Tonight's episode is called A Sleep Meditation for ADHD Minds Dreading Tomorrow, but if you're lying here, dreading tomorrow, and you don't have ADHD, this episode is still for you. I know what it feels like, this tight feeling in your stomach that starts before you've even turned the light off, and the sense that tomorrow is already too much, and it hasn't even started yet. If that's you tonight, trying to sleep, while your mind won't settle, stay with me, this will help. But for some people with ADHD, that dread works differently, and it's often because of something called time blindness. Not everyone with ADHD experiences it, but many do, and if you're one of them, you'll recognize it right away. So for most people, tomorrow morning is a sequence. You wake up, you have coffee, you get ready, and you leave the house. One thing follows the next, in an order that you can picture, at a pace that you can roughly estimate. But for people who experience time blindness, that sequence doesn't quite exist. There is now, and there is not now, and that's it. Tomorrow isn't a series of steps, it's a single block. Everything arrives at once, at the same volume, with no sense of what comes first, or how long anything will take. Tomorrow doesn't feel like a morning that unfolds gradually, it feels like a wall. When you're lying here at midnight, staring at that wall, your brain does the only thing it knows how to do. It tries to plan, it tries to rehearse the morning, organize the day, and solve tomorrow before tomorrow gets here. But all that planning doesn't bring order, it just activates the brain further. The very thing that your mind is doing to try to make you feel safer, is a thing keeping you awake. So tonight, we're not going to try and solve tomorrow. We're not going to organize your thoughts, or try to fix the morning before it arrives. Instead, we're going to help your body settle, with a relaxation technique. And then I'm going to take you somewhere warm, and still, for a hypnotherapeutic visualization. It's designed to reframe your relationship with time, and redirect your attention to the immediate, to what is actually here, right now, tonight, and ultimately, to sleep. And 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. There's a full disclaimer in the show notes, if you'd like to read it. And while this is our fifth episode, made specifically for ADHD minds, we also cover just about everything that might be keeping you awake. And I know there's a lot of episodes to scroll through, but if there's something specific keeping you awake, just search on Snoozeville, and whatever that is, and chances are, we've made something for you. And if you haven't hit that follow button yet, remember that following the show means you'll never miss a new episode. So now, let's get you settled. If your light isn't already off, it's time to turn it off, now. And if you've been lying here for a while, tossing and turning, take a moment to shake out your sheets, and let them settle fresh around you. Take your time if you need to. There's no rush. Your body has been holding on tonight. Not just your mind, your body. When the brain starts planning, and rehearsing, and reaching for tomorrow, the body responds. It tightens up. So check in with yourself right now. Are your shoulders tense? Is your jaw clenched? Are your legs restless? Let's start to release some of that tension. Take a long, slow breath in. Just let your lungs fill at whatever pace feels comfortable, and then breathe out, slowly. Take your time with it. And again, a slow breath in, and a long, easy breath out. One more time, breathe in slowly, and breathe out even more slowly. Feel your body getting heavier. Feel it becoming more relaxed. And now let's move through your body, and let go of whatever your muscles have been holding on to tonight. Let's start with your forehead. You might not even realize that there's tension here, but there almost always is. Let it soften. And then your eyes. Notice those small muscles around your eyes and around your mouth. They might be feeling tight and slightly tense tonight. So, let them rest. Your neck and your shoulders. If your shoulders have crept up tonight, let them fall now. Just let them drop. Your arms and your hands. Let them be heavy. Let your fingers uncurl if they've been curled. Your hands have nothing to hold right now. Nothing to grip. Nothing to do. With each breath, feel your chest rising and falling more slowly. And your stomach, the tightness that dread puts there. That knot that arrives when the brain starts worrying about tomorrow. Feel it loosening. Not all at once. Just a little bit with each exhale. Notice your legs. If they've been restless tonight. If they've had that fidgety, can't quite settle feeling. Let them be heavy now. Feel the weight of them against the mattress. And notice your feet and your toes. Notice how everything has become still. Everything is warm. Your whole body is heavier now. You can feel the mattress holding you. And the pillow under your head. And the weight of your blanket across you. It's okay. Just lay here. Just be. You don't have to hold anything at all. In a moment, I'm going to take you somewhere. And I want you to notice that something has already shifted. Your breathing is slower than it was when we started. Your body is heavier. And the thoughts that were so loud a few minutes ago. They're still there. But they're further away now. As if someone has turned the volume down without you noticing. You are already in a different place than you were when you first pressed play tonight. And where we're going next will take you deeper still. All you need to do is follow my voice. You don't need to wonder whether this is working. Just listen. And let the words arrive. Some of what I say, you'll hear clearly. Some of it will drift past you. Both of those things are fine. Both of those things mean it's working. It's night. And you're standing at the edge of a small harbor in the West Indies. The kind of a harbor that belongs to a town. Not a city. A working harbor. Where the fishing boats come in each morning. And the pier smells of salt. And an old rope. And the faint sweetness of whatever fruit was unloaded earlier in the day. The air is warm. It's not the heavy heat of the afternoon. But the kind of warmth that stays behind after the sun has gone. And there's a breeze coming off the water. And it carries the smell of the sea with it. The pier beneath your feet is wooden. It's worn smooth in the places where people walk. A thick rope is coiled on a post to your left. And it has that musty smell that rope gets near the sea. A single lamp is mounted at the end of the pier. Casting a circle of warm yellow light on the wood and the water. Small insects are turning in the glow of it. Circling slowly. Not bothered about anything at all. Somewhere behind you in the town. A dog barks once. And then stops. A screen door closes. And then it's quiet again. The town is sleeping. The shops along the waterfront are dark. Their shutters closed. A fishing net hangs from a hook on the wall of one of them. Drying in the night air. You walk to the end of the pier. Into the circle of the lamp's light. And you look out at the water. There are lights. Scattered across the dark. Some closer and some further away. They're the navigation lights of ships still at sea. You can't see the ships themselves. Just the lights. White and yellow. Some of them barely visible. Some a little brighter. All of them are distant. And all of them are out there. And your brain knows what those lights are. It has already started reaching for them. That one. That's a thing you said you'd do when you haven't done. And that one further out. That's the conversation you're going to have to have. And that cluster near the horizon. That's the morning itself. The alarm and the rush. And the whole impossible wait of getting started. Your brain is trying to bring those ships in now. It wants to start unloading them. Sorting the cargo, figuring out which one to deal with first. It has been trying to do this for a while, probably. Lying in the dark. Pulling at tomorrow. Trying to drag it closer, so it can examine every piece of it. This is what your brain does. It is trying to help. It genuinely believes that if it can just plan enough, just rehearse enough, it can make tomorrow safe. But look at the harbor. Look at the water in front of you. It's empty. The berths are empty. The pier is clear. Not because tomorrow has been cancelled. Those lights are still out there. Every one of them is real. But because this is a harbor that has its own rhythm. And that rhythm has nothing to do with how urgently your brain wants those ships to arrive. They will come in tomorrow. They always do. They'll come in one at a time. The way ships do. And you'll deal with each one as it reaches you. Not all at once. Not in a wall. One at a time. In their own order. At a pace you can manage. But that is tomorrow's work. Right now, the harbor is yours. The warm air. The lamp. The water against the pier. A pelican is sitting on the far post. Hunched and still. Its head tucked down into its chest feathers. It's been there for hours. It's not thinking about the morning. It is not sorting the lights on the horizon into categories of urgency. It is just sitting on a warm wooden post. In the dark. Being a pelican. And that is enough. And there is something else that your brain has been doing tonight. Not just reaching forward into tomorrow. It's reaching backward into today. The thing you meant to do and didn't. And the task that slipped away from you again. The quiet inventory of everything that fell through the cracks today. Your brain does this