Why We Sleep

Matthew Walker’s book Why We Sleep talks about exactly what the title suggests. Why sleep matters far more than we realise. How the body and mind begin to change when rest is cut short. How something that feels so ordinary quietly controls our energy, our mood, our memory, even the way we make decisions.

It explores the stages of sleep, how memories settle into place, how emotions soften or sharpen overnight, and how the body repairs itself while we are unaware. It explains how lack of sleep slowly reshapes who we become, often without us noticing it happening, and how simply understanding sleep can help us live better, think more clearly, and feel more balanced.

I remember a conversation I had with a friend during a difficult phase. We were both going through something heavy for the same reason. Our minds were similar, overthinking, replaying conversations, looping events again and again until the brain finally got tired enough to let the body sleep.

One night, during a long conversation, she casually said, “It’s my time to sleep. I should go.”

It shocked me.

At that time, my sleep was broken. My schedule was messy. Even when I slept late, I woke up multiple times during the night. Falling asleep felt like a struggle every single day. So when she said she could simply sleep at 10 pm, despite everything we were dealing with, I asked her, almost in disbelief, “How can you sleep in a situation like this?”

She said she had been through similar phases before. She had lost her sleep many times in the past. Over time, her mind had learned to compartmentalise. Not perfectly, not peacefully always, but enough to rest when needed.

That hit me hard. I wasn’t there yet. I couldn’t switch off. I couldn’t contain the noise inside my head.

I tried everything. Music. Religious music. Breathing exercises. Meditation. Keeping the phone away early. Eating early. Exercising. Nothing worked consistently.

Eventually, through trial and error, I found something that worked for me most days. Slow breathing. Conscious attention to my breath and heartbeat, bringing it back into rhythm when overthinking made it race. And more than anything, the feeling that I had done everything I could, with the best intentions in my mind, and there was nothing more I could have done. That gave me peace. 

And when I found myself in a similar situation later, even worse in some ways, I realised I was sleeping just fine. Not perfect sometimes, but real good night's sleep. I remembered what she had said. Maybe I had done my share of losing sleep, too.

I was proud of that.

Until a few days ago.

Something shifted. I started loosing sleep again. I started thinking about this one girl whom I got to know not too long ago. Thoughts began circling, quietly at first, then without pause. The kind of thinking that doesn’t leave room for rest. Questions began piling up without answers. 

Why did she disappear so suddenly? Did she really have to leave that abruptly? Is she okay? Would she be okay? Would she be happy wherever she is? What actually happened with her? Does she still revisit what was left unfinished, or has she already learned how to close that door without looking back? How would she react when she would get to know about the casual sex and makeouts that happened after her? Would she understand that it was just a fling, just the mind trying to numb its own pain with instant relief? Would she understand that it meant nothing? Would she forgive? Would she even be thinking about this, or has she disappeared for real? Is she just done? Did she ever loved? Was it ever real for her?

The mind started looping again. Not loudly. Quietly. Persistently. Like a thought you can’t switch off even when the room goes dark.

I found myself going back to reading the texts. Late at night. First thing in the morning. Sometimes even in between work. Searching for patterns. Trying to connect dots. Looking for clarity where there was none.

Some answers came slowly. Some still haven’t. Patience became the only option.

And finally, I came across her letter, where she asks to meet for some honest conversations, to solve things. And I finally thought that now I would get all my answers. But still, Murakami being Murakami, he talks pages about weather, hospitals, strangers, even Reiko’s past in between, just not allowing a long, continued conversation between Toru and Naoko. All you want is the conversation between them. You want resolution. You want the truth. But Murakami refuses to give it to you immediately.

At first, it frustrates you. Then you realise this is how life often unfolds, too. Answers don’t arrive when we demand them. They arrive when they are ready.

And maybe that’s why I’ve fallen in love with Murakami’s writing. It’s painful. Quiet. Philosophical. Real. Sometimes heavy. But it forces reflection. It asks uncomfortable questions. It makes you wait, sit with uncertainty, and learn patience without promising comfort.

Somewhere between turning pages late into the night, restless sleep, unanswered questions, and slow understanding, I realised something simple.

We don’t lose sleep over people or events. We lose sleep over unfinished stories. Over the hunger to know what comes next, without the patience to let time reveal it. Or over the need to cling to a story that once felt safe and suddenly broke without explanation. It’s the uncertainty, the open ending, that keeps the mind awake.

And that, strangely, felt just as real.

Sleep isn’t just rest for the body.

It’s trust in time.

Trust that some things don’t need to be solved tonight.

PS: As I have completed the book now, I want to say one thing, Reiko, did you for real…?

PS 2: I love this short clip from an interview by Zakir Khan a lot, and it summarises everything one needs to be content in life and maybe be happy or sad, but have a good night’s sleep.

-Vimarsh Shah

Jan 2026, Ahmedabad.