The Liberating Power of a Good Night’s Sleep

The cold air wrapped around my head and slapped me in the nose as I embarked upon the boldest journey of my college life thus far. The lights were off in all of the shops around me, and I imagined that their owners were in their beds somewhere, wrapped up in thick blankets through which even the Michigan wind could penetrate. Ten minutes earlier, I was two seats away from Lili at Espresso Royale. We always sit at least one seat away from each other, as if that alone will eliminate any temptation of conversation. She had at least three notebooks strewn across the counter with hand-drawn diagrams of what I can only assume were molecules or chemical compounds or something along those lines. I had one notebook in front of me, and was working on a list of my goals for the semester. Slightly before midnight, which is when Espresso Royale closes, Lili took out her earbuds and asked me if I wanted to go to the library with her. I said no, and thus began my rebelliously liberating journey home to my bed. In a typical setting, going to bed before 2 AM is hardly revolutionary, but I’ve always had a knack for making things more difficult than they should be. This academic year, I moved into an apartment with my four best friends: Lili, Allison, Isabella, and Shannon. They are supportive and loving and even when I’m stressed and irritable, they somehow manage to say something that lures me out of my room and into a laughter-filled conversation. They are also incredibly accomplished. When I visit my friends from high school, I brag about them like a proud grandmother. After about a week of living with them, I started calling my parents crying. All of my roommates had already chosen a major, except for me, the dumb one. My dad asked if I could meet for coffee, and I arrived at Starbucks armed with handwritten outlines of the majors I was considering. “As a person in the business world,” I asked him, “which of these do you think would make me the most hireable?” “Hannah, you don’t have to prove yourself,” he said. “You’re a smart, hardworking young woman. You’ll be hireable no matter which major you choose.” I shuffled through my outlines, avoiding eye contact. Of course I didn’t have to prove myself to my own dad, but when he dropped me off back at my apartment, I would still be the only one in the room without a major. Something about that knowledge caused a physical pain in my stomach. Maybe this tendency to compare myself to others is merely my competitive nature. Competition runs in my veins. All three of my younger siblings are competitive athletes, and our “family vacations” consist of four hour drives down to soccer tournaments in Ohio, where we’re lucky if there’s a Jo-Ann Fabrics to explore between games. In the over a decade that we’ve been traveling for tournaments, I

don’t think a single second-place trophy has seen the interior of my mom’s Ford Explorer. It’s not that none of my siblings’ teams have ever come second place; it’s just that if a trophy doesn’t say “first place,” it is dropped right into the trash can at the athletic complex. Throwing away second place-trophies is an unspoken family tradition. Maybe when I go to absurd lengths to prove that I’m as smart as my roommates, it’s my version of throwing away a second-place trophy. Although I refer to all four of them as my roommates, Lili is the one with whom I actually share a bedroom. My competitive nature was most pervasive when she stayed at the library until late hours of the night. I would crawl under my covers with the knowledge that she was bettering herself and making the most of her education, while I was sleeping— the easiest task known to mankind. Some nights, I would wake up after a few hours and find that her bed was still empty. She was still out there studying. In my cloudy, half-asleep state, the only thought I could form was that she must have learned so much in those past few hours, while I wasted them. I returned to my slumber with a distinct awareness of my own incompetence. Lili never once implied that I was lazy or somehow unworthy of my spot at this university. She was entirely encouraging and supportive of my academic endeavors, and managed to mind her own business when it came to our respective sleep schedules. I, on the other hand, came to dread her late nights at the library. So began the 11 pm coffee runs, the nights spent curled up in a chair on the third floor of the library, book in my hand, too tired to comprehend what I was reading, but too insecure to go home. You have nothing to prove, I thought as I turned the key to open the door of my apartment and marched up the stairs after I got back from Espresso Royale. I had spent almost the whole time there working on my goal list. It’s a habit my dad instilled in me in early high school; we used to get up early each morning so I could read my goals out loud—it’s proven to be more effective that way. However, this time, when I tried to think of goals to add to my list, the only thing I could think of was love more. I wrote it out at the top of my notebook and traced it over and over with my Sharpie pen. I really don’t know what it means to love more. But when I envision deep, limitless love, I don’t see comparing myself to my best friends, trying to prove to myself that I’m as good as them. I see a better way of life, where I take care of myself because I deserve it, where I support my roommates without comparison. It was exhilarating, pushing my insecurity out the way and putting my needs first. But that’s what love is: bold, risky, sometimes scary. And so I faced my fears and crawled underneath my comforter before any of my roommates came home. In the morning, I wouldn’t be any less worthy of my place at this university. I would, however, be a little more full of love—rebellious, terrifying love.

By Hannah Harshe Photo by Sam Plouff Layout by Carla Borkmann