So, studies show that 85% of the things we worry about never happen, and of the few things that do happen, we know that almost everyone reports handling it much better than they thought they would, which is comforting. But, when you're lying awake at night, and the same worry keeps circling back, it doesn't really help to know that worries are like that. They circle over and over.You think you've let it go, but then two minutes later, there it is again, the exact same thought, like a record that keeps skipping back to the same line. And that's what's called a worry loop. It's not just worrying, it's repetitive worrying.The same concern cycling through your mind without resolution, just around and around. And it happens most often at night, in that window right before sleep, because that's when you finally stop being distracted. All day, you had things to do.Your mind was occupied, but now, lying here in the dark, there's nothing to occupy it anymore. And your brain, which is designed to solve problems, starts looking for problems to solve. So it finds them, or it invents them.And these worries that are circling in your mind right now, they're not you. They're more like visitors, uninvited guests who showed up and haven't left yet. They think they're helping, but mostly, they're just keeping you tired.So tonight, we're going to give those visitors somewhere to rest, and then we'll help you find your way to sleep. But before we begin, please make sure that you are somewhere safe to fall asleep. You want to be in your comfortable bed, and not anywhere you need to stay alert.And if you haven't followed this show yet, consider it. I release two new episodes every week, and I try to cover everything. And if there's something I missed that is keeping you awake, let me know.There is an email address in my show notes. You can reach out to me anytime, and so now, let's help you get settled. Take a moment to make yourself as comfortable as possible. Find that position that your body naturally wants to be in tonight, however your body wants to be right now. Let it be that way. And once you are comfortable, once you're relaxed, and everything feels just right, turn your attention to your breathing.And I want you just to notice the natural rhythm, the way you breathe. Notice how your chest rises with each inhale, and it falls with each exhale. With your next breath, I'd like you to inhale slowly, and try and fill your lungs.When you're ready to exhale, do it slowly. Let it take twice as long to breathe out as it did to breathe in. Let's do that again.Breathe in slowly, filling your chest, and then breathe out. A nice long exhale. And just one more time.In and out. Slow and steady. And then just let your breathing return to its own natural rhythm.Notice those small muscles around your eyes, around your mouth. And if they're at all tight, at all clenched, let them soften now. All those tiny muscles that hold so much tension throughout the day can finally rest in your shoulders.Feel where they are right now, and let them drop. Feel the weight of your arms pulling your shoulders down, and be aware of your legs and your feet. Let them grow heavy.Your ankles, your calves, and your thighs. Everything loose and heavy and still. In a moment, I'm going to take you somewhere, and all you need to do is to listen to my voice and let your imagination follow.Don't worry if your mind wanders. Just stay with the sound of my voice. Let it guide you, and trust that I know where we're going.Your only job right now is to listen. I'd like you to imagine that you're standing behind the front desk of an inn. There are wide plank floors, and thick rugs in faded jewel tones. Burgundy, navy, and a deep forest green. There are tall windows, and beyond them, just darkness, and the faint shape of trees. You're tired. Your feet hurt, even standing here all night, and honestly, you'd really like to close up for the night. And you're wearing a name badge. It's got your name on it.Slightly crooked, pinned to your shirt. The lamp on the desk has a green glass shade, and it's casting everything in this dim, tired light that makes you want to yawn. You just want to go to bed. You have four guests still in the lobby. They've been here all night, lingering, talking at you. They don't mean any harm.They think they're helping, but they're exhausting you. The first one is sitting on the sofa, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She's wearing sensible shoes and a cardigan, buttoned all the way up.She's holding a little notebook, and she keeps flipping through it, muttering under her breath, figures, numbers. But what about the power bill, she's saying? And what about next month? What if there's not enough? Everything keeps getting more expensive. And this is the worry about money, about security, and bills, and whether you'll be able to make it till tomorrow, or