All-Nighter

I stayed up all night working, which was a bold choice for someone with chronic insomnia and a brain that refuses to operate after midnight. I was awake, technically, but by 3 a.m. I had the cognitive power of a decorative lamp. I could glow, but I could not think.

Around that time, I was staring at my screen trying to solve a problem that absolutely required a functioning brain. Mine had already clocked out. Every thought felt like it had to travel through molasses before arriving half‑formed and confused. Staying awake wasn’t the hard part. Staying smart was.

Then 7:30 hit.

My boss called to recap and plan the day. She was talking numbers. Clear ones. Real ones. My brain, however, had switched languages. She spoke English. I heard Greek. Ancient Greek. I nodded along and prayed I didn’t accidentally agree to reorganize the entire company.

Once the call ended, my body gave up on pretending. I went straight to bed and slept almost eight hours in the middle of the day. No alarms. No hesitation. Just immediate collapse.

Now I’m awake, moving slowly, drinking water like it’s my new religion, and accepting the truth. I am too old for all‑nighters. I can be awake, but that doesn’t mean I can think. And the funniest part is that I’m learning this lesson on the same weekend I celebrated walking to my driveway in Betty Boot. Truly elite decision‑making.