The Fall That Wasn’t Real

It usually happens when I least expect it — in that small, peaceful moment before sleep takes me.

My body relaxes, my breathing slows, and my mind begins to fade into that in-between space where thoughts turn into dreams.

Then suddenly — I fall.

Not in real life, of course, but in that strange, invisible way where my whole body jerks like I’ve slipped off a cliff. My leg kicks out, my chest tightens, and my eyes snap open to darkness. For a second, I don’t even know where I am. My heart is racing, my hands are cold, and I’m wide awake again.

That moment has a name, I later learned — a hypnic jerk.

It sounds almost medical, but it’s something entirely human. A quick, uncontrolled twitch that happens right as you’re about to fall asleep. Some say it’s caused by stress, caffeine, or fatigue. Others say it’s just the body’s way of reacting to the sudden feeling of letting go.

Whatever the reason, it feels like falling — and not just physically.

The first time I remember it clearly, I was still a teenager. I had a math exam the next day and hadn’t studied enough. My mind was heavy with worry. That night, I turned off the light and lay there replaying every question I might fail. Then, just as my thoughts began to blur, my whole body jerked like I’d missed a step. I woke up gasping, heart thudding in my ears.

It felt like my body was shouting, “Wake up!” even though all I wanted was to rest.

I didn’t know what it was back then, so I brushed it off. But as I grew older, it kept happening. Some nights it was just a small twitch in my hand or foot. Other nights it felt like my entire body had been shocked awake. It came more often when I was anxious, when life was heavy, or when my mind was too loud to quiet down.

There was one night I’ll never forget.

I’d had a long day at work, and everything felt wrong — the unfinished tasks, the unread messages, the unspoken worries. I finally got into bed around midnight, too tired to even scroll through my phone. The window was open, the room dimly lit by the streetlight outside.

As soon as I started drifting into sleep, it happened.

A hard jolt through my body, so sudden it felt like being yanked out of a dream I hadn’t even started. My heart pounded against my ribs. I remember sitting up and whispering to myself, “It’s okay. You’re just tired.”

And maybe that was true — but it also felt deeper than that.

It’s strange how our bodies carry emotions. How they remember the things we try to ignore. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense: the hypnic jerk wasn’t just a random reaction — it was my body’s way of saying I’m still tense. I’m still holding on.

Since then, I’ve started to listen more closely. When it happens, I take it as a sign.

A sign that I’ve pushed myself too hard that day.

A sign that I’m thinking too much, feeling too much, and not allowing myself to just rest.

Sometimes I wonder if the hypnic jerk is the body’s quiet reminder that we can’t control everything — not even our own sleep. It’s like a small, physical rebellion against the rush of our waking lives. Even when our mind wants to escape, the body calls us back.

Now, when I feel that sudden fall before sleep, I don’t panic anymore. I let it happen. I breathe through it. I remind myself that it’s natural — that even when I’m not aware, my body is still alive, still protecting me, still trying to keep me grounded.

There’s something strangely beautiful about that.

That even in our most vulnerable moments, our bodies remember to keep us safe — even if it means waking us from the edge of a dream.

So yes, sometimes sleep feels like falling.

But maybe falling isn’t always something to fear.

Maybe it’s just the body’s way of teaching us to surrender — softly, safely, one heartbeat at a time.