Nighttime Mental Marathon – Without a Medal, but Full of Questions

Almost every night, I find myself participating in a strange kind of race – one I never signed up for. There's no race number, no cheering audience, no finish line. And yet, I run.

Not along a path, but through a maze of thoughts. Not in running shoes, but in my pyjamas. Accompanied only by insomnia, whispering in my ear, "Just one more lap."

I usually fall asleep with ease, and just when my body relaxes and says "thank you," right around 2:47 in the morning, I'm suddenly wide awake. While the rest of the world sleeps peacefully, my brain clocks in for the night shift and starts running its own race. Did I send that email or just dream I did? Have I taken on too much again? What should I cook tomorrow? Why am I thinking about something that might happen next week – or not happen at all?

Although perhaps it doesn't matter much in this story, I used to be a real runner. I still have reminders – medals and a trophy on the shelf. Invitations still arrive regularly for races, and deep down, I still dream of running a full marathon one day. Not necessarily on asphalt, but somewhere in the forest. Somewhere in nature, where I feel most at home. In a place where the rhythm of movement breathes together with me.

And I know that one day I will run it, when the time is right.

But what I run now, night after night, bears no resemblance to that dream. This is a mental marathon, run in silence, while everyone else sleeps. A marathon of thoughts without GPS, without medals – except maybe the quiet realization that I'm not alone.

More and more, I hear the same story from friends, acquaintances, even clients: "I wake up in the middle of the night and can't fall back asleep."

Maybe it's a quiet epidemic of our modern lives. Or a collective reminder that we've stopped listening to ourselves. During the day we move so fast, we're productive, alert, available – always doing. And when our body finally lies down to rest, the mind finally gets a chance to speak. Perhaps it's because we've forgotten to ask ourselves during the day: "And how are you, really?"

Digital World and Nighttime Unrest: A Perfect Storm

Our modern evening rituals are no longer wrapped in silence. Instead, they're filled with just one more scroll, one more click. We fall asleep with phones in hand, only to be woken by a notification that Trump went to China. Our brains are overloaded to the maximum throughout the day and never get a chance to rest. They keep spinning, analyzing, checking – and around 3 a.m., they hit play again.

And then we wonder why we can't sleep. Maybe the answer lies precisely in that constant state of alertness. Our minds never log out. They keep going – storing, calculating, planning – and somewhere deep in the night, they press play again and again.

It surprised me, I have to admit – because I no longer run. Not literally, and not even metaphorically. I've replaced running with slow walking, with the conscious act of slowing down. I walk barefoot on the earth. I walk not away from myself, but toward myself.

That rhythm I've already written about – not the one imposed by others, but the one we discover for ourselves. A rhythm that doesn't push, but supports. One that doesn't exhaust, but nourishes.

I no longer count steps, but I do count questions. And in the quiet of night, I search for answers. I've decided to look for them in the only place that makes sense to me – in my own world, in nature.

In the forest, nothing is rushed. A tree doesn't panic if its leaf isn't green enough. A river doesn't change its course just because someone said it should flow faster. Everything moves in its own time. Without stress. Without apps. Without notifications.

And I try to stay close to that truth. I breathe. I walk.

And if I wake again at 2:47 – I won't fight it. I'll make tea. I'll look through the window and search for the moon or a star. Maybe I'll write down the thought that woke me. And I'll gently tell myself: it's okay. I'll use this time. Maybe I'll write an article about insomnia.

Because maybe, just maybe, this insomnia isn't my enemy. Maybe it's an invitation. To slow down again. To shift something inside. To truly listen. To find inspiration. To grow.

Maybe I won't sleep through this night either, but I'll stay awake with intention – aware that this, too, is time meant for me. Time for growth, for reconnection, and for that quiet inner voice that's gently guiding me forward.