too. It reaches back into the day. And lays out everything that didn't go the way you planned. And it adds that to the weight of tomorrow. So now, you're carrying both. The dread of what's coming. And the worry of what didn't get done. And your body is holding all of it in the dark. When there is nothing you can do about either one. Neither today nor tomorrow needs your attention right now. Today is finished. Whatever it was. It is done. And it cannot be rearranged from here. And tomorrow is out there on the water. It's real, but not yet arrived. The only thing that is real. Right now. In this moment. Is this harbor. And this warm night air. And the sound of the water. And the fact that you are here. And you are breathing. So let's stay here for a while. Let's turn away from the horizon. The waterfront is quiet. There's a cafe at the corner where the harbor meets the main street. Its metal chairs are stacked on the tables. And the string of colored bars is a sign that you are here. The light of the bulbs is still glowing above the patio. Even though the place has been closed for hours. A chalkboard out front lists the day's catch. And a price for rum punch. The handwriting a little uneven. The awning is striped. Faded red and white. And it moves slightly in the breeze. Next to it is a small shop. The kind of place that sells everything. Fishing hooks and sunscreen. And cold drinks. And the local hot sauce in bottles with handwritten labels. The windows are dark. And further down, a couple is walking home. They've been somewhere. With music. You can tell by the loose way they're moving. The ease of it. The way one of them laughs softly at something the other said. Their voices carry across the still air for a moment. And then they turn up a side street. And it's quiet again. A window above one of the shops has a light on behind thin curtains. Someone is reading. Or just leaving a light on because the dark doesn't suit them tonight. Everyone has their own way of getting through to morning. In the houses behind the waterfront. People are sleeping. The whole town is resting. Not because everything was finished today. And not because everyone got everything done. But because this is what night is for. Night doesn't ask whether you earned your rest. Night doesn't check your list. Night just arrives. And the world sets things down. And sleep comes. Let's leave this harbor town behind. Let's leave the ships. Leave the pelican. Leave the soft perfumed air. And return to your bed. To your pillow. To the weight of your own blanket across you. And feel the mattress underneath you. The way it holds you. Without you having to do anything at all. Feel the temperature of the air on your skin. Feel the softness of whatever your head is resting on. These things are real. These things are here. Not the ships. Not the harbor. Your brain has been working so hard tonight. It has been scanning the horizon and reaching for ships. And trying to drag tomorrow closer. Because it believes that if it can just think hard enough. Plan well enough. Rehearse the morning one more time. It can protect you from what's coming. And that instinct comes from a good place. Your brain is trying. In the only way it knows how to at midnight. To keep you safe. But the planning is not helping. The rehearsal is not making tomorrow easier. It is making tonight harder. Every time your mind reaches for those ships. It pulls your body tighter. And your heart beats faster. And your thoughts become louder. The very thing it does to feel safer. Is a thing that is keeping you awake. And the single most useful thing. You can do for tomorrow. Is to let go. Not to plan. To sleep. The ships are fine. They're out there rocking in the swell. Their light still showing. Their cargo still aboard. They're in no danger. And they're in no hurry. The sea is calm. The night is warm. And one by one. When morning comes. And the sun comes up over the harbor. And the water turns from black. To blue. To green. They will make their way in. Slowly. One at a time. The way they always do. And you will meet each one as it arrives. Not all at once. Never all at once. Just the one in front of you. And then the next. But that is hours from now. That is morning's work. And morning is very good at its job. Your mind. Your fast. Restless. Beautiful mind. Has done enough for today. It runs wide and fast. And it takes in everything. And it is very, very good at its job. During the hours when it is needed. But this is not one of those hours. This is the hour where even the most extraordinary minds are allowed to be still. The harbor is quiet. And the ships are waiting. The town is sleeping. And you. You are exactly where you need to be. Not at sea. Not on the horizon. Here. In your bed. Under your blanket. With nothing to solve. And nothing to sort. And nothing. To carry. Until morning.