The sky was bright blue as I walked across the golden grassy field to sit down by the river, where the cottonwoods grow tall and the northern flickers and magpies come to feast. But there was nothing pastoral about the wind. Gusts over 40 miles an hour buffeted me, causing me to lean forward to keep steady, and I found myself wondering why I hadn’t chosen a more sheltered location for this short walk and a sit.

I’ve spent the bulk of the last two months resting. Or trying to rest. Or, maybe better put, being taken on a wild ride as I explore what has caused a year’s worth of insomnia.

Desperation set it. Fear. I dreaded nighttime. I never knew what was going to come. Nothing I did ever consistently helped. I was often in tears of desperation, afraid of sleep, afraid of the next day.

When I started a more aggressive treatment for my digestive issues, my doctor handed me a document that outlined the two month approach she was recommending. The first order of treatment was this: Stress Reduction.

We live in a culture that pushes toxic body messages. But this idea of not stopping to listen? Not heeding what you hear? Never resting? This is perhaps the most toxic.