For as long as I can remember, I’ve needed my fan to sleep.
That soft, steady hum — the cool air brushing my face — it wasn’t just comfort. It was a requirement. My friends joked I loved it more than people. One coworker even said, “You’ll marry that fan before you marry me.”
I laughed it off.
But last week, I read something that shook me to my core.
An article claimed sleeping with a fan could dry out your throat, trigger allergies, and worsen asthma. It even linked it to disrupted sleep patterns.
And suddenly, I wondered:
Is this why I wake up every morning with a raspy voice?
That night, I turned it off.
Silence crashed over me like a wave.
At first, I thought I’d adjust.
But the quiet was unbearable.
Every creak in the walls, every distant car, felt magnified.
And with no fan to drown it out, my mind took over.
Unpaid bills.
Missed deadlines.
An awkward dinner with my sister’s fiancé.
Old regrets I’d buried.
I tossed and turned for hours.
At 2 a.m., I gave up.
Flicked the switch.
The whirring returned.
Peace returned.
But so did the doubt.
The next morning, I told my neighbor, Callista, about the article over coffee.
She laughed.
Said it was nonsense.
But her son, Ewan, chimed in — his friend’s dad blamed his fan for a bout of bronchitis.
The seed was planted.
That night, I tried a compromise — pointing the fan away, just for the sound.
But by 4 a.m., I was drenched in sweat.
Texas heat in July is no joke.
I gave in.
Aimed it straight at my face.
Surrendered.
Then came lunch with my college friend, Saira.
She’d been seeing a sleep therapist for insomnia.
When I mentioned my fan anxiety, I expected her to roll her eyes.
Instead, she said something that stopped me cold.
Some people develop such strong sleep associations — a sound, a ritual — that they can’t rest without it.
But the real danger?
When that comfort becomes a shield — hiding deeper issues like anxiety, grief, or unresolved pain.
I tried to brush it off.
But her words followed me.
Was I using the fan to avoid facing something?
That night, I set up my phone to record myself sleeping.
The next day, I watched the footage.
No coughing.
No snoring.
But I was talking.
Mumbling in my sleep.
“I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t go.”
My chest tightened.
Who was I apologizing to?
And why did I sound so afraid?
The next day, I missed a deadline.
My manager, Leontyne, called me in.
I almost lied — but instead, I told her the truth:
I haven’t been sleeping. I don’t know how to anymore.
She didn’t scold me.
She told me she’d struggled with insomnia for years after her divorce.
And in that moment, I realized:
I wasn’t broken.
I wasn’t weak.
I was just human.
That evening, I sat on my bed and asked myself:
When was the last time I felt truly rested?
Years ago.
Before my dad died.
Back then, I didn’t need a fan.
I’d fall asleep to the sound of him humming old blues songs in the kitchen.
Just knowing he was there made me feel safe.
After he passed, the house felt hollow.
Too quiet.
So I bought a fan.
Not for the air.
For the sound.
And I never made the connection — until now.
The fan wasn’t just a habit.
It was a replacement for the peace I lost.
I unplugged it that night.
Sat in the silence.
Let the grief rise.
Let myself cry — really cry — for the first time in years.
It was terrifying.
But it was real.
The next few nights, I barely slept.
But instead of turning the fan back on, I started journaling.
Wrote letters to my dad.
To myself.
To people I’d hurt.
Each night, I felt a little lighter.
Then, I called my sister, Lyndra.
We’d been fighting about Mom’s care.
But I told her everything — about Dad, the fan, the sleepless nights.
She started crying.
Said she hadn’t been sleeping either.
That she missed Dad so much it hurt to breathe.
And just like that, we weren’t stuck anymore.
A few days later, Callista knocked on my door with banana bread.
She’d noticed the silence.
Wanted to make sure I was okay.
I told her the truth.
And she told me hers:
She still sleeps with her late husband’s robe on her pillow.
We talked for hours — about grief, love, and the small things we do to feel close to those we’ve lost.
I started seeing a sleep therapist, Dr. Hakim
He didn’t tell me to ditch the fan.
He helped me understand why I needed it.
Taught me breathing techniques.
Mindfulness.
How to feel safe in the silence.
And slowly, I learned to sleep without it.
Not because I had to.
But because I was ready.
Then came the twist.
My boss, Leontyne, called me in — not to reprimand me, but to offer me a leadership role.
She said she’d noticed a change — a new calm, a quiet confidence.
I didn’t realize it, but those nights of facing my grief had changed me.
And then — out of nowhere — a call from Marcel, an old friend of my dad’s.
He had a box.
Letters.
Unsent.
Written during Dad’s cancer treatment.
One was to me.
He wrote about how proud he was.
How he wished he could’ve stayed.
How he hoped I’d find peace — even without him.
I read them in my room, tears streaming.
For the first time since he died, I didn’t feel alone.
That night, I slept deeply.
No fan.
No fear.
Just peace.
I know how powerful those comforts are.
But I also know that sometimes, healing begins when we finally turn them off — and listen to what’s been waiting in the silence.
If you’re using something to numb the noise in your head…
You’re not alone.
And it’s okay to be afraid of the quiet.
But on the other side of that silence?
There’s peace.
There’s healing.
There’s you.