When the world keeps you awake: Finding sleep in anxious times
You get the picture. This mess we're in. The need to know the names, the nuclear strike zones of Natanz and Fordow. Our urgent geography lessons, the squeeze point of Hormuz. Welcome to our new vocabulary. And also the reason unthink – the modern verb – has gained traction across databases, as futile as 'un-thought' can be.
Perhaps this madness is why I found a book last week, or it found me. The tiger on the cover caught my eye, as did the title: The Shapeless Unease (Vintage, 2021). Sound familiar? The freefall anxiety we struggle to manage. The doomscroll morsels we never seem to ration. This invasive language we've gained overnight.
Overnight being the key term. Samantha Harvey, winner of last year's Booker Prize for Orbital, has seen this earlier work repackaged, an eclectic swag of thoughts and memoir dealing with her chronic insomnia, or My Year in Search of Sleep to quote the subtitle.
In brighter times, in calmer nights, we take sleep for granted, dozing like bears, invidiously oblivious. No scientist can pinpoint exactly what sleep offers us, not to the nth degree, which is why Harvey relies on Shakespeare to underscore the miracle. Macbeth calls sleep the death of each day's life. A state of suspended innocence 'that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care'. Elsewhere it's 'the balm of hurt minds'. Or the 'chief nourisher in life's feast.'
Terrific, but how do you get enough? Or in Harvey's case: any. She lies awake dwelling on the Brexit shitfight (this was a pre-Gaza publication), her cousin's undignified death ('which has invited all deaths'), her ongoing sleeplessness. Grimly it dawns on the author that 'the desire for sleep in also the denial of it; the more you want it the less it comes.'
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There it is again: the futility of unthinking, or maybe the cost of overthinking. The burden of carrying the world to your bed, despite our nightly privilege of respite. In a salvo of self-reproach, Harvey writes, 'Stop thinking. You are always thinking. Then the thought: that was a thought, the thought to stop thinking. Then the thought: that was a thought, the thought that it was a thought to stop thinking.' And so on. A vast gyre of wakeful static in the lost cause of letting go.
Like the best of restless writers, Harvey bumps into a vital discovery, this notion of 'nocturnal forgiveness'. Globally, if not personally, life can be too heavy to carry for a day, let alone a night as well. You need to unbuckle, unthink, put the Sisyphean sack down for a spell.
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Sydney Morning Herald
04-07-2025
- Sydney Morning Herald
When the world keeps you awake: Finding sleep in anxious times
Words like payload worry me. Deploy and warhead. Bunker-busting munitions. Diagrams to illustrate how the Shahed-136 drone works, from target-lock to firestorm. Images of bodies like so many parallel ghosts. A wide-eyed child amid the ruins, her bakelite doll. You get the picture. This mess we're in. The need to know the names, the nuclear strike zones of Natanz and Fordow. Our urgent geography lessons, the squeeze point of Hormuz. Welcome to our new vocabulary. And also the reason unthink – the modern verb – has gained traction across databases, as futile as 'un-thought' can be. Perhaps this madness is why I found a book last week, or it found me. The tiger on the cover caught my eye, as did the title: The Shapeless Unease (Vintage, 2021). Sound familiar? The freefall anxiety we struggle to manage. The doomscroll morsels we never seem to ration. This invasive language we've gained overnight. Overnight being the key term. Samantha Harvey, winner of last year's Booker Prize for Orbital, has seen this earlier work repackaged, an eclectic swag of thoughts and memoir dealing with her chronic insomnia, or My Year in Search of Sleep to quote the subtitle. In brighter times, in calmer nights, we take sleep for granted, dozing like bears, invidiously oblivious. No scientist can pinpoint exactly what sleep offers us, not to the nth degree, which is why Harvey relies on Shakespeare to underscore the miracle. Macbeth calls sleep the death of each day's life. A state of suspended innocence 'that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care'. Elsewhere it's 'the balm of hurt minds'. Or the 'chief nourisher in life's feast.' Terrific, but how do you get enough? Or in Harvey's case: any. She lies awake dwelling on the Brexit shitfight (this was a pre-Gaza publication), her cousin's undignified death ('which has invited all deaths'), her ongoing sleeplessness. Grimly it dawns on the author that 'the desire for sleep in also the denial of it; the more you want it the less it comes.' Loading There it is again: the futility of unthinking, or maybe the cost of overthinking. The burden of carrying the world to your bed, despite our nightly privilege of respite. In a salvo of self-reproach, Harvey writes, 'Stop thinking. You are always thinking. Then the thought: that was a thought, the thought to stop thinking. Then the thought: that was a thought, the thought that it was a thought to stop thinking.' And so on. A vast gyre of wakeful static in the lost cause of letting go. Like the best of restless writers, Harvey bumps into a vital discovery, this notion of 'nocturnal forgiveness'. Globally, if not personally, life can be too heavy to carry for a day, let alone a night as well. You need to unbuckle, unthink, put the Sisyphean sack down for a spell.