whether retirement will ever come. And she means well. She thinks if she just goes over the numbers one more time, she'll find a solution. The second person is standing by the window. He's wearing a jacket that doesn't quite fit, and he keeps adjusting it. He's muttering about that pain in your lower back. What if it's serious, and your throat felt so scratchy earlier? What if it's not a cold? And you've been forgetting a few things lately.Should you be worried? This is the worry about health, about your body. But sometimes, this guest catastrophizes everything. Every ache could be a disaster.Every symptom, the worst-case scenario. He's exhausting, too. The third guest is sitting in one of the armchairs near the fire. She's perched at the edge of the seat, hands folded on her lap. She has kind eyes, but they're worried. She's the oldest guest here, and you've known her your entire life.She was there when you were a child, and she's never left. She's reminding you of other people. What if they're not okay? What if you said the wrong thing earlier, and they're hurt? What if they need you, and you're not there? This is the worry about relationships, about whether other people are okay, whether you're doing enough, whether you've somehow failed them. She's kind, but she never stops. She's always watching the people you care about, looking for any sign that something could be wrong. The fourth one is standing a little apart from the others.He looks tired. He keeps glancing at the clock on the wall and then looking away. He's muttering to himself that it's too late.It's too late to fix things. You should have done things differently. This is regret.He's all about looking backwards, second-guessing all your choices. You're tired. They're tired. And it's time for everyone to go to bed. You look at the money worry first and gesture for her to follow you. She stands clutching her notebook. You lead her past the fireplace where the embers are barely glowing now, and down a hallway. You stop at the first door on the left and open it. The room inside is small but lovely. There's a bed with an iron frame. It's painted white, and there's a thick quilt and a patchwork of soft blues and creams. The pillows look like clouds. Oversized. The kind you sink into. A sheer curtain moves in the breeze, and on the dresser there's a small dish with a few smooth stones in it and a book with a bookmark sticking out like someone just set it down mid-chapter. Everything in this room says rest. You hand the money worry a key. You tell her this is her room for tonight. And if she needs to, you'll talk about the numbers in the morning. But right now, she needs to rest. She looks at the bed.You close the door softly behind her. You hear the faint creak of the bed as she sits down. And then nothing. One down. You walk back to the lobby, and the health worry is pacing now. As you approach, he starts listing symptoms.Every ache. Every pain. And you don't argue with him. You just show him to the next vacant room. This bed has a wrought iron headboard, and it's painted a soft charcoal gray. It's covered in a duvet the color of sage. The sheets look crisp and cool, like they were just put on fresh. There's a window, tall and narrow, and it's open wider than the one in the first room. You can hear the distant sound of wind moving through leaves. And you hand the health worry his key. You tell him that this is his room tonight. He can rest here, and if something needs his attention in the morning, you'll handle it then. He steps inside. Two down. Back to the lobby. The relationship worry is standing now, near the armchair she was sitting in. She starts in as soon as she sees you. Maybe she should check one more time, just to make sure everyone's okay. Everyone feels good about you. Every relationship is secure. You walk over to her, and you tell her gently that this is the time for her to rest, too. You walk down the hallway together. And you both stop at the door with the number three on it. This room is warm. The bed has a wooden headboard, and it's covered in a quilt the color of cinnamon. Deep and soft. The pillows are in mismatched cases. One cream, the other in the palest pink. The window is open here, too. And the curtain is velvet, in a deep plum color. And it's pushed to the side, so you can see a sliver of the night sky. You hand the relationship worry her key. And you tell her that this is her room, and that tonight she needs to rest. And she nods, steps inside, and you close the door. You walk back to the lobby one last time. The regret worry is standing by the staircase, looking at the clock. You gesture for him to follow you down the hallway. And you stop at the fourth door. And this room is the simplest of all. The bed is low, just a mattress on a wooden platform. And it's covered entirely in white. White sheets. White duvet. White pillowcases. It