When I first started unpacking the tangled mess that is CPTSD, there were a lot of flashy things that caught my attention.
Trauma modalities. Therapy jargon. Inner child work. Nervous system regulation. (Still not over how much of healing sounds like fixing a spaceship.)
There’s so much terminology, so many tools, and all of them have their place. But none of it works right when you’re running on fumes.
One truth hit me early, and hard:
Sleep. Freaking. Matters.
And I don’t mean in that wellness-influencer, “make sure you get your eight hours and put a crystal under your pillow” kind of way.” I’m talking about sleep as survival. As a vital organ in the recovery process. As the thing that can quietly make or break your ability to function, grow, or even stay grounded.
The Night Watch
CPTSD is like a paranoid security guard who never clocks out. It wires your body to stay on high alert, scanning for danger long after the threat has passed (if it ever really left). Even when you want to sleep, your nervous system is pacing the walls, going:
“What if something bad happens and we’re unconscious? What if we miss it?”
Falling asleep feels like surrender. Staying asleep feels unsafe. Waking up exhausted, that feels normal.
And that’s the problem. Because your body needs sleep not just to feel better, but to actually get better. Without it, all the trauma work in the world can feel like swimming upstream with a backpack full of bricks.
What Sleep Actually Does (Besides the Obvious)
Let’s skip the technical overload and keep it real.
When you sleep, your body isn’t just recharging like a phone battery. It’s taking out the emotional trash, and processing memories. It’s the time when your brain gets to say, “Hey, let’s finally clean up this emotional dumpster fire from the day.”
And when you don’t sleep? That trash just piles up. Fast. Suddenly you’re walking around inside a brain that’s more hoarder house than healing sanctuary.
For me, lack of sleep made everything worse, flashbacks hit harder, anxiety spiked quicker, Even small stressors felt like I was being chased by a bear in flip-flops.
However, when I started protecting my sleep like it was sacred, I noticed something: I wasn’t just surviving the days, I was slowly starting to take them back.
On Days Like Today
And then there are days like today. Where sleep didn’t come. Where I tossed, turned, overthought, stared at the ceiling, and woke up feeling like I lost a fight in my dreams.
It sucks. It throws everything off, and it makes the day ahead go in slow motion. I know I am not going to be functioning at my best today. But that’s okay. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just one round in a much longer fight.
Because that’s what CPTSD is, a battle. Not just against what happened, but against what keeps happening inside you. The racing thoughts. Wired nights. The sudden triggers, and the moments when you’re safe now, but your body hasn’t gotten the memo.
Today might be rough. I might drag my feet, cancel plans, forget simple things, or just try to stay upright until bedtime comes around again.
But even on the hard days, especially on the hard days, I remind myself of this:
If I am still here, still trying, and still breathing through it?
I’m already doing more than surviving. I’m healing, and that’s what matters.
Photo by Quin Stevenson on Unsplash