The first time I realized sleep would no longer come easily, I was standing in the dim glow of the nursery, cradling my daughter in my arms. She was impossibly tiny, her soft breath brushing against my neck, her cries still ringing in my ears. The night stretched ahead, a vast, unending chasm, and the thought of it filled me with dread. Every time her eyes fluttered shut, my heart would race with a mix of hope and fear. Could I put her down? Would she wake up screaming? And even if she didn’t, could I actually sleep, knowing she might?

In those early weeks, the days blurred together into a fog of exhaustion and anxiety. I didn’t know what time it was, and I didn’t care. I only knew that the sun would set, the world would go quiet, and I would be left alone with my daughter’s relentless need for comfort. I felt as though the walls of my home were closing in, trapping me in a loop of feeding, rocking, and pacing the floor.

The night was the hardest. As soon as the sky turned dark, an oppressive weight settled over me. It was as if the darkness itself carried my fears—what if I couldn’t calm her? What if I couldn’t keep her safe? What if this never ended? Each cry cut through me like a knife, and each silence felt like the prelude to another storm.

I was terrified to put her down, just as she was terrified to be put down. Her wails felt like an accusation, a reminder that I was failing her somehow. So I didn’t. I held her through the night, my back aching, my arms trembling with the effort of keeping her close. Even when she finally drifted off, I would stay awake, too wired with anxiety to close my eyes. Sleep was a distant memory, a luxury that belonged to another life.

I stopped going out. The world outside felt overwhelming, and the idea of packing up her things, dealing with her cries in public, or explaining my exhaustion to anyone was too much. My home became a fortress, but instead of safety, it offered isolation. The clock ticked on the wall, mocking me with the hours I wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t resting, wasn’t living.

Some nights, I would sit in the rocking chair by her crib, tears streaming down my face as I whispered promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. “It’ll get better,” I said, mostly to myself. But in those moments, it felt like a lie. It felt like I would never sleep again.

Searching for Answers: A Midnight Quest

During those sleepless nights, I found myself clutching my phone with one hand while holding my daughter in the other, scrolling through endless websites and forums. I was searching for answers, for solutions, for even the faintest glimmer of hope from someone who had been through this and survived. The stories I read were a mix of despair and triumph, and I clung to the success stories like a lifeline. If it worked for them, maybe it could work for me.

I became a connoisseur of baby products, spending hours reading reviews and watching videos, desperate for anything that might help. Swaddles, pacifiers, sound machines—I bought them all, hoping each new purchase would be the magic fix. I even invested in a moving bassinet after reading countless glowing testimonials, imagining it lulling my daughter to sleep while I finally rested. But night after night, I would find myself in the same position, her small body curled up in my arms, while the products I had pinned my hopes on sat unused or rejected.

The money flowed out as quickly as my energy drained. Packages arrived daily, full of promises I wanted so badly to believe in. Yet, despite all the gadgets and gear, my daughter’s favorite place to sleep was still in my arms. Each failed attempt chipped away at my confidence, but I kept searching, kept buying, kept hoping that the next thing would make the difference. In the quiet hours of the night, it was all I could do to keep going.

Deciding to Sleep Train: A Leap of Faith

Eventually, my husband and I knew we had to do something different. I couldn’t keep staying up all night, and the exhaustion was taking its toll on both of us. I started reading about sleep training, diving into a sea of conflicting advice. Some articles insisted that sleep training wasn’t healthy for babies, claiming their cries were a desperate plea for connection and comfort. They asked questions that pierced my heart: Why would you put your baby down? They’re crying because they need you. Others offered advice on co-sleeping safely, but the idea terrified me. I was so exhausted that I feared falling into such a deep sleep that I wouldn’t be able to co-sleep safely.

On the other hand, there were voices advocating for sleep training, arguing that it could be healthy and beneficial for babies in the long run. They painted it as a way to teach my daughter the skills she needed to sleep on her own, to ensure she could get the rest she needed as well. My husband and I talked late into the night, weighing the pros and cons. In the end, we decided to try. My maternity leave was coming to an end, and I knew I had to find a way to sleep if I was going to function at work again.

Even with the decision made, I was filled with apprehension. The thought of hearing her cries from the crib and not being able to pick her up felt unbearable. Would I be able to follow through? Could I handle the sound of her distress, even if it was temporary? The doubts lingered, but the need for change outweighed them. I was running on empty, and something had to give. It was time to take a leap of faith and hope that we could find a way to help both of us sleep again.

The Process: Tears and Triumph

The process of sleep training was one of the hardest things I have ever done. We decided to use the cry-it-out (CIO) method, which involved putting her in the crib while she was still awake and allowing her to self-soothe, checking on her at gradually increasing intervals. The first night, my heart broke as I watched her on the baby monitor, her tiny fists waving in frustration as she cried. Everything in me screamed to go to her, to scoop her up and make it all better, but I held back. My husband and I sat together, relying on each other for support as the minutes stretched on.

To my surprise, her crying didn’t last as long as I had feared. After about 30 minutes, she started to calm herself, her cries softening until she finally drifted off to sleep. The moment she closed her eyes, I could hardly believe it. I had prepared myself for hours of tears, but here she was, asleep in her crib for the first time.

The next few nights followed a similar pattern. She cried when we put her down, but the crying became shorter and less intense each time. By the fourth night, something miraculous happened—she didn’t cry at all. She lay in her crib, babbling softly to herself before drifting off. I sat in the hallway, stunned and overwhelmed with relief.

The changes were almost immediate. She began sleeping longer stretches, waking up less frequently, and waking up happier. During the day, she seemed less irritable, and for the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe again. With more sleep, I was able to enjoy my time with her instead of just surviving it. It was as if a fog had lifted for both of us, and I finally started to feel like myself again.

A Sleep Success Story

Now, as I write this, I’m watching her nap peacefully in her crib. She has become the best sleeper I could have imagined. She sleeps through the night and takes solid naps during the day. Even when her schedule gets disrupted—like during holiday events or late nights out—she adjusts with ease. I no longer dread bedtime; instead, I look forward to the quiet moments of tucking her in and watching her settle down, content and secure. The journey to get here wasn’t easy, but the reward has been more than worth it.

A Message to Fellow Parents

If you’re reading this, know that what worked for us might not work for you, and that’s okay. Some of my friends have successfully and safely co-slept with their babies and love the connection of tucking their child in beside them at the end of the day. The key is finding what works best for your family. As a friend once told me, whether it’s sleep training, co-sleeping, or another method entirely, remember that this is just a season. It will pass, even if it feels endless right now.

If you’re in the thick of it—holding your baby in the middle of the night, scrolling through articles like this one, desperate for a solution—know that you’re not alone. You are amazing, and you will get through this. One day, you’ll look back on these nights, and though they may feel like a blur, you’ll remember the love and dedication that carried you through. You’ve got this.