august slipped away...

The end of summer is, without a doubt, a chaotic time.

Once August arrives, it’s all about trying to “squeeze out” the last drops of summer. Last-minute vacations, get-togethers with friends while the weather is nice, day trips involving water activities—it’s always a bonus to have a friend with a pool membership—and gearing up for the new school year, complete with countless trips to Target for school supplies. The days are long, hot, and filled with fun.

Well… usually.

The last six weeks of my summer were, without exaggeration, absolute hell. In fact, they were probably the worst six weeks of my adult life. From mid-July well into August, I questioned my sanity or cried every single day. My husband and I were at each other’s throats, and our house felt like a den of anxiety; we were walking on eggshells as sharp as razorblades.

What could possibly wreak such havoc on my unsuspecting household?

A four-year-old’s sleep regression.

Honestly, I didn’t know kids had these regressions past the age of two. I hadn’t heard of any of my friends going through this special kind of hell. I wasn’t prepared like I had been for the 4- or 18-month regressions. I also don’t know if my son is just a bit of a freak of nature—though, outside of this, sure, he probably is. Regardless, nine weeks ago, we found ourselves right in the middle of this sleep regression.

Initially, the battle was all about getting him to go to bed. He deployed a lot of stall tactics: “One more story, Mummy!” or “I need a snack.” The list of needs grew longer, the out-of-bed instances multiplied, and our patience thinned. Tantrums would erupt if we didn’t give in, and soon enough, those tantrums went full-on nuclear—screaming, throwing objects, kicking, biting, hitting: you know, the whole nine yards. One night, the whole ordeal took three hours from start to finish. Yes, we were being terrorized by our four-year-old. I read books, listened to podcasts, and even called his pediatrician for advice or a sound solution to our nightly terrors. Eventually, we created a bedtime routine that—after two weeks—seemed to kick in with minimal pushback. We thought we were in the clear.

Then the sleep regression mutated.

Instead of resisting bedtime, my son began waking up anywhere from 1 a.m. to 4 a.m. and spiraling. He would scream and cry until one of us—me 90% of the time, as there’s something about my husband that triggers his spirals—went to his room. That’s when the real battle began; until the wee hours of the morning, we tried everything to get him back to sleep so we could, too. Yes, we tried a nightlight—he has three, and they “aren’t bright enough”—the bathroom light on with his door open, different settings on his sound machine, a reward system—he still hasn’t earned his reward yet—and melatonin—great for getting him to sleep, not so much for the crazy dreams it induced. We tried using the same techniques from our bedtime routine, but unfortunately, things that work at 7 p.m.—like waiting him out, staying emotionless, and walking him silently back to bed—don’t work at 3 a.m. Emotions run high due to exhaustion, and I truly don’t know how the cops weren’t called on multiple nights—my son’s screams and aggressive behavior intensified at 3 a.m.

Again, I turned to his pediatrician and parenting books for advice, but unfortunately, none seemed to offer anything other than, “That sounds awful! Hang in there.” We knew this was likely the first sign of anxiety—this kid has me as a mother; there’s no way he’s going through life without being anxious. We also recognized that these weren’t night terrors, despite what everyone suggested—I know a thing or six about those because I had them as a kid and still get them when I’m extremely stressed. Knowing all this, I tried to be as calm and understanding as possible, but it’s incredibly hard when you’ve gotten just 12 hours of sleep in a week.

Twelve hours while working 40 hours a week and still parenting.

“How are you alive?” my son’s teacher—whom I had clued in on the situation—asked, noticing my disheveled appearance at pick-up.

“I couldn’t tell you,” was my response.

For those weeks, our lives revolved around my son’s sleep schedule. We canceled plans, scheduled a consultation with a behavioral specialist (which took three weeks to set up), and cut all screen time. All to no avail. It was unbelievably debilitating; I felt like a complete failure as a mother. “I should be able to fix this,” I told myself every single day. And every day it seemed to get a little worse; the only way I could get him back to sleep was to sleep, myself, on his hardwood bedroom floor. Which, as you can imagine, isn’t very comfortable.

It was a waking nightmare, and I hated my life.

Then life humbled me.

About four weeks ago, my family experienced a deeply personal, shocking loss. A loss so devastating that I don’t know how we will ever recover—if at all. The details aren’t important, and they’re still too painful for me to elaborate on. It’s been a true nightmare.

After the shock wore off, I was angry.

I was angry at the universe, questioning how something like this could happen to our family. How could a righteous God allow this? I didn’t understand why and wanted someone to shake the anger and pain away. The grief process is tricky; it hits you like a wave. Turn your back on it at your own peril, for it will smack you square in the chest without warning. You may think you’re through the worst, but then WHAM! You see a picture, and it all comes rushing back—it happened to me today. Desperately, I wanted to find meaning in the loss. I needed to uncover the “joy that comes out of sorrow,” to quote Billy Joel.

Finally, I had a moment of clarity. I realized that the petty things I had been complaining about for half the summer meant NOTHING compared to this. I felt ashamed and selfish for ever thinking that something so insignificant in my life was horrible and that it “couldn’t get any worse.” Because quicker than a snap of a finger, everything can implode. I am lucky to have all of it; lucky to have a four-year-old with a sleep regression and a family to go through it with. I am grateful for every single thing in my life because others aren’t as fortunate. I’m also thankful—forever grateful—for the memories that will help ease this loss. Ultimately, my family’s shared grief will transform into a poignant testament to the love and connection we once held and serve as a reminder of the deep significance of those we have lost.

I have so much to be thankful for, and these last few weeks have taught me invaluable lessons about life—its fragility and resilience. On top of everything, I’ve learned that my son won’t enter high school still sleeping on a cushion on our bedroom floor—the current Band-Aid for his sleep anxiety—that family SHOWS UP when the need is dire, that not all heroes wear capes.

And that rainbows will lead us home.