The Age
04-07-2025
- The Age
When the world keeps you awake: Finding sleep in anxious times
Words like payload worry me. Deploy and warhead. Bunker-busting munitions. Diagrams to illustrate how the Shahed-136 drone works, from target-lock to firestorm. Images of bodies like so many parallel ghosts. A wide-eyed child amid the ruins, her bakelite doll. You get the picture. This mess we're in. The need to know the names, the nuclear strike zones of Natanz and Fordow. Our urgent geography lessons, the squeeze point of Hormuz. Welcome to our new vocabulary. And also the reason unthink – the modern verb – has gained traction across databases, as futile as 'un-thought' can be. Perhaps this madness is why I found a book last week, or it found me. The tiger on the cover caught my eye, as did the title: The Shapeless Unease (Vintage, 2021). Sound familiar? The freefall anxiety we struggle to manage. The doomscroll morsels we never seem to ration. This invasive language we've gained overnight. Overnight being the key term. Samantha Harvey, winner of last year's Booker Prize for Orbital, has seen this earlier work repackaged, an eclectic swag of thoughts and memoir dealing with her chronic insomnia, or My Year in Search of Sleep to quote the subtitle. In brighter times, in calmer nights, we take sleep for granted, dozing like bears, invidiously oblivious. No scientist can pinpoint exactly what sleep offers us, not to the nth degree, which is why Harvey relies on Shakespeare to underscore the miracle. Macbeth calls sleep the death of each day's life. A state of suspended innocence 'that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care'. Elsewhere it's 'the balm of hurt minds'. Or the 'chief nourisher in life's feast.' Terrific, but how do you get enough? Or in Harvey's case: any. She lies awake dwelling on the Brexit shitfight (this was a pre-Gaza publication), her cousin's undignified death ('which has invited all deaths'), her ongoing sleeplessness. Grimly it dawns on the author that 'the desire for sleep in also the denial of it; the more you want it the less it comes.' Loading There it is again: the futility of unthinking, or maybe the cost of overthinking. The burden of carrying the world to your bed, despite our nightly privilege of respite. In a salvo of self-reproach, Harvey writes, 'Stop thinking. You are always thinking. Then the thought: that was a thought, the thought to stop thinking. Then the thought: that was a thought, the thought that it was a thought to stop thinking.' And so on. A vast gyre of wakeful static in the lost cause of letting go. Like the best of restless writers, Harvey bumps into a vital discovery, this notion of 'nocturnal forgiveness'. Globally, if not personally, life can be too heavy to carry for a day, let alone a night as well. You need to unbuckle, unthink, put the Sisyphean sack down for a spell.
ABC News
16-06-2025
- ABC News
A big dog was a huge commitment but has made life richer
I've always been drawn to dogs. Whether it's the co-regulation, the sensory pleasure of giving pats and scritches, non-verbal communication or non-judgemental presence — they've always felt easy and therapeutic to be around. So much so, that my life hasn't felt complete without one. Growing up, we had a gentle 14-kilogram spoodle named Harvey, that I begged my parents for like it was my life's mission. As a teenager, I also picked up dog-sitting work looking after big docile retrievers, and concluded, from these experiences (along with every other encounter with large dogs), the more dog the better! As much as I adored our family spoodle, the connection never felt as deep as what I shared with these larger dogs. While I know it's often breed, not size that equates to disposition, the large dogs I cared for showed me human-dog relationships at a different level to what I had experienced. They were relationships with a rich unspoken language, deeper presence, more satisfying snuggling and stronger bonds (something I filed away as a deep want for down the line). When Harvey passed, the desire for dog companionship with a larger breed was still there. However, this time, the circumstances had changed. I was an adult living at home and after talking with family it became clear that my yearning for another dog — let alone my enthusiasm for a bigger breed — wasn't matched by theirs. They didn't see why it felt like a north-star priority for me and thought it a massive, unnecessary commitment to take on. I knew they had a point, but I always thought it would be worth it for how much this type of relationship could enrich my life. While others focused on how it would limit my world outwardly (the time commitment, initial sleep deprivation, costs and logistical constraints), I thought about how it would expand my world inwardly (providing a grounding base, source of unconditional love, companionship, co-regulation and consistent routine). With a recent run of favourable retriever dog-sits eventually swaying my family's vote, my stubbornness won out and at the end of 2020 a rambunctious eight-week-old labrador — called Merlin — bulldozed into our lives. For all the envisioning of nervous system regulation, the first few years were a wild ride. As a puppy, he destroyed couch cushions, pulled out plants, chewed walls, jumped over barriers, ate things he shouldn't and had a destructive night-time witching hour, which, no matter what we tried, persisted for years. Because it wasn't just Merlin and me in an environment of our own, I couldn't train him completely under my influence. Being a switched-on dog, I needed others to confidently emulate what I was doing to set him up for success, and that was difficult to achieve. This made training a frequent source of frustration. His occasional chaos caused a huge strain on relationships, magnifying tensions that were already there, forcing difficult conversations and endless lifestyle adjustments for me and my family. Whenever his behaviour created stress, mess or damage they didn't ask for, I couldn't help but wonder if their suspicions were correct: that this was too big a responsibility to take on. But for every doubting moment, there would be three that reassured me it would work out (better than) OK. As Merlin and I settled into a routine, I became even more proactive and our bond deepened, his eventual affectionate and calm disposition began to bloom. Others' perceptions of him began to change and he opened my family's and friends' eyes to their biases around bigger dogs. He taught us that while big dogs are (rightly so) held to higher behavioural standards than their smaller counterparts — they deserve the same grace and patience afforded all creatures growing up. Now on the other side of his extended adolescence (a labrador thing), our relationship fills me with overwhelming gratitude and love every day. He's my gentle shadow, matching my energy when excited or happy and using his body weight to help me regulate when I'm sad or distressed. I look forward to his special greeting every morning and I relish our morning walks so much — they've kept me moving through a recent bout of post-viral fatigue. Stepping into the responsibility of looking after Merlin in my 20s has made me realise that I do know myself (at least in this way) and am capable of making big life decisions. I've proven that I'm a responsible, reliable, dedicated person to those around me and am capable of looking after another living creature … well. How has taking on the responsibility of a pet had an impact on your life. We'd love to hear from you. Email lifestyle@ Of course, it's still not always easy, convenient or stress-free. He has anxious quirks, expensive allergies and, due to prevailing attitudes towards big dogs, isn't everyone's cup of tea. But he's still everything and more I knew a big dog could be, for me. Phoebe Thorburn is an autistic writer, cook and developer of inclusive vegan and gluten-free recipes. They are currently writing their first multidisciplinary cookbook.