looks like a cloud. And there's a single window, wide and tall. And it's open all the way. No curtain at all. Just the night pouring in. Cool air. The smell of earth and grass. And beyond the window, the sky. Stars. So many stars. So many stars. You hand the regret worry his key. And you tell him that this is his room. What's done is done. Tonight, he needs to let it all go. And he takes the key, and you close the door. The hallway is completely silent. You can't hear anything from any of the rooms. You walk past the fireplace, where the embers have grown dark, past the front desk with its green-shaded lamp, and down another hallway, one you hadn't noticed before. And at the end of it, there's a door. And this is the most beautiful room of all. The bed is enormous. The duvet is thick and soft. The color of deep twilight. That blue-purple glow. The sky turns just after the sun sets. And there are windows on two walls. And the night is pouring in. Cool air. And above you, because this room has a skylight, there are stars. You walk to the bed. And you lie down, sinking into softness. The duvet is cool against your skin, where it touches you. Smooth, like silk. The night air moves over you. Lifting the hair off your forehead. Cooling the back of your neck. It feels like a hand smoothing your hair. You're so tired. Your feet hurt from standing behind the desk. Your shoulders ache from holding tension. But you're here now. All the guests are asleep. All the worries are resting. And so can you. Above you, through the skylight, the stars are so bright, they almost don't look real. Like someone hung lights up there just for you. Maybe they did. Maybe this whole room, this whole night, was made just for this moment. And you think about those worry loops. The ones that have been circling your mind all evening. The same thoughts coming back over and over. These loops are not useful. They feel like they're protecting you. But mostly, they're just keeping you awake. And your brain gets stuck sometimes. It latches onto a worry and it can't let go.  Not always because the worry is so important, but because your brain thinks if it just turns it over one more time, maybe it will find the answer. But it won't. Not at this hour. The answer isn't hiding in the worry. The only way to break the loop is to step off the carousel, to put the worry somewhere else. In a room. Behind a door. On a shelf. Anywhere that isn't your head. And then turn your attention somewhere else. Somewhere soothing. Somewhere like this. And those worries think they're helping. They think they're keeping you alert. Keeping you ready for what might come. But what you need right now isn't alertness. It's rest. And tomorrow, if those worries need to come back, they can. And maybe they won't seem quite so urgent then, but that's tomorrow's work. Tonight is just for this. For rest. You feel it now. That sensation of slipping. Like the moment just before you fall asleep, when your body gets so heavy, it feels like it's sinking through the mattress, through the bed frame, through the floor itself. Your arms are feeling too heavy to lift. Your legs too heavy to move. The cool air moves across your face, across your hands where they rest. That cool air smells like grass, and earth, and night. Like dew forming on leaves. Like the world settling down to rest. Just like you. Everything outside is going quiet. The birds are asleep. The insects have stopped their chirping. Even the wind is quiet. And your breathing is so slow now. Each breath out is warm and soft. Carrying away everything you don't need anymore. And with each exhale, you're letting go a little more. Drifting a little further away from the lobby, from the front desk, from all the worries in the room. You're floating now. Not literally. That's what it feels like. Like you're suspended in something soft and warm and safe. The worries are asleep in their rooms. They're all quiet. All resting. And the hallway outside of your room is quiet too. And you, you are finally, finally resting. Sleep is so close now. Soft. Dark. Welcoming. Like a door that's been standing open, waiting for you. And all you have to do is step through. The stars above you blur slightly because your eyes are so heavy now. So relaxed that everything is going soft around the edges. Fading. One more breath. Deep and slow. And with your exhale, you can let go of the last thing you were holding. Whatever it was. Whatever small thread was keeping you tethered to wakefulness. It's gone now. Drifting away into the night. Sleep now. The kind of sleep that comes when you've been carrying too much for too long. And you finally put it all down. The stars will be there in the morning. And the worries might come back. That's okay. That's normal. You'll deal with them if you need to. But right now, there is only your soft bed. The cool air. Quiet night. And sleep.