If I stub my toe on the bed frame in the dark, I can tell you exactly where that pain is. It's in my toe, obviously, and I'd be wrong. It's not in my toe, because here's what happens. When I slam my toe into the sharp metal foot of the bed, the nerves in my toes send an electrical impulse that races up through my foot, my leg, my spinal cord, and into my brain. And that signal is not pain. It's information. My toe is telling my brain, something just happened here. Calamity Jane just walked into the bed again, and my brain decides what to do with it. Based on all the data, my brain generates pain. It decides how much, how sharp, how intense. My toe sent the message, but my brain wrote the response. This is true for all pain.The ache in your back, the burning in your joints, the actual experience of hurting is your brain's interpretation. And that interpretation changes based on how tired you are, how stressed, and whether it's the middle of a busy day or the middle of a dark, quiet night. Your brain is making decisions about how much pain to produce. And those decisions are influenced by things you can actually change. How safe you feel, how calm your nervous system is. When those things shift, the pain shifts with it. And that's what tonight is about. But first, if pain is keeping you awake regularly, please talk to someone about it. A doctor, a physiotherapist, someone who can help in ways that I can't. I am not a medical professional. I'm good at helping people sleep. But ongoing pain deserves proper attention. And that is one of the kindest things you can do for yourself. There is a full disclaimer in my show notes. And I quickly wanted to thank listeners Anne and Aline who suggested this episode. I'm sorry to hear that pain is affecting your sleep. And I hope this episode can provide even a little relief. And help you find sleep. And now, let's get you settled. I know that for you, getting comfortable is not always as simple as just lying down and closing your eyes. So take your time with it. If you need a pillow between your knees, put it there. If you need to roll up a blanket and tuck it under your lower back, do that. Just hit pause if you need to. I'll be here when you're ready. And now, let's focus on your breathing. It's important to know that when you're in pain, your nervous system is on alert. It keeps the pain loud. But when you extend your exhale, you activate a nerve called the vagus nerve. And when it's stimulated, it tells your nervous system that you're safe. And then your heart rate drops. Your muscles release. And your brain dials down the pain a bit. Enough to notice. So let's breathe together now. Take a slow, comfortable breath in. Hold it. And then let it go. Slowly. Again. In. Slow and easy. And out. A nice, long, slow breath out. One more time. In. And out. Letting everything you don't need leave with it. And now, just let your breathing find its own rhythm. Tonight, I'm not going to ask you to scan your body from head to toe. That would mean sending your attention straight to the place that hurts. And I don't want to do that. Instead, I want you to notice every place where your body is touching something that isn't pain. Start with your head. Feel the pillow underneath it. The surface of it against your hair. Against the back of your neck. Notice the shape that your head is made in it. The way it's holding you. You've been holding your head up all day. But you're not doing that anymore. The pillow has it. Now the place where your shoulders meet the mattress. That line of contact. Can you feel the warmth there? Your body has been lying here long enough that the mattress has taken on your heat. And it's giving it back to you. And your bath. Notice wherever it touches any surface. Feel the pressure. The places where you're being held up. Where the bed is doing the work of supporting you. And your arms. Notice wherever they're resting. Feel the weight of them. They're not holding anything. They're just lying there. Heavy. Notice your hips. Right now they're pressing into the mattress. And the mattress is pressing back. Evenly. Feel that exchange. The downward weight of you. The upward support of the bed. And your legs. Notice your feet. Or the weight of the blanket resting on top of them. You are done for the day. Your body is touching these surfaces in dozens of places right now. And at every single one of these places, something is supporting you. You are surrounded by support. In a moment, I'm going to take you somewhere. And all you need to do is follow my voice. And let the images come. Don't worry if your mind wanders. Eventually it will wander back. Just stay with my voice. I know where we're going. I know where we're going. Somebody told you about this place. Maybe it was a friend. Maybe a doctor. Maybe someone you barely know who saw something in your face one day. The tiredness. The way you were holding yourself. And they wrote down a name and a phone number. A house by a lake. A place people go when they need rest. You didn't ask many questions. You just packed a bag. And now you're here. They gave you a room on the second floor. And you haven't done much of anything since you arrived, except sit on the edge of the bed and look out of the window. And wait for the tightness in your body to ease. From your window, you can see the dock. It runs straight out from the shore, built from wide planks that have gone silver gray from weather. The posts where it meets the water are wrapped in green, moss, or algae. It looks like it belongs here. Like it grew out of the lake. The same way the birch trees grew out of the bank, and at the far end set back from the edge. There's a daybed, a low wooden frame, built to stay outside in all weather. There's a canopy over it, canvas stretched over a simple wooden frame, open on all sides. The pillows are white, four or five of them, stacked against the headboard. And there's a soft blanket folded at the foot. You take the stairs down and step out through the back door. The grass is cool and damp under your feet. You can hear the lake, water moving against the dock posts. You can hear crickets in the long grass. And from somewhere across the water, far away, the sound of a screen door closing. You step onto the dock and walk out over the water. The dragonfly passes over the water's surface. Somewhere to your left, a fish jumps and the water rings spread outward in perfect circles. Halfway along the dock, there's a small table. And on the table, a stack of paper and a small printed card. The paper is thick and stiff. You hold one up and can see fibers pressed into it like handmade paper. The printed card has a diagram, simple folding lines, how to make a small boat, and a few words. They say, take what keeps you from sleep, imagine it, small. Place it here. Let the water hold it for you tonight. Maybe you've seen this kind of thing before. The idea of writing your worries on paper and leaving them somewhere. You may have rolled your eyes at it once, but standing here on this dock with your pain, you pick up the paper because what else are you going to do tonight? You begin to fold. The paper keeps its shape. It wants to be this. Another fold, and under your hands this flat sheet is becoming something, a hull, a prow, a small open boat that sits on your palm. And now comes the part that you came here for, your pain. You don't need to go looking for it. You've known where it is since you woke up this morning. I want you to notice it. Don't brace against it. Just notice it. Where exactly is it tonight? Can you find the center of it? The place where it is loudest. And now I want you to give it a color. Don't think about it too hard. Just let a color come. It might be a deep angry red. It might be orange, something restless and hot, a heavy bruised purple. Whatever comes to you first, that is the right color. And it has a quality. Notice that too. Does it burn steady and constant? Or does it flare and ease and flare again? See it. Make it a glowing ball of energy, sitting right where you feel it most. And now I want you to imagine that ball of energy lifting, just slightly. Just allow it to separate just barely from the place it's been sitting. It will resist, but be patient. Gradually you'll feel it loosen. Let it rise. Just enough that you can feel it hovering above your skin instead of in it. And now bring it towards your hands. Feel it there. Feel the warmth of it in your palms. The weight. That pulsing, that burning, pressing. You can feel it in your hands now. But it's contained. It has edges. So now I'd like you to imagine it condensing into a ball that is very tight and very small. Make it the size of a plum.  And then a walnut, something you could close your hand around and feel only warmth. It still glows. It's still there. But it's manageable now. Put it in the paper boat. The glow sits inside the boat. The boat holds steady in your hands. The water is near you. Dark and still. And you can see stars reflected in it. You place the boat in the water. And the boat bobs a little in the water. It's holding its shape. And the glow inside it is soft against the dark. And then the boat starts to drift. Away from the dark. Away from you. Watch it go a meter away. And then two. You could still reach it if you waded in. It hasn't gone. It's still on the water. It's still carrying what you gave it. But it's out there now. And you're here. And there's a distance between you and your pain that wasn't there 10 minutes ago. And in your body where the pain was sitting. The volume has dropped. The sharpness has softened. As if the pain and the glowing ball were connected by a thread. And the further the boat drifts. The more the thread stretches. And the less you feel its pull. Darkness is settling over the water now. And the air is cooled. You can feel it on your arms. On the back of your neck. And it feels good. Clean. The kind of cool that makes you want to pull a blanket up to your chin. And stay exactly where you are. You walk the last few meters to the end of the dock. The daybed is even better up close than it looked from your window. The frame is heavy and dark. The pillows are the kind that hold their shape. When you lean into them. The blanket is a cream colored wool. With a silk binding along the edge that is cool and smooth against your fingers. You settle into the daybed and the mattress takes your weight. And holds it. No one minds that you are here. No one will be coming down to bother you tonight. You adjust the pillows. One under your head. One between your knees or behind your lower back. Or wherever you need it. From where you're lying, you can see out past the edges of the canopy to the open sky. The sky full of stars. And the dock rocks beneath you. A slow, barely there movement. The dock rising and settling with the water beneath it. And your pain is out there on the lake. Far out in the dark water. It hasn't gone. But from here, lying under the blanket with the stars coming out above you. And the dock rocking slightly beneath you. It doesn't feel like the thing that defines your night. One small light among several. Because you can see the other tiny boats now. Scattered across the lake. Each one carrying its own faint glow. Someone else lay on this daybed last week and watched their boat drift out the same way yours did. Maybe what they placed in the boat wasn't pain at all. Maybe it was a thought. They couldn't stop thinking. A worry about money. About a child. Maybe it was a memory that wouldn't leave them alone. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was just the low hum of the nervous system that wouldn't quiet down. It doesn't matter what was in the boat. What matters is that they stood on this dock. And they folded the paper. And they found a way to take the thing that was keeping them awake. And hold it in their hands. And look at it. And set it down. So that sleep could find its way. That's all you've done tonight. You haven't made the pain go away. You've just set it down for a few hours. You've given your body permission to stop clenching around it. And your body is responding. Breathing is already slower. The tension in your body is releasing. Not because someone told you to relax. But because the thing your body was tensing against is further away. Be kind to your body. Let it imagine with you that you're lying on a daybed at the edge of a lake. Under a wool blanket that is keeping you warm. And that your pain is out in the water. And the stars are out above you. And the air is cool on your face. The glow on the water is barely visible. Your eyes are heavy. And looking for it seems like a lot of effort. And the sky above the canopy is full of stars that are easier to see. So look at those instead. And close your eyes. And feel the dock rocking beneath you. Listen to the water against the posts. Every slow breath you've taken tonight has been speaking directly to your nervous system. Every exhale that lasted longer than your inhale sent a signal that turned the volume down. Not off. But down. The breathing works. Not because it's magic. Because it's the language that your nervous system understands. And paying attention to what's real in this moment helps as well. Not what happened earlier today. Not what might happen tomorrow. Not the story your brain has been telling you about how bad things are. Just what's actually here. So notice. Notice the sheets against your skin. The weight of the blanket. The quiet. The dark. These things are real. And they are here. And they are good. In your body. It carried you through another day. Does that every single day. And it never stops trying. And if your eyes still work. They gave you something today. The face of someone you love. Color of the sky. The words on a page or a screen. If your hands still work. If your eyes still work. Think about what they touched today. A cup you held. A door you opened. A hand you touched. If your memory still works. You carry with you every place you've ever been. And every person you've ever loved. Every single thing your body still gives you is a gift. Your body is not just a thing that hurts. Your body is the thing that carries you to the people you love. And lets you see their faces. And touch their hands. And know their voices. It is the thing that lets you smell rain. And taste coffee. And feel the sun on your skin. It is doing a thousand things right at this very moment. That have nothing to do with pain. And every one of them is a gift. So tonight, think your body. We're still trying. We're still carrying you through a world that you are still very much a part of. And let it rest now. Close your eyes. If they're not already closed. Feel the bed beneath you. Feel the blanket over you. Notice your own breathing. Sleep is coming. You can feel it at the edges now. Soft and dark. And close. Don't chase it. Don't try. Just let your body do this last thing for you tonight. Let it carry you. Into sleep. The way it's carried you. Through everything else.