bedtime, when they start wondering how tired they feel, and whether it's worth staying up for something.

For me, 2 a.m. is when that consideration gets going. And I'll usually still be up at 3 or 4 a.m.

This isn't rebellion or poor time management. It's simply who I am.

The Sacred Hours

There's something almost mystical about the transition from day to night.

As the world settles into sleep, a different universe emerges. The silence does not feel at all empty or oppressive. It's full of possibility. The darkness feels protective. A blanket shielding you from the demands and expectations of the daylight hours.

During late hours, the world belongs to a different tribe.

We're the night shift workers heading home, the insomniacs finding solace in shared wakefulness, the artists and writers who find their muse in the quiet hours.

We're the ones who understand that creativity doesn't follow business hours and profound thoughts often arrive when the rest of the world has powered down.

The night offers a quality of life that daylight can't match.

When you're awake at 3 a.m. by choice, you're opting for a different kind of engagement with the world.

The Misunderstood Rhythm

No, people don't understand. But when do people ever?

Society operates on the assumption that early rising equals virtue and there's something inherently superior about greeting the dawn.

We've built entire industries around morning routines, early bird specials, and the supposed productivity benefits of being up before the sun.

Those of us who come alive when the sun goes down are often labeled as lazy, undisciplined, antisocial.

The truth is more nuanced: we simply operate on a different frequency.

The Night's Gifts

Those who stay up late know what others miss.

We know the particular quality of light that comes from street lamps and computer screens.

We know the sound of a city that's mostly asleep. The distant hum of traffic. The occasional siren. The way sound carries differently in the thin air.

The night hours are when I do my best thinking, my most honest writing, my deepest reading. It's when I can follow a train of thought to its natural conclusion without interruption. It's when I can exist without performance, without the need to be "on" for anyone else.

Embracing the Dark

I've learned to stop apologizing for my natural rhythm. I don't try to force myself into early morning productivity. I don't feel guilty about sleeping until noon when I've been awake until dawn.

I've built a life that accommodates who I am rather than fighting against it.

The night is mine, and I wouldn't trade it for all the sunrises in the world. For those who understand, no explanation is necessary. For those who don't, well, they're probably asleep anyway.