Personally, I love fireworks.

I’ve struggled with bouts of insomnia for most of my life. It has gotten worse since having a baby. My son must have inherited my sleeplessness, because it took a good 10 months before he would sleep through the night. Even though he sleeps to morning now, I don’t.

I can hear the stillness from his room and the steady breathing of my husband next to me, but I lie awake, my brain buzzing with activity. First, tomorrow’s to-do list, then mulling over conversations and interactions from today. Next, random thoughts like what colors I want to paint each room of my house to cover the muddy tan or what our next big purchase should be. Last, the regrets seep in, stepping out from the shadows.

Last night, various memories played through my mind from years ago. What I wish I had said, or didn’t say. Or how I should have reacted differently in a tense or awkward moment. All these replays are a byproduct of having an anxious mind. However, instead of wallowing in the discouragement of my own dreaded imperfection like I usually do, I found myself writing mental letters to various individuals: past friends, roommates, boyfriends, almost boyfriends. I envisioned these words of honesty, explanations and apologies as fireworks zooming off over fields and mountains, state lines and even oceans. These words would explode in the night sky in a moment of bright clarity and brilliant sincerity. Some of the recipients would sleep through the display, others would glance out their windows and smile and a few would bury their heads into their pillows, complaining how they hate fireworks. It wouldn’t matter. The glitter sparks would shower down from the heavens and then fade away, like these things do.

I’ve been told I think too much and I probably do. However, when I awoke this morning, I found I had slept more soundly last night then I have in weeks.


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