Everyone who still sleeps with a fan on, know the effect!
I always thought I couldn’t sleep without the low hum of my old silver desk fan blowing cool air across my face. My friends teased me about it all the time. My coworker Maxton even joked that I’d marry a fan before a person. But last week, I read an article online that rattled me. It said sleeping with a fan could dry out your throat, cause allergies, and worsen asthma. It made me wonder if that was why I always woke up with a scratchy voice.
That night, I decided to sleep without the fan. I turned it off, slid under my covers, and lay there in complete silence. At first, I thought I’d get used to it. But the quiet was unsettling. Every creak of the house felt amplified. My mind drifted to things I’d pushed aside during the day: unpaid bills, my stalled freelance projects, the awkward dinner with my sister’s fiancé who kept checking his phone.
I kept tossing and turning. By 2 AM, I gave up and flicked the fan back on. The whirring instantly soothed me, but I couldn’t shake the unease from what I’d read. Was I hurting myself just for the sake of comfort?
The next morning, I told my neighbor, Callista, about the article over coffee. She laughed and said she’d never heard such nonsense. But her teenage son, Ewan, who overheard us, chimed in that his friend’s dad got bronchitis and blamed his nightly fan. It planted a seed of doubt that kept growing in my head.
That night, I tried sleeping with the fan aimed away from me. I thought maybe I could still hear the sound but avoid the direct air. But I woke up drenched in sweat around 4 AM. The July heat felt relentless, and my bedsheets clung to me like damp towels. I snapped and pointed the fan straight at my face again, surrendering to the comfort I craved.
A few days later, I went to lunch with my old college friend, Saira. She mentioned she’d been seeing a sleep therapist for her insomnia. I admitted my worries about the fan, expecting her to scoff. But instead, she shared something that shocked me. Her therapist said some people form sleep associations so strong they can’t rest without a specific sound or object—like my fan. But the real danger was relying on it so much that it masked deeper issues, like anxiety or unresolved stress.
I tried to brush it off, but her words echoed in my head. Was I hiding behind the fan’s hum instead of dealing with what was keeping me up?
That night, I set up my phone to record myself sleeping. I wanted to see if I was snoring or coughing from the fan. When I watched the video the next day, I didn’t hear coughing. But I did hear myself talking in my sleep. I kept mumbling phrases like “I’m sorry” and “please don’t go.” It was unsettling. Who was I apologizing to? And why was I so desperate?
I spent the whole day distracted. At work, I missed a deadline and got a pointed email from my manager, Leontyne. During our video call, she asked if something was wrong. I almost lied but decided to tell her the truth: I hadn’t been sleeping well. She surprised me by sharing that she’d struggled with insomnia for years after her divorce. It made me realize I wasn’t alone.
That evening, I sat on my bed and tried to remember the last time I felt truly rested. It had been years—before my dad died. Back then, I didn’t need a fan. I’d lie awake listening to him hum old blues songs in the kitchen, feeling safe just knowing he was there. After he passed, the house felt too quiet, too empty. That’s when I bought my first fan.
The realization hit me so hard I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The fan wasn’t just a comfort; it was a replacement for the security I lost. I’d never made the connection until now.
Determined to face the silence, I unplugged the fan that night and sat in bed. I thought about my dad, about all the conversations we never finished. I let myself cry for the first time in months. The silence was deafening, but it was honest. I finally felt like I wasn’t running anymore.
The next few nights were tough. I barely slept. But instead of turning the fan back on, I started journaling before bed. I wrote letters to my dad, to myself, to the people I’d hurt or let down. Each night, I felt a little lighter. The darkness wasn’t so scary anymore.
One evening, I called my sister, Lyndra. We hadn’t talked in weeks since we fought about our mom’s care plan. I told her about my struggle with sleep and the memories of Dad. She started crying on the other end, saying she’d been having the same restless nights. It was like we’d both been stuck, and talking finally let us move forward together.
A few days later, my neighbor Callista knocked on my door with homemade banana bread. She’d noticed my fan wasn’t humming anymore and wanted to check if I was okay. I told her everything, and to my surprise, she opened up about how she still sleeps with her late husband’s robe on her pillow. We ended up talking until midnight about grief, love, and the silly things we do to feel close to people we’ve lost.
A week later, I decided to visit Saira’s sleep therapist, Dr. Hakim. He didn’t scold me about the fan. Instead, he helped me understand my need for it and showed me breathing exercises and mindfulness techniques. He said sleep isn’t just about silence or sound—it’s about feeling safe enough to let go.
As days passed, I started falling asleep to the quiet. I didn’t miss the fan anymore. I felt proud but also surprised by how long it took me to confront something so simple yet so deeply rooted in my past.
Then came the twist I never expected. My boss, Leontyne, called me into her office one morning. I thought I was in trouble again, but instead, she offered me a chance to lead a new project. She said she’d seen a change in me—a new focus and calmness. I realized all those nights of honest silence had reshaped me in ways I hadn’t noticed.
But the biggest surprise came from an old friend of my dad’s, Marcel, who called out of the blue. He said he found a box of letters my dad had written but never sent. He wanted me to have them. I met him at a coffee shop, and when I opened the box, I found letters Dad wrote to me during his cancer treatments. He wrote about how proud he was, how much he wished he could’ve stayed longer, how he hoped I’d find peace even when he was gone.
Reading those words felt like a final conversation I’d needed all these years. It healed a wound I didn’t know I’d been carrying.
I took the letters home, sat in my room, and read them one by one. For the first time since he died, I felt like he was right there with me. That night, I slept without a fan, without fear, and without regret.
The next morning, I woke up refreshed. I went for a run, made myself breakfast, and called Lyndra just to say I loved her. I felt lighter, freer, more connected to myself and the people I cared about.
Now, whenever someone tells me they can’t sleep without something—a fan, a TV, a blanket from childhood—I don’t judge. I know how powerful those comforts can be. But I also know sometimes we need to face the silence and listen to what it’s trying to tell us.
If you’re struggling to sleep, or relying on something to numb your thoughts, I hope my story helps you realize you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel afraid of the quiet. But there’s peace waiting on the other side if you’re willing to sit with your memories and forgive yourself.
Life has a funny way of bringing us full circle. What started as a silly worry about a fan ended with me finding parts of myself I thought were lost forever. The noise we cling to can keep us from healing, but the silence can teach us who we really are.
Thank you for reading my story. If it touched you or reminded you of your own journey, please share it with someone who might need to hear it. And don’t forget to like this post so more people can find it and feel a little less alone.
