The dreams are violent—not against me, but against the people I love most. My hands reach out in the dream, but I can’t move fast enough. I’m far away and can’t find my car keys. I shout, but my voice doesn’t work. Always, I’m trapped, watching helplessly, as if my worst fear is to be a witness instead of a protector.
When I finally snap awake (usually around 3 a.m. or so), the terror lingers heavy in my chest. Heart pounding, sleep-dress soaked, breaths shallow, every nerve screaming. The room is silent, yet my mind is anything but. It replays those images, then leaps to real-world worries: deadlines, arguments, mistakes I can’t undo, disasters that haven’t yet happened but feel inevitable.
I tell myself, “Keep calm, go back to sleep, and do not pick up your phone!” But the harder I chase calm, the louder my brain insists on spinning and the more the phone’s siren song sings.
The ancient Stoics warned us about the trap of wrestling with what’s beyond our control. And strangely enough, their advice has become the one hack that actually quiets my midnight terrors.
The Science of the Night Brain
There’s a reason our thoughts feel more dangerous at night. Neuroscientists have shown that during the early morning hours, the brain’s prefrontal cortex—the rational, decision-making part of the brain—dials down its activity. Meanwhile, the amygdala, our emotional alarm system, ramps up. The result is a brain that’s less logical and more reactive, quick to magnify small worries into looming threats.
Add a dose of cortisol and adrenaline, and you’ve got a recipe for panic. That email you forgot to answer suddenly feels like a career-ending mistake. That awkward comment you made becomes the reason a friendship might end. In the middle of the night, your brain isn’t wise. It’s wired for panic.
The Ancient Stoic Hack
Epictetus, a former slave turned Stoic philosopher, taught one of the simplest, most profound practices in all of philosophy: the dichotomy of control.
“Some things are up to us, others are not.” —Epictetus
It sounds abstract, but it becomes real when you do three things.
Step 1: Write it down. Avoid typing into your phone—tempting as it is. You already know how that ends: One glance at a notification, one swipe into email or news, one click from today’s brand-new Wordle, and suddenly you’re wide awake. Even if you resort to the phone for a bit of light to write, use it in flashlight-only mode. Writing it down is a quiet, analog ritual. Pen, paper, and nothing else. The more you separate it from the glowing pull of technology, the easier it is to let the thought go.
Step 2: Sort it. Once the worry is on paper, ask yourself: “Can I act on this right now?” Here, sort your thoughts like laundry.
If yes: If it’s small, simple, and won’t pull you into wakefulness, then do it. Close the toothpaste cap. Send the text confirming breakfast.
If yes, but big: If it requires more effort or time, like drafting a report or paying a bill, jot down the next step you’ll take in the morning. Now, let it go.
If no: If the answer is “no,” the dichotomy of control is in action: Mark it “not up to me” (I also like “not it” and “not my circus”) and release it.
Sorting is discipline—the Stoic recognition that freedom begins where false responsibility ends.
Step 3: Finally, redirect. Epictetus once declared: “You may fetter my leg, but not even Zeus himself can overpower my will.” Even if our bodies are bound, our minds remain free. At 3 a.m., when anxious thoughts try to shackle you, remember that you still hold command over your attention.
Redirection is the muscle of sovereignty over thought—the deliberate act of steering your mind where you want it to go, instead of letting it drag you where it pleases.
A few practical options:
Trace your breath. Keep it simple and steady. You might count four beats in and four out. I often prefer breathing in one count, then breathing out two—a simple and gentle extension of the exhale that signals safety to the nervous system.
Notice the weight of your body—the mattress against your back. Some people find comfort lying on their side and tucking their hands between their knees. Others rest a palm over the heart or belly to sync with the rhythm of breathing.
Repeat a grounding line or phrase. I oscillate between the Stoic “Let me do what’s mine; let fate hold the rest,” and the Buddhist “Breathing in, I know that I breathe in. Breathing out, I know that I breathe out.”
The power is not in silencing the mind, but in practicing sovereignty over it—a skill no god, no circumstance, and no 3 a.m. terror can take from you.
Closing Reframe
Everyone wakes at night.
Everyone’s brain plays tricks.
The Stoics never promised to banish restless thoughts. They offered something more powerful: mastery in how we meet them.
When you wake in the dark, your freedom lives in that small pause between fear and response. Meet it like a Stoic: steady, curious, and unwilling to wrestle with what isn’t yours to control.