2. When Darkness Fall!
When Darkness Falls: Why
There’s something about nightfall that drags the pain up from its hiding place. The world gets quiet, the distractions die down, and suddenly you’re left with you—just you—and every memory you didn’t ask to revisit. Here’s my attempt to make sense of the ache that comes with the dark and what I’m learning to do with it.
I don’t know when the nights started feeling heavier than the days. Maybe it was after the divorce. Maybe it was after my biggest lost, Liam. Maybe it was before, and I just kept myself too busy to notice. But now, when the sun starts dipping and the sky goes dim, something in me begins to unravel.
It’s not just sadness—it’s everything. Regret. Anger. Guilt. Longing. Loss. Loneliness. They line up like ghosts around the dinner table, each one louder than the last.
During the day, I manage. I function. I even laugh. I make decisions. I drink my coffee like I’m not crumbling inside. But when darkness falls, my armor gets soft. And I cry. A lot. Sometimes for reasons I understand. Sometimes for things I haven’t named yet.
There’s something so disorienting about grief at night. The silence makes your mind louder. The lack of light makes it easier to imagine everything falling apart. And somehow, in that darkness, all the old wounds decide to bleed at once.
I find myself thinking about the people I’ve lost—not just in death, but in love, in time, in misunderstandings. I think about my first love, how he left without warning, how he left the world not long after. I think about the friends who slipped away during the mess of my marriage, the ones I pushed away and the ones who walked without looking back.
Why does night do this to us?
Maybe because we were made for connection, and night reminds us of what’s missing.
Maybe because darkness magnifies what we’re still trying to heal.
Or maybe because for the first time in the day, we’re finally still enough to feel it all.
I’m learning not to fight the night anymore. Instead of trying to outrun it, I sit with it. I cry when I need to. I write. I pray. I remind myself that morning always comes, even if it feels impossible when the stars come out.
So, if you’re like me—if the nights stretch long and your chest feels tight and your tears won’t wait—know this:
You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re human. You’re healing.
Let the night be what it is. Let it break you open if it must. Because every time you make it to the morning, you’ve already won a battle no one else saw.
This post is for the 2AM versions of us—the ones who cry quietly, scream into pillows, and still manage to get up the next day. You are not alone in this. And neither am I.
Until the next page,
Did something here speak to you?
Leave a comment if you feel moved, or simply sit with me in quiet.
If you’d like to walk this road with me, follow Nomadic Grandmother for new stories.
— x Elsabe
Nights Hurt More and How to Survive Them
Intro Blurb:
There’s something about nightfall that drags the pain up from its hiding place. The world gets quiet, the distractions die down, and suddenly you’re left with you—just you—and every memory you didn’t ask to revisit. Here’s my attempt to make sense of the ache that comes with the dark and what I’m learning to do with it.
⸻
Body:
I don’t know when the nights started feeling heavier than the days. Maybe it was after the divorce. Maybe it was before, and I just kept myself too busy to notice. But now, when the sun starts dipping and the sky goes dim, something in me begins to unravel.
It’s not just sadness—it’s everything. Regret. Anger. Guilt. Longing. Loss. Loneliness. They line up like ghosts around the dinner table, each one louder than the last.
During the day, I manage. I function. I even laugh. I make decisions. I drink my coffee like I’m not crumbling inside. But when darkness falls, my armor gets soft. And I cry. A lot. Sometimes for reasons I understand. Sometimes for things I haven’t named yet.
There’s something so disorienting about grief at night. The silence makes your mind louder. The lack of light makes it easier to imagine everything falling apart. And somehow, in that darkness, all the old wounds decide to bleed at once.
I find myself thinking about the people I’ve lost—not just in death, but in love, in time, in misunderstandings. I think about my first love, how he left without warning, how he left the world not long after. I think about the friends who slipped away during the mess of my marriage, the ones I pushed away and the ones who walked without looking back.
Why does night do this to us?
Maybe because we were made for connection, and night reminds us of what’s missing.
Maybe because darkness magnifies what we’re still trying to heal.
Or maybe because for the first time in the day, we’re finally still enough to feel it all.
I’m learning not to fight the night anymore. Instead of trying to outrun it, I sit with it. I cry when I need to. I write. I pray. I remind myself that morning always comes, even if it feels impossible when the stars come out.
So, if you’re like me—if the nights stretch long and your chest feels tight and your tears won’t wait—know this:
You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re human. You’re healing.
Let the night be what it is. Let it break you open if it must. Because every time you make it to the morning, you’ve already won a battle no one else saw.
⸻
Sign-Off:
This post is for the 2AM versions of us—the ones who cry quietly, scream into pillows, and still manage to get up the next day. You are not alone in this. And neither am I.
Until the next page,
Elsabe